The morning sun touched the red brick walls of Trowulan, painting the palace in shades of gold and fire. The air was alive with movement servants carrying trays of fruit, scribes rushing with palm-leaf manuscripts, and guards standing tall with spears that glinted in the light.
Hayam Wuruk Rajasanegara, Maharaja of Majapahit sat in the audience hall once again. His eyes were calm, but inside, his thoughts were sharp like the edge of a keris (ceremonial dagger). The nobles had been shaken by his words yesterday. Fear had planted seeds, and today, he would water them.
He looked across the chamber. Rows of nobles and officials waited in silence, each dressed in patterned kain batik (cloth dyed with wax-resist technique). Their faces told many stories: some tried to look loyal, others could not hide the tension in their eyes.
Hayam Wuruk spoke with a voice that carried across the hall.
"Majapahit is strong," he began, "but strength means nothing if roads are unsafe and merchants live in fear. I will not rule a kingdom that bleeds from within. Each of you will send men and supplies to secure the Brantas River trade routes. Rice, iron, and goods must flow without fear of bandits."
A few nobles shifted uncomfortably. The Brantas River was the heart of trade. To give resources meant cutting into their own wealth.
Hayam Wuruk's eyes narrowed. "This is not a request. It is a command. Fulfill it, and you prove yourselves pillars of Majapahit. Fail, and you prove yourselves traitors."
The silence that followed was heavy.
---
Standing to the right of the throne, Gajah Mada watched carefully. The Patih Amangkubumi the Prime Minister, and the kingdom's most loyal servant had faced countless councils before, but this one felt different.
The boy he had sworn to guide was no longer speaking like a child. His words struck like arrows, fast and direct. No wasted breath, no flattery.
This is not the same Hayam Wuruk I once knew, Gajah Mada thought. Something burns inside him. A fire unlike anything I have seen.
He studied the nobles. Some lowered their heads in obedience, but others clenched their jaws, their pride wounded. Gajah Mada knew what that meant. Pride leads to whispers. Whispers lead to daggers in the dark.
Yet when he turned his gaze back to the king, he saw no fear. The young Maharaja sat steady, like a stone unshaken by waves.
If he truly means to test them like this Gajah Mada's brows furrowed. Then Majapahit's court will soon be divided between the loyal and the envious. And in such division, blood is always spilled.
---
POV: Arya Wiraja
At the far end of the hall, Arya Wiraja kept his head bowed, his palms pressed together in a show of respect. But inside, his blood boiled.
The boy dares command us as if we are his servants alone? he thought bitterly. He strips us of wealth, calls it loyalty, and dares to insult the gods themselves. This Rajasanegara is not guided by dharma he is blinded by his arrogance.
When the meeting ended, Arya Wiraja walked slowly from the hall, his face calm. But the moment he reached his private chambers, his mask broke.
He slammed his fist onto the table. "Enough of this child-king! He thinks he can build a kingdom on fear and defiance. If he mocks the gods, then let us use the gods against him."
His steward bowed low. "Shall I spread word, Paduka (a Javanese honorific meaning 'Your Grace,' used to address nobles and rulers with respect)?"
Arya Wiraja sneered. "Yes. Let it be whispered in the markets, in the temples, and in the fields: the Maharaja rejects the divine. He claims power above the gods. The people will not forgive such blasphemy. And when their anger grows, we shall strike."
The steward bowed again. "As you command."
Arya Wiraja looked toward the palace towers, his eyes filled with hate. Play your game of loyalty, Rajasanegara. I will play mine. Let us see whose pieces remain when the board is overturned.
***
The council had ended, but Hayam Wuruk did not leave the throne immediately. He sat in silence, listening to the echo of footsteps fading from the hall. Every movement, every whisper, every bow he replayed them in his mind like a game of chess.
In chess, the pieces revealed their value not at the start, but when pressure mounted. The same was true for men. And now, the pressure had begun.
"Rajasanegara," a guard said softly, bowing with both hands pressed together, "the hall is empty."
Hayam Wuruk stood, his songket robe shifting like flowing gold. His young face carried a calm smile, but behind it, a sharper thought lingered. The nobles will curse me. They will test me. Good. Let them. A ruler without enemies grows complacent. A ruler with enemies sharpens his blade every day.
As he walked toward the inner courtyard, he felt the weight of centuries on his shoulders the walls of red brick, the carved reliefs of ancient myths, the silent gaze of ancestors who had ruled before him. But unlike them, he was not bound by the past. He carried knowledge of futures yet to come, and he would bend this kingdom toward it.
---
From a shaded veranda, Gajah Mada watched the young king's steps. The boy's posture was tall, his expression controlled, but the Patih could read what others could not the glint of ambition sharper than steel.
He is dangerous, Gajah Mada admitted to himself, though his loyalty did not waver. But perhaps danger is what Majapahit needs. A weak king will be devoured by wolves. A strong one… may just tame them.
Still, a worry coiled in his chest. The king's rejection of the gods, spoken so boldly in open court, would ripple beyond the palace walls. Priests would not stay silent. Temples held power, not only spiritual but political, tied to land and wealth.
Gajah Mada folded his hands behind his back. I must be ready. If the nobles conspire, I will crush them. If the priests rise, I will silence them. For as long as I live, no threat will reach the Rajasanegara.
Yet even as he swore it silently, he wondered: was he protecting the boy… or the vision the boy carried?
---
POV: Arya Wiraja
That night, in the privacy of his compound, Arya Wiraja gathered trusted allies. Oil lamps flickered against carved wooden walls as wine cups clinked quietly. The air was thick with incense and whispered resentment.
"The Maharaja demands our wealth," one noble spat, slamming his cup down. "What right does he have to strip us of grain and gold, all to guard peasants and merchants?"
"Bandits are nothing new," another said bitterly. "Let the villagers defend themselves. Why should we bleed our coffers for commoners?"
Arya Wiraja raised a hand, silencing them. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with fury.
"This is not about bandits," he said. "This is about control. The boy seeks to tighten his grip, to make us his servants rather than his peers. And worse he defies the gods themselves."
Murmurs of agreement spread through the room. Some made ritual hand gestures, fearful of the blasphemy spoken in the palace that day.
Arya Wiraja leaned closer, his voice a low hiss. "We will not challenge him openly, not yet. Instead, we let the people speak for us. Spread word in the temples, in the markets, in the streets. Let it be said that Rajasanegara scorns the gods. Let the anger of the people grow. And when the fire burns bright enough, we will step forward as the saviors of faith."
The nobles nodded, some eagerly, others with unease. But one thing was certain the seeds of rebellion had been sown.
---
POV: A Palace Servant
While nobles schemed in hidden rooms, life in the palace continued with its quiet rhythms. A young servant named Sura carried baskets of rice through the torchlit corridors, his bare feet moving quickly across cool tiles.
He had heard the whispers. Servants always did. They carried trays, but they also carried secrets.
"Did you hear?" one maid whispered as she swept the floor. "The Maharaja mocked the gods before the council."
"Blasphemy," another muttered nervously, glancing around. "If the gods are angered, what will become of us?"
Sura said nothing, but inside, he felt a strange mix of fear and pride. The Maharaja's words had been bold, dangerous even but also powerful. He was not like other rulers, bound by old prayers. He spoke of strength, of protecting trade, of making the roads safe.
Maybe he is right, Sura thought as he placed the rice basket in the kitchen. Prayers never filled a hungry stomach. But order, law, and strong hands those can.
And though he was just a servant, his heart beat faster at the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, he was serving a king unlike any other.
---
That same night, Hayam Wuruk stood in the palace gardens, staring at the moonlit lotus pond. The frogs croaked softly, and the scent of night-blooming flowers filled the air.
He picked up a carved wooden chess piece from a small board beside him a rook, symbol of walls and defense.
"Walls crumble," he murmured to himself. "But strategy endures."
He placed the rook back on the board and moved a knight instead. His lips curled into a cold smile.
"Let them whisper," he said softly. "Let them plot. I will move faster. I will strike harder. And when the game ends, only one piece will remain the king."
The moonlight shimmered in his eyes, turning the boy into a figure both regal and ominous.