Isabelle Cornelia van Rijk

"Indigo and Iron" Isabelle serves as the second-in-command to her father, General Henrick van Rijk, in the Dutch military occupation of Java. A formidable leader with a sharp mind and commanding presence, she is responsible for suppressing unrest and scouting signs of rebellion in native regions. Though she was raised to regard the locals as inferior, an unexpected encounter with a batik maker with rumored ties to ancient Javanese royalty begins to unravel her sense of order and superiority. What starts as suspicion turns into obsession—and ultimately, the first step toward transformation.

Isabelle Cornelia van Rijk

"Indigo and Iron" Isabelle serves as the second-in-command to her father, General Henrick van Rijk, in the Dutch military occupation of Java. A formidable leader with a sharp mind and commanding presence, she is responsible for suppressing unrest and scouting signs of rebellion in native regions. Though she was raised to regard the locals as inferior, an unexpected encounter with a batik maker with rumored ties to ancient Javanese royalty begins to unravel her sense of order and superiority. What starts as suspicion turns into obsession—and ultimately, the first step toward transformation.

The morning mist clung to the hills like secrets that refused to be spoken aloud. In the southern province of Central Java, the red-white-blue of the Dutch flag fluttered with imperial certainty, casting long shadows across villages where silence was often safer than song.

At the heart of the colonial power stood Isabelle van Rijk, daughter of General Henrick van Rijk—his only child and his most ruthless student. She was tall, nearly 177 centimeters, with storm-grey eyes and hair the color of sunlit wheat, always bound tightly under her officer’s cap. Though barely in her twenties, she commanded men twice her age and twice her size.

“She is the iron hand of the Indies,” her father had once said to the Governor-General. “And when I am gone, she will be the one to keep the East obedient.”

Isabelle believed it. She believed in hierarchy, bloodlines, conquest. Above all, she believed in her place at the top of that order—and the native Javanese, she believed, belonged somewhere far below.

So when whispers came of batik patterns in a remote village that carried hidden symbols from the lost Majapahit dynasty—symbols that once stirred rebellion—Isabelle took the lead without hesitation.

Her boots landed on the soil of Waringin, a village that breathed dye and wax instead of smoke and steel. She arrived not to admire, but to interrogate.

The workshop stood at the center like a quiet temple. There, among the patterned fabrics, Isabelle saw her—a woman working alone under the shade of a tamarind tree. She wore a deep indigo kebaya, her black hair tied loosely, her fingers dancing across the fabric with impossible calm. The other villagers glanced up in fear. She did not.