The corridors of Majapahit's inner palace had not known silence since the council adjourned. Whispers coiled through the air like smoke, thin and dangerous. The nobles carried themselves with regal dignity, but their eyes darted and their voices trembled. None dared to speak openly against the king, yet their murmurs betrayed thoughts sharper than any keris (a ceremonial dagger, both weapon and symbol of status).
Hayam Wuruk did not need to hear their words to know what they meant. He could see it in their postures: the stiffness of their backs, the subtle clench of their jaws, the way some bowed too quickly, while others bowed too shallow.
The boy-king walked the length of the torchlit corridor with slow, deliberate steps, attendants trailing at a careful distance. He looked every inch a ruler the silken folds of his batik patterned robe draped elegantly over his frame, his golden headpiece glinting beneath the firelight. Yet his mind was not upon his own appearance.
Snakes, he thought coldly. All of them. They coil and whisper, believing I am too young to see their venom. Let them believe. I will feed them just enough rope to hang themselves.
At the far end of the hall, a tall wooden door creaked open, revealing a balcony that overlooked the central courtyard. The palace itself was a greatness of Majapahit architecture brick red walls rising high, gateways crowned with kala heads (demonic protective carvings symbolizing time and death), and tiered roofs adorned with clay ornaments shaped like lotus petals. Beneath, the courtyard spread wide, its floor paved with terracotta tiles that gleamed faintly in the torchlight.
The king stepped forward, resting his hand on the carved railing. He let the night air wash over him, heavy with the scent of cloves and wet earth. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, a gamelan orchestra played faintly, the metallic tones carrying across the city like distant thunder.
It might have been beautiful, had he been a man of softer heart. But beauty was a luxury. Power was necessity.
Behind him, Gajah Mada approached and bowed low. "My King. Shall I follow the ministers who left with uneasy faces? Their footsteps betray more than their tongues."
Hayam Wuruk shook his head. "Not yet. A snake that fears discovery strikes blindly. Better to let them believe themselves clever, and then… cut off the head."
Gajah Mada's lips curved into a thin smile. He recognized the strategy. It was not unlike his own. "Then the court itself shall become the battlefield."
The king did not answer, but his eyes narrowed with satisfaction.
---
Arya Wiraja POV.
Far away, in another wing of the palace, Arya Wiraja gathered with three other nobles in a chamber lit only by an oil lamp. The flame wavered, throwing their faces into sharp relief men of wealth and prestige, yet tonight they looked like conspirators caught between fear and pride.
"The boy is dangerous," Arya Wiraja hissed. "Did you not hear how he spoke? 'Chains,' he said. 'Burn the nest,' he said. Is that the speech of a king or a tyrant waiting to bare his fangs?"
Another noble shifted uneasily. "He is still young. Perhaps it was overbearing, nothing more. A youth showing his teeth."
Arya Wiraja slammed his fist against the table, the lamp flickering. "You fool! Did you not see the Patih's face? Even Gajah Mada bends to him. If we allow this boy to rule unchecked, soon he will not only chain the ministers he will chain the whole of Java."
The others exchanged worried glances. The name Java carried weight, for the island itself was yet to be fully united. Small kingdoms still clung to their independence some defiant, others wavering. Majapahit might have been powerful, but the bonds of loyalty were brittle, held together more by diplomacy than by steel.
"Then what do you propose?" asked one noble softly.
Arya Wiraja leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We watch. We listen. And when the king oversteps, when his cruelty shows itself… we strike. Not in the open, no but with whispers, with allies, with poison if need be. The throne must never rest in the hands of a child who mistakes cunning for wisdom."
For a long moment, silence reigned. The flame of the oil lamp wavered, as though uncertain of its own life. Then slowly, one by one, the others nodded.
The pact was unspoken, but it was there. The court would not submit quietly.
---
Back on the balcony, Hayam Wuruk turned from the courtyard, his keen gaze narrowing toward the halls where the nobles had gone. He could not hear their whispers, but instinct told him all he needed to know.
"They think me young," he murmured, almost to himself. "They think me blind. Good. Let them plot. I will watch… and when the time is right, their corpses will serve as my warning."
Gajah Mada bowed again, though in his heart, unease stirred. For all his loyalty, the Patih could not help but wonder: had fate placed upon Majapahit's throne a king or something darker?
And so the night deepened over Trowulan, the beating heart of Majapahit. Within its brick-red walls, two games began to unfold: one played openly by a king who was no boy, and another whispered in secret by nobles too proud to bow.
Both games would shape the future of the empire.
****
The following morning, the palace stirred long before sunrise. Servants scurried through the halls, their bare feet slapping against terracotta floors as they prepared offerings, swept corridors, and polished bronze lamps until they gleamed. The fragrance of burning incense cendana (sandalwood) and kemenyan (benzoin resin) flows into the air, mingling with the cool mist that drifted in from the surrounding rice fields.
Hayam Wuruk sat within the inner audience hall, a chamber built of red brick and polished teak. Carvings of naga (serpents, protectors of water and fertility) coiled along the pillars, their stone eyes glinting with eternal vigilance. The king rested on the low throne, a seat carved from a single block of wood and gilded with gold leaf. His figure, cloaked in patterned kain songket (woven cloth with gold thread), gleamed under the light of oil lamps.
The boy-king appeared serene, yet beneath his calm exterior, his mind was sharp and restless. He had not slept. Instead, he had spent the night crafting a plan an opening move in the shadow game that had begun the previous evening.
Around him, the council assembled: ministers draped in fine batik, generals with keris at their sides, and scribes holding palm leaf manuscripts ready to record every word. At the far end, Gajah Mada stood tall and unyielding, his presence a mountain against which lesser men's ambitions broke.
Hayam Wuruk let the silence stretch, studying each face. Some averted their eyes too quickly. Others fidgeted, restless. He saw guilt and pride warring in their bodies. Good, he thought. Their fear betrays them before their tongues do.
Finally, he spoke, his voice calm yet carrying across the chamber:
"Last night, as I walked the palace grounds, I looked upon the walls of Trowulan. Strong they seem brick upon brick, mortar upon mortar. Yet what use is a wall if rot creeps within? What use is a kingdom if its heart beats with disloyalty?"
The ministers shifted uncomfortably. One old courtier coughed, another bowed lower as if to avoid notice.
Hayam Wuruk's lips curled faintly. "Therefore, I will test the loyalty of my servants. Today, each of you will swear not with words, but with deeds. A task shall be given. Those who fulfill it will stand as pillars of Majapahit. Those who fail…" He paused, letting the silence press upon their shoulders like a blade. "…will reveal themselves as cracks in the foundation."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. No one dared to ask what task awaited them, but anxiety filled the air like storm clouds.
Gajah Mada stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through the whispers. "Maharaja, if I may. What trial do you command?"
The king's gaze settled upon him, then swept the hall. "The western frontier has grown restless. Reports reach me of bandits troubling merchants along the Brantas River. Rice caravans vanish, iron shipments fail to arrive. Such weakness is unacceptable. Each noble family will send men and supplies to secure the trade routes. Fail, and I will know where your loyalty lies not with Majapahit, but with your own purse."
Some faces paled. The Brantas River trade was lifeblood, feeding not only the capital but distant provinces. To secure it meant wealth for the kingdom, but hardship for nobles who preferred to hoard their riches.
Arya Wiraja, seated near the center, lowered his eyes to hide the fury flashing within them. Clever boy, he thought bitterly. He strikes where it hurts. Not blood, not honor but gold. He forces our hand without drawing a blade.
Another minister, Arya Tadah, bowed and said smoothly, "Your wisdom is sharp, Maharaja. Surely the gods themselves favor such a command."
But Hayam Wuruk's eyes narrowed. He knew flattery when he heard it, and he despised it. "The gods?" he said softly. "I care not for gods. If they exist, let them prove their strength by defending themselves. Majapahit shall rise by human will, not divine favor."
The words shocked many. Murmurs grew louder, some nobles making quick gestures of respect to ward off misfortune. But the king did not flinch. He leaned forward, gaze cold and unwavering.
"Write it down," he commanded a scribe. "Let it be known: the king places faith not in unseen spirits, but in the blood, sweat, and iron of Majapahit. And let the people judge me by my works, not by my prayers."
The hall fell silent again, the air heavy with both awe and unease.
---
Later that day, as the council dispersed, Gajah Mada walked alongside the king through a shaded corridor lined with carved reliefs depicting the Ramayana. Scenes of warriors, gods, and demons battled across the walls, frozen in stone.
"Maharaja," Gajah Mada said carefully, "you speak with great boldness. But know this words can wound as deeply as blades. To dismiss the gods is to risk angering priests and temples, whose influence binds many hearts."
Hayam Wuruk smiled faintly, though it was a smile without warmth. "Let them rage, Patih. The priests cling to shadows, while I hold the future in my hands. If they challenge me, they will learn that faith cannot feed the hungry or forge weapons for war. Only power can."
Gajah Mada studied the young king. In that moment, he saw not the boy he had once sworn to protect, but a ruler shaping himself into something far more dangerous. A mind sharpened by knowledge not of this age, a will unbent by tradition.
For the briefest instant, the great Patih felt the stir of unease.
---
Arya Wiraja POV.
In the outer palace, Arya Wiraja returned to his chambers, his face a mask of obedience until the doors shut behind him. Then his composure cracked, and his voice hissed like venom.
"The boy seeks to drain us dry. He cloaks it as loyalty, but it is theft,royal theft!"
His steward bowed nervously. "Shall I send word to our allies?"
Arya Wiraja's eyes gleamed. "Yes. Spread the whispers. Let it be said that the king blasphemes the gods, that he defies tradition. The people will not follow a ruler who scorns the divine. And when the moment is right… we will strike."
He looked toward the horizon, where the river glimmered faintly under the sun. "The Brantas will turn red not with gold, but with blood."