The corridors of the governor's compound in Harar were hushed that evening. Torches flickered along the mud-plastered walls, their flames bending in the restless night wind. Tafari walked alone, his small frame swallowed by the oversized cloak his father had given him. At fifteen, he looked every bit the boy he was, but his eyes carried the fatigue of a man who had lived and died once before.
Tonight, he had made a decision.
In the daytime, he played the obedient son of Ras Makonnen, bowing when expected, answering softly in Amharic or Ge'ez when the priests quizzed him. But behind the veil of boyhood, Dawit's memories pressed heavily against his ribs: visions of Ethiopia's future—of coups, of Red Terror, of famine. He could not wait until he was grown. He needed allies now.
He stopped at a quiet courtyard where two figures waited.
"Abebe," Tafari said, lowering his hood.
His childhood companion stepped forward, taller by a head, his hands calloused from tending horses. Abebe's loyalty had always been unquestioned; he had fought boys twice his size who mocked Tafari's studious habits.
"You sent for me, master," Abebe said, his tone respectful but threaded with curiosity.
Tafari smiled faintly. "No 'master.' Tonight, we are equals. Tonight, we make a pact."
Abebe frowned, glancing at the second figure—a thin boy clutching a bundle of parchment. This was Tsehai, son of a minor clerk in Harar, clever with letters, hungry for purpose.
"What is this about, Tafari?" Tsehai asked, his voice breaking in the way of adolescence.
Tafari exhaled slowly, searching for words that would not sound mad. He could not speak of reincarnation or the Red Terror. They would not believe it. Yet he could plant seeds.
"I have seen the weakness of this land," Tafari began. "Our lords bicker like children over scraps while the world beyond sharpens its knives. Men speak of Adwa as if it is the end of history. It is not. It was only the beginning. The Italians will return. Others too. And if we remain divided, we will be broken."
Abebe's jaw tightened. He had heard such things whispered by his father, but never from Tafari.
"And what do you want us to do?" Tsehai asked, clutching his papers closer.
Tafari stepped nearer, lowering his voice. "We start small. A circle. Not of nobles who think only of their estates. Not of priests who fear every new thought. A circle of those who believe Ethiopia can be more than a collection of feudal quarrels."
Abebe shifted uneasily. "But we are boys."
"Boys grow," Tafari replied firmly. "And one day, those who laughed at us will beg for our counsel. But if we wait until then to prepare, it will be too late."
He produced a folded scrap of parchment from his cloak. On it, drawn in clumsy strokes, was a lion encircled by a ring.
"The Lion of Judah is our symbol," Tafari said. "But not just as a holy beast. As a circle. Eternal, unbroken. We will bind ourselves to this oath: to guard one another, to seek knowledge, and to serve Ethiopia above all else."
Tsehai's eyes glimmered in the torchlight. Abebe's broad chest rose and fell. Slowly, the two boys knelt, placing their hands upon the parchment.
"I swear," Abebe said.
"I swear," Tsehai echoed.
Tafari placed his own hand over theirs. "Then tonight we begin. Three voices only. But one day, there will be many. Soldiers, scribes, priests, merchants. Ethiopia will not fall because her sons were silent."
The torch crackled. Somewhere beyond the walls, a jackal barked.
For the first time in his new life, Tafari felt the stirrings of destiny taking form—not as a solitary burden, but as something shared. He had his first circle. Small, fragile, secret. But in that moment, he knew it was the seed from which his empire would grow.