The next morning, Tafari walked through the long corridors of his father's compound, the sunlight filtering through narrow windows. His cloak dragged lightly against the polished stone floor, and though his pace was measured, his mind raced.
He had crossed a threshold last night. Words sworn in torchlight had weight. He was no longer just Ras Makonnen's son; he was the hidden center of a new circle. Small, yes, but alive.
Still, even a seed attracts the notice of crows.
As Tafari approached the courtyard, he saw two older boys — sons of minor nobles — laughing together. Their laughter sharpened when they caught sight of him.
"There he is," one said loudly, his Amharic tinged with mockery. "The priestling. Always with his nose in books."
The other smirked. "They say he speaks to peasants, as if he were one of them. Imagine, a lord's son among stable boys."
Tafari felt his cheeks flush, but he did not answer. Instead, he studied them silently, the way Dawit once studied politicians at university debates in Addis Ababa. Mockery was never just mockery; it was a test, a probe to see who would bend and who would break.
"Do you hear me, Tafari?" the first boy pressed. "Do you think silence makes you wise?"
Before Tafari could answer, Abebe stepped from behind the archway. He moved with deliberate calm, but his broad shoulders carried menace.
"You should watch your tongue," Abebe said. "Lions may be quiet before they strike."
The two boys stiffened. They muttered something under their breath and walked away, but not before Tafari caught the glance they exchanged. That glance was not simple irritation. It was calculation. Already, the court's children mirrored the games of their parents.
That afternoon, news reached Ras Makonnen.
"My son," the governor said as they sat together in the private chamber, "I hear whispers that you keep unusual company. That you speak of Ethiopia's future in ways too bold for your age."
Tafari straightened. This was the first real test. If his father saw his circle as childish play, he might dismiss it. But if suspicion grew, it could smother the seed before it sprouted.
"I only seek knowledge, Father," Tafari said carefully. "Abebe helps me understand the strength of our people. Tsehai copies words I cannot always remember. If I am to serve Ethiopia one day, should I not begin now?"
Ras Makonnen studied him, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he chuckled, though not unkindly.
"You speak like a man thrice your age," he said. "Perhaps that is your gift. But remember, Tafari — knowledge is a blade. Wield it too openly, and you will draw blood before you are ready."
"I will remember," Tafari replied.
But inside, Dawit's historian voice whispered: This is how it begins. The nobles are already watching. Every step must be measured.
That night, Tafari gathered Abebe and Tsehai again in the small courtyard.
"They are already whispering," Tafari told them. "My father has heard. The nobles' sons laugh. This means they see us."
Abebe scowled. "Shall I silence them?"
"No," Tafari said firmly. "That is what they want — for me to show my hand too early. Violence now will only prove their suspicions."
"Then what?" Tsehai asked.
"We do what they cannot: we endure. We learn. We prepare. And when the time comes, we will be ready to act — not as foolish boys, but as men who have shaped themselves for Ethiopia."
The torchlight flickered across their young faces. For a moment, they were not children at all, but shadows of the men they would become.
Tafari looked at the parchment with the lion symbol. His circle was small, fragile, already noticed by rivals. But he did not despair.
For in every whisper of mockery, in every suspicious glance, Tafari saw proof:
The game of power had begun.