The royal council chamber was heavy with murmurs when Hayam Wuruk entered. The nobles had already heard of the market attack, rumors traveled faster than messengers, carried by frightened tongues.
Seated on carved teak chairs, the aristocrats rose in unison, their silken robes rustling like a forest in the wind. Yet beneath the bows, unease lingered in their eyes.
A voice cut through the silence. "Paduka," (Your Highness) one elder noble began, "the market is no place for a king. Today proves it." His words were wrapped in concern, but his tone held reproach.
Another added, "If not for the Patih's vigilance, the crown itself might have been lost! The people must never see our ruler bleed in the dirt like a common man."
Hayam Wuruk stood at the head of the chamber, his hands resting on the dragon carved table. He let their words settle, then spoke evenly, his voice steady as flowing water.
"The people must see me, because it is for them I rule. If I sit only behind these walls, how can I know their hunger? How can I hear their fears? A king who hides is no king at all, he is a shadow wearing a crown."
A sharp murmur rippled across the chamber. Some nobles frowned others nodded reluctantly, unwilling to admit the truth aloud.
Gajah Mada stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his keris (traditional Javanese dagger, symbol of authority and spiritual power). "What Paduka speaks is not weakness. It is strength. When the dagger rose against him, the king did not falter. That alone has crushed the poison of rumor more than a hundred decrees."
The hall quieted. Even the doubters could not deny the image burned into their minds the young king standing unmoved before assassins.
Yet not all were convinced. From the corner of the chamber, Arya Wiraja bowed low, hiding the flicker of anger in his eyes. He had sown whispers of weakness, but now the people whispered of courage. His carefully spun net had begun to unravel.
"Then let us strengthen the guard," Arya suggested smoothly, voice honeyed with false loyalty. "Majapahit's enemies grow bolder. We must double the soldiers at the palace gates, and forbid Paduka from venturing among the rabble without escort."
Hayam Wuruk's gaze fell upon him, sharp as a blade. "Would you chain me to my own palace, Arya Wiraja? Do you think the heart of Majapahit beats only within these walls?"
The noble's lips tightened, but he lowered his head. "Forgive me, Paduka. I speak only of safety."
"Safety without freedom," Hayam Wuruk replied, "is no safety at all. If Majapahit is to be great, its king must walk among his people. This I will not yield."
The statement struck the chamber like thunder.
Some nobles exchanged uneasy looks, yet others bowed with newfound respect. For the first time, they began to see not merely a boy king, but a ruler whose words could not be bent.
---
When the council dispersed, Hayam Wuruk lingered by the window overlooking Trowulan. The city stretched beyond, its roofs of red clay glowing in the late afternoon sun. Smoke curled from kitchens, traders led oxen through the streets, and life continued as if no blade had been raised.
Yet beneath the calm, he felt the shifting currents. The failed assassination had changed something not only in the people, but in himself.
They will test me again. And when they do, I must be ready not only to defend my life, but to shape the fate of Majapahit itself.
Behind him, Gajah Mada's voice rumbled. "The game has begun in earnest, Paduka. And the board is larger than you think."
Hayam Wuruk turned, his eyes alight. "Then we will master it piece by piece, move by move."
---
Night had settled over Trowulan, yet the city refused to sleep. Lanterns swayed in the market, and voices hummed with the retelling of the day's events.
"They say Paduka stood tall, not even blinking when the blade came near!" a fisherman whispered, his eyes wide with awe.
"A true lion," another replied. "If even the keris cannot shake him, then surely the gods favor Majapahit."
The failed assassination had become a tale retold around every hearth, each version more embellished than the last. But at its core, one truth spread the king was fearless.
Even the poorest farmers, who often cursed the weight of taxes, now spoke his name with reverence. Children played games in the streets, pretending to be the king fending off assassins with wooden sticks.
Hayam Wuruk had not planned it so, yet fate or perhaps cunning had turned danger into power.
---
Meanwhile, in the shadows of an abandoned granary, Gajah Mada met with a circle of trusted guards. The air smelled of rice husks and damp wood.
"Have you found the assassin's trail?" he asked.
One guard bowed deeply. "The man carried no markings, Patih. But his weapon was forged from iron not smelted in Majapahit. The balance was wrong too heavy, too crude."
Gajah Mada's eyes narrowed. "Imported steel, then. Perhaps from across the seas."
Another spoke hesitantly. "Some whisper that coins were exchanged through the hands of a noble though whose hand, we do not yet know."
Silence hung heavy. Everyone present understood the danger of speaking such accusations aloud.
Gajah Mada's voice was low but firm. "Find the truth. Do not leave a single stone unturned. If treachery hides among us, it will be dragged into the light."
---
Back in the royal chambers, Hayam Wuruk stood before a chessboard carved from ivory and ebony. He moved the pieces slowly, each step echoing his thoughts.
"An enemy moves a pawn," he murmured, "but the hand behind it belongs to a greater power."
His fingers lingered on the king piece. Unlike the nobles, the game never lied. To win required vision not just of the next move, but of the tenth.
A knock broke his thoughts. A messenger entered, bowing low.
"Paduka, envoys from Bali have sent word. They congratulate Your Highness on surviving the attack, and offer assistance should you require more soldiers to guard the capital."
Hayam Wuruk smiled faintly. So the ripples have already reached beyond our shores.
He dismissed the messenger, then whispered to himself, "Every offer of help is also a chain. I must choose which to accept and which to break."
---
The moon climbed higher, silvering the roofs of Trowulan. Somewhere in the night, Arya Wiraja sat in his private chamber, smashing a cup against the floor in fury.
The assassin's failure had not weakened the king it had strengthened him. The people adored him more than ever, and the council's whispers had turned into reluctant respect.
But Arya Wiraja was not one to yield. His eyes gleamed as he lit a lamp, muttering, "If one dagger cannot kill a lion, then I will unleash a hundred."