Night descended upon Trowulan with a velvet stillness, broken only by the hum of crickets and the occasional bark of a stray dog. The palace lamps glowed like beacons, their light reflected on the polished stone walkways. Yet beyond those bright walls, darkness thrived.
In the home of Rakryan Sura, one of the kingdom's most influential nobles, the silence was pierced by the rustle of silk and the clink of cups. A gathering of shadows had convened.
Six nobles sat around a low wooden table carved with floral patterns. Their faces flickered with lamplight, sharp with suspicion and ambition alike. Servants had been dismissed, guards posted far enough not to overhear.
Sura, the host, lifted his cup. "Majapahit grows restless. The Paduka Rajasanegara tightens his grip, stripping the coffers of those who built this land. Tell me, brothers how long shall we remain silent?"
A lean man with hawk like features, Rakryan Wijaya, snorted. "The boy plays at being king. He speaks of law and order, but he forgets who truly upholds his throne. Without us, his reforms crumble."
Another noble, older, his beard streaked with white, raised a cautious hand. "Speak carefully. The Mahapatih's eyes and ears stretch across the land. If we are careless, our families will suffer."
The room fell still at the mention of Gajah Mada. Even among the powerful, the Mahapatih's name carried weight an oath bound man who wielded loyalty as surely as a sword.
Sura leaned forward, his voice dropping. "That is why we must act not with swords, but with whispers. A kingdom can be cut down not only by blades, but by doubts. We need only erode the Paduka's image, and the people themselves will question his rule."
Wijaya smirked. "Rumors are seeds. Plant enough of them, and even the strongest tree will rot at its roots."
---
Meanwhile, within the palace walls, Hayam Wuruk walked the length of the inner courtyard. The moonlight cast his shadow long across the stone tiles, and the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine filled the air.
By his side strode Gajah Mada, silent but watchful. The Mahapatih carried no torch he needed none, for his eyes were sharp even in darkness.
"They gather," Hayam Wuruk said quietly, his tone calm, almost detached.
Gajah Mada did not ask how the king knew. He had long learned that his Paduka possessed a mind sharper than most men's blades. "Then shall I scatter them?" he asked simply.
The king's lips curved faintly. "Not yet. A hawk does not strike the field at random it waits until the prey exposes its neck. Let them conspire. Let them weave their web. In their weaving, they reveal the threads we must cut."
The Mahapatih inclined his head, though the muscle in his jaw flexed with restrained impatience. "Your mercy gives them time to grow bold."
"Boldness," Hayam Wuruk replied, "is a mask that often slips. And when it does, we will be watching."
---
Elsewhere in the city, life carried on unaware of the quiet war unfolding.
In the marketplace, a puppeteer performed a wayang kulit (shadow puppet play) for a circle of enthralled children and weary traders. His voice rose and fell, telling tales of gods and demons, heroes and traitors.
One of the elders watching leaned close to his neighbor. "Do you hear? The stories he tells some say they mirror our own times. A wise king betrayed by greedy lords."
His neighbor frowned. "Or perhaps it is just a story. Be careful, old man. Stories, too, can become dangerous."
The puppeteer's shadows danced against the cloth screen, their movements both beautiful and ominous. For those who listened closely, the story carried more than mere entertainment it carried warning.
---
At the same time, in a quiet tavern tucked between narrow alleys, a group of mercenaries huddled over mugs of sour palm wine. Their leader, a scar-faced man named Karna, leaned across the table.
"A noble pays well for silence and steel," he murmured. "We need not know the king's name to know our task. Guard certain houses, disrupt certain caravans. Nothing more, nothing less."
One of his men frowned. "And if the Mahapatih learns of this?"
Karna's grin revealed missing teeth. "Then we will already be gone, with our purses heavy."
The men laughed, but it was a brittle sound. For even the reckless knew that crossing Gajah Mada was like stepping into a fireyou might feel the warmth at first, but the flames would consume you soon after.
---
As dawn approached, the palace stirred once more. Hayam Wuruk stood at the edge of a balcony, watching the horizon glow faintly with the promise of light.
"The dance begins," he murmured, voice low enough only he could hear. "They weave their shadows. I will answer with the sun."
His eyes narrowed, not with fear, but with cold determination.
Majapahit was his board. Its people, its nobles, its soldiers they were all pieces in a vast game of strategy. And he, once a man of another world, would play to win.
---
The morning court session began with the sound of bronze bells echoing across the main hall. The nobles entered in procession, their robes sweeping the polished floor, their expressions carefully crafted masks of loyalty and respect.
From his high seat carved of teak and gold, Hayam Wuruk watched them enter, each bow measured, each glance calculated. To most eyes, the hall was a symbol of unity and majesty.
To him, it was a chessboard one where every smile could conceal a dagger.
He leaned back slightly, resting one arm on the gilded armrest. Beside him stood Gajah Mada, stern and unyielding, hands clasped behind his back.
"Bring forth the petitions," Hayam Wuruk said. His voice was calm, but it carried across the hall like the ring of a drawn blade.
A royal scribe stepped forward, unrolling a scroll. "Petition from the merchants of Tuban, Paduka. They request lower tariffs on salt and iron to ease trade with the eastern islands."
Hayam Wuruk nodded. "And who supports this?"
A middle aged noble rose. "This humble servant, Rakryan Dirga, on behalf of the guildmasters."
The king regarded him for a long moment. The same Dirga who had, days earlier, whispered discontent among his peers his words carried by servants and stray merchants alike.
"How noble of you," Hayam Wuruk said, his tone smooth. "You think of the merchants' burden. Tell me, Rakryan Dirga, how much does a bag of salt cost in Tuban these days?"
Dirga hesitated. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. "I believe it is...."
"You believe," the king interrupted softly, "yet you do not know. How curious that a man so concerned for merchants does not know their trade."
A ripple of unease moved through the court. Gajah Mada's gaze swept over the assembly like the shadow of a hawk.
Hayam Wuruk leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. "The tariff shall remain. But let a royal inspection be sent to Tuban. If corruption is found among the collectors, then justice will follow by law, and swiftly."
He gestured to his scribe. "Record it."
The king's words, though mild, struck like a hammer. Everyone in that hall understood the inspection was no mere audit. It was a blade wrapped in silk.
---
Later, in the privacy of his study, Hayam Wuruk stood before a large map laid across his table. Red markings indicated trade routes, ports, and garrisons. Small wooden tokens represented noble estates and merchant hubs.
"This kingdom bleeds not from war," he murmured, tracing a finger along the coastlines, "but from greed. The arteries must be cleansed."
Gajah Mada entered quietly. "The inspection team has been chosen, Paduka. They are men loyal to the law, not to gold."
"Good," the king replied. "And the whispers?"
"They spread, as expected. But we plant our own seeds among them. Let the nobles suspect one another. Distrust is a poison that needs little tending."
A faint smile touched Hayam Wuruk's lips. "Excellent. Let them dance in their own shadows."
He paused, looking toward the open window where sunlight streamed through carved wooden lattice. "Tell the artisans in the southern quarter to prepare new coin molds. We will begin testing a standardized silver weight. It will make taxation cleaner and harder to manipulate."
The Mahapatih raised an eyebrow. "You move swiftly, Paduka. Such reforms may unsettle even those who stand with you."
Hayam Wuruk turned, eyes sharp. "If the law frightens them, then they were never truly with me."
---
That evening, as the sun dipped below the western hills, Gajah Mada stood before the king once more. The scent of burning sandalwood filled the chamber.
"The nobles grow anxious," he reported. "Some send gifts to the palace to prove loyalty. Others stay silent, waiting to see who falls first."
Hayam Wuruk nodded slowly. "Let them wait. Fear is a fine teacher."
He turned toward the balcony, watching as torches were lit one by one across the city. "Do you know what I learned in my previous life, Gajah Mada?" he asked quietly.
The Mahapatih bowed his head slightly. "This servant does not presume to guess."
"In a world of men," Hayam Wuruk said, "power is not held by those who shout the loudest, but by those who control the story told about them. History is the greatest weapon."
He looked down at the bustling city below the beating heart of Majapahit. "And I will write mine in fire and law alike."
---
Outside the palace, the first stage of his grand game was already in motion. The merchants of Tuban prepared for inspection, the nobles whispered behind closed doors, and the people of Trowulan carried on their lives unaware that the air around them had grown thick with invisible tension.
In the alleyways, rumors twisted like smoke. Some said the king could see into men's hearts. Others whispered that Gajah Mada had eyes in every market and tavern.
And in a quiet corner of the city, the puppeteer who once performed for children now crafted a new story one of a cunning ruler who saw treachery before it was born.
His shadows danced across the screen once more, and the crowd gasped.
For they did not realize that what they watched was not mere art but prophecy.