The council chamber had finally dispersed, yet the echoes of the young king's words lingered like smoke after a fire. Ministers shuffled out of the hall, whispering in hushed tones, their silken robes swishing against the polished tiles.
Gajah Mada remained behind, standing at a respectful distance as Hayam Wuruk leaned on the carved armrest of his throne. The boy's posture was relaxed, almost casual, but Gajah Mada knew better. Every glance, every word had been deliberate.
The Prime Minister bowed deeply. "Your Majesty, your words have struck their hearts. Some will tremble in loyalty, others will plot in silence. Do you wish me to expose them now?"
The king's dark eyes glimmered with amusement. "Expose them? No, Patih." His voice was calm, almost mocking. "A snake is most useful when it believes itself hidden. Let them writhe in their holes. When the time comes, we shall burn the nest."
The sheer coldness of his tone made even Gajah Mada pause. He had seen rulers crushed by paranoia, tearing their own courts apart. Yet this young king his cruelty was calculated, never reckless.
Hayam Wuruk rose, his figure framed by the towering red-brick pillars of the hall. The patterns carved upon them depicted scenes of old battles and divine guardians, yet now the light from the oil lamps cast their shadows long and distorted, as if the gods themselves watched the new ruler.
"Tell me, Patih," the king continued, "what binds a man's loyalty? Gold? Fear? Blood?"
Gajah Mada straightened, considering carefully. "All of those. But none endure as much as vision. A ruler who sees further than others commands not just obedience, but belief."
The king chuckled softly. "Then belief is what we shall manufacture." He paced slowly across the chamber, his bare feet silent against the stone floor. "They will worship stability, prosperity, and law. They will call it loyalty, but in truth it will be dependence."
He stopped, turning his gaze back to Gajah Mada. "And dependence, Patih… is the finest chain of all."
For a moment, the chamber was silent except for the crackle of torches. Gajah Mada felt a chill creep up his spine not of fear, but of recognition. This boy, this king, thought not like his predecessors. His ambition was not merely to rule it was to reshape the very foundation of the kingdom.
The Prime Minister bowed again, deeply this time. "Your Majesty's will is my command. The oath of Palapa will find its strength in your reign."
The king's lips curved, half-smile, half-threat. "Good. Then let us begin not with wars, but with the council itself. We shall see who bends, who resists, and who must be broken."
As the king strode out of the chamber, attendants trailing behind him, Gajah Mada lingered a moment longer. His mind raced with both excitement and caution.
For the first time in his life, he wondered if history itself would bow not to Majapahit, not to the oath of Palapa, but to this one man upon the throne.
The corridors of the Majapahit palace were alive with murmurs once the council dispersed. Torches flickered against the red-brick walls, casting long shadows across the ornate carvings of naga and garuda that adorned the arches. Ministers and nobles walked in pairs or small clusters, their whispers sharp as blades, hidden beneath polite smiles.
To the untrained ear, it was mere chatter. But to anyone who listened closely, it was the sound of unease, even fear.
One nobleman, Arya Wiraja, tightened his grip on the sheath of his kris. His face was calm, but his mind boiled. That boy… he speaks as if he has ruled for decades. A child should know his place.
Beside him, another minister chuckled nervously. "The King spoke with… such certainty. Perhaps it is a blessing. The kingdom will need strength to survive."
"Strength, yes," Arya Wiraja muttered under his breath. "But a snake's fangs are sharpest when hidden. Did you not hear him? He spoke of chains, of burning nests. Is that the tongue of a just king or a tyrant?"
The minister fell silent, unwilling to voice agreement or dissent. In Majapahit's court, words could be deadlier than steel.
As the nobles passed beneath the stone gateway leading out of the council chamber, their silken garments whispered against the floor. Each step carried both dignity and doubt. The image of the young king's cold smile lingered in their minds.
Elsewhere in the palace, attendants whispered their own gossip.
"They say His Majesty stared down the council as if he were a god."
"Or a demon," another muttered, eyes darting nervously.
"Shh! Careful with your tongue. Even the walls may carry words to the throne."
Meanwhile, Gajah Mada observed it all in silence from a corner balcony. He watched the nobles scatter like startled birds, their whispers trailing behind them. His face betrayed no emotion, but his thoughts churned.
They will scheme. They always do. But now they scheme against a king who is not blind.
He turned his gaze toward the inner courtyard where Hayam Wuruk walked with slow, deliberate steps, attendants carrying torches before him. The young king's shadow stretched across the courtyard tiles, long and commanding.
Gajah Mada folded his arms. The court will test him. The ministers will plot. The nobles will resist. Yet if he endures… if he bends them all to his will… Majapahit may rise higher than ever before.
But deep in his chest, a quiet thought lingered. And if he fails, the kingdom will burn from within.
The night air grew heavy, filled with the mingled scents of clove smoke and burning oil. Within those palace walls, seeds had been sown of fear, of ambition, of loyalty, and of betrayal.
The game had only just begun.