The palace of Trowulan never slept. Even in the deep of night, faint echoes drifted through its corridors whispers of servants, the clink of guards shifting their spears, and the low crackle of oil lamps burning in their clay holders. Yet tonight, the stillness felt different. The air itself seemed to quiver, as though carrying the weight of unspoken words.
Hayam Wuruk sat alone in his chamber, a chamber lined with carved teak panels and walls painted with fading murals of lotus flowers. Scrolls of reports lay scattered before him, each filled with numbers and tallies from the markets. His reforms were beginning to show results: fewer bribes, steadier tax collections, and murmurs of gratitude among common folk.
But with every number that pleased him came the shadow of inevitability. Success, he knew, bred envy as surely as failure bred scorn.
He leaned back against the carved chair, fingers idly brushing the wooden chessboard beside him. The small pieces crafted in the likeness of elephants, chariots, and warriors caught the dim lamplight. A smile tugged at his lips, one neither warm nor cruel, but coldly patient.
The game had begun.
---
In another wing of the palace, a group of lower officials gathered in a side hall. By day, they carried themselves with stiff courtesy, speaking only in praise of their king. By night, however, their tongues loosened like the strings of a worn gamelan drum.
The hall smelled faintly of palm wine and smoke from an oil wick. Five men sat cross-legged on woven mats, their silken robes creased from long hours of wear. One of them, a man in his late forties with a heavy jaw and graying temples, spoke first.
"Have you noticed? No bribes, no extra tribute. We are expected to live on wages alone. Wages! As if we were mere servants." His name was Rakryan Sura, once a district collector who had grown fat on hidden dues.
Across from him, a younger noble, Rakryan Tapa, smirked. "Perhaps it is justice, Sura. For years you stuffed your coffers while peasants starved. Now the Paduka Rajasanegara (Your Highness, a title of deep respect) demands order. Perhaps the gods finally judge us."
Sura spat on the floor, his thick mustache twitching. "Gods? Do not speak of gods when a boy on a throne dares strip us bare. If this continues, our households will crumble. My own retainers grumble already, asking where their share has gone."
A third man, slender and sharp-eyed, adjusted his robe nervously. "Careful, Sura. Walls have ears. If the king hears such talk, you'll find yourself chained."
Sura laughed bitterly. "And if we remain silent, we'll find ourselves beggars. Which fate is worse?"
---
A servant boy, tasked with cleaning the hall, lingered too long at the edge of the room. He bent low, pretending to gather ashes from the brazier, but his ears drank in every poisonous word. His heart raced as he realized the weight of what he heard. Treason. Perhaps not spoken outright, but hinted like the edge of a concealed blade.
The boy clutched his small basket tighter and slipped away, his bare feet making no sound against the cool stone floor. His family lived in the servants' quarter if the nobles' whispers grew into action, it would not only be kings and patihs who suffered.
---
Later that night, the great Mahapatih Gajah Mada entered the king's chamber. His tall frame filled the doorway, his shadow long and imposing. He bowed with measured grace, his weathered face unreadable.
"My king," he said, his deep voice echoing faintly, "the whispers grow louder. Discontent festers in corners of the court. Some fear hunger without their old privileges. Some nurse anger. It may not be long before they test your resolve."
Hayam Wuruk moved a pawn across the chessboard with deliberate calm. The piece scraped softly against the wood. He did not look surprised.
"Good," he said at last. "Every whisper leaves a trace. Every schemer leaves a footprint. Let them think themselves clever. The more they conspire, the clearer their faces become."
Gajah Mada's eyes narrowed, his tone edged with warning. "But even the weakest serpent can strike if ignored. Should we not act before their venom spreads?"
The young king lifted the carved piece of the king itself, turning it in his hand. Its crown gleamed in the lamplight.
"Patience, Mahapatih. A king who strikes too soon wastes his blade. I want to see who dares step into the open. When they do" His voice dropped lower, colder. "they will learn that I am no mere boy on a throne."
The piece clicked sharply as he set it down, the sound ringing louder than it should have.
---
Outside, the palace walls rose dark against the moonlit sky. The city of Trowulan slumbered, its people blissfully unaware of the currents shifting beneath the surface. For the peasants, life was a fragile thing: planting rice, selling goods in the market, hoping for fair taxes. For the nobles, life was a game of survival and power.
And for the king both player and board the game had only just begun.
---
The morning sun spilled across Trowulan, painting its streets in a golden glow. Stalls sprang to life in the great market square, their awnings bright with dyed cloth. The clatter of pots, the cries of vendors, and the braying of oxen filled the air in a symphony of daily struggle.
Here, among the throng of merchants and peasants, the pulse of Majapahit beat strongest.
A woman balanced two baskets of rice upon a bamboo pole across her shoulders, her sweat-dampened blouse clinging to her skin. A potter shouted prices for clay jars, while children darted between legs, chasing each other with laughter. Yet beneath the liveliness, a murmur wove through the crowd like the faint buzzing of insects before a storm.
"Have you heard?" whispered a cloth seller to his neighbor. "The nobles grumble. They say the Paduka Rajasanegara cuts their wealth. Some claim he is too bold."
The neighbor, a spice trader with stained fingers, shook his head. "Bold or not, my debts lessen since the new rules. No more extra dues to pay collectors. If this is boldness, may it last forever."
Still, others were less convinced. A fisherman, his face lined with hardship, muttered, "Careful, friend. Nobles hold long memories. If they turn against the king, we'll be the ones to bleed first."
The conversation spread like smoke. Some voices praised the reforms, others feared retribution. The Paduka's name was on every tongue sometimes spoken with hope, sometimes with doubt.
---
Not far from the bustling square, a group of young scribes sat in the shade of a waringa tree, their wax tablets resting across their laps. They were apprentices in the royal archive, tasked with recording grain shipments. Yet even here, far from the court, gossip slipped through.
One of them, a bright-eyed youth named Kerti, leaned close to his companions. "Last night I delivered scrolls to the palace. I heard the guards talking of officials meeting in secret."
His friend scoffed. "You always imagine shadows where none exist."
But Kerti's gaze was steady. "Perhaps. But I saw the faces of those who met. They smiled too easily, spoke too softly. Not loyalty, but plotting."
The others fell silent, uneasy.
---
In the quieter outskirts of the city, beyond the carved gates and water channels, noble compounds spread wide high walls enclosing lush gardens, where servants hurried to and fro. Within one such compound, Rakryan Sura reclined on a wooden bench, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His wife sat nearby, weaving a piece of silk, though her eyes flicked anxiously toward him.
"You speak too freely in the palace," she said softly. "Whispers reach ears faster than the monsoon wind. If the king learns"
Sura waved her words away. "The boy king cannot touch me. He may strip my coffers, but he cannot strip my name. Too many owe me favors."
His wife lowered her gaze. "Do not mistake patience for weakness. Paduka Rajasanegara may yet prove stronger than you believe."
Sura's laughter was low, bitter. "If he is wise, he will bend. If not others will rise to guide Majapahit. Perhaps even with my hand upon the reins."
---
Back in the palace, Hayam Wuruk listened to reports brought by a steward who had just returned from the markets. The young king sat beneath a carved archway, its beams adorned with lotus and naga motifs, sunlight falling across his face.
"The people speak of you, Paduka," the steward said, bowing low. "Many praise your fairness. Yet some worry rumors spread of nobles displeased."
Hayam Wuruk's lips curved into a faint smile. "Good. Let them speak. Rumors reveal the shape of fear better than silence ever could."
Beside him, Gajah Mada stood with arms folded. His gaze was steady, but the muscle in his jaw tensed. He was not a man who trusted whispers; he trusted steel, loyalty, and the clarity of battle.
"The nobles move like shadows," he said. "Shadows lengthen at dusk. We must decide whether to wait for dawn or to strike with fire before the dark consumes us."
The king considered this, his fingers tracing the edge of the armrest. "A fire too soon burns allies along with enemies. Let us wait, Mahapatih. I will see who among them mistakes mercy for weakness."
---
Even as the palace plotted patience, small sparks began to catch.
A drunken retainer in a tavern cursed the king's name. A scribe misplaced a scroll that hinted at hidden meetings. A merchant's cart, supposedly robbed on the road, was found to have been deliberately emptied by guards loyal to a noble patron.
None of these alone were enough to stir the kingdom. But together, they formed the first cracks in a wall that had once seemed unshakable.
And through it all, the city lived on children laughed, rice boiled, drums sounded for festivals. To the common folk, life was a balance of hardship and joy. But beneath that fragile normalcy, a quiet storm was brewing.
---
As dusk fell over Trowulan, the palace lamps flickered once more to life. The king stood on a balcony overlooking his city, the rooftops stretching out like a sea of clay tiles beneath the reddening sky.
He breathed in deeply, tasting the scent of smoke, flowers, and wet earth. Somewhere far below, music rose from a tavern a bamboo flute, mournful yet steady.
"Majapahit is strong," he whispered to himself. "But even the strongest walls crumble if left unchecked. Let the cracks reveal themselves and then, I will seal them with iron."
His voice carried softly into the night, blending with the song of the flute, as the game of power deepened its hold on every soul within the realm.