Tafari sat in the library, a place that smelled of leather, ink, and dust. Scrolls of scripture lay open before him, but his mind wandered. The events of the past week — the mocking boys, his father's warning, the whispers in the court — still weighed heavily on him.
As he dipped his pen into the ink, the door creaked open. A tall figure entered: Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot, a cousin from another noble house. His robes shimmered with gold thread, his beard carefully trimmed, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. He was no child of the court. He was a man of twenty-six, already entrusted with responsibilities in Gojjam.
"Tafari," Hailu greeted, his voice smooth, like honey poured over stone. "The child who speaks like a priest. May I sit?"
"Of course," Tafari answered cautiously. He rose and bowed slightly, though his heart quickened.
Hailu sat across from him, resting his hand upon the table. His rings glinted in the sunlight.
"I have watched you," Hailu began. "The way you listen, the way others lean toward you. You are not like the other boys. You have the makings of something greater."
Tafari lowered his eyes. "I am only a student of wisdom."
Hailu chuckled. "Do not be modest with me, cousin. Wisdom is power, and power belongs to those who dare seize it. You could rise high, Tafari. Higher than anyone dreams. But you must choose your friends wisely."
The boy studied him, silent. He remembered Abebe's loyalty, Tsehai's devotion, the whispers in the courtyard. He also remembered his father's warning: Knowledge is a blade.
"What do you mean, Ras Hailu?" he asked.
The noble leaned closer. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"The old men in the court — they are slow, fearful, bound by tradition. But Ethiopia needs youth, fire, courage. Men like you, and men like me. If you ally with me now, I can protect you. Together we can shape the court long before you are of age."
For a moment, Tafari felt the weight of temptation. Hailu's words rang with promise: protection, influence, a place in the grand game.
But then Dawit's historian voice whispered inside him: This is how it begins. Alliances are chains. Once you take their hand, they pull you where they wish.
Tafari met Hailu's gaze. His voice was calm, but his eyes carried the steel of quiet defiance.
"I thank you for your concern, cousin. But I am still young. My path is to learn — not to command. When I am ready, Ethiopia will know where I stand."
The silence that followed was heavy. Hailu's smile thinned, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
"Very well," he said smoothly, rising to his feet. "You are cautious, I see. That is good — for now. But remember, Tafari: no lion hunts alone forever."
With a bow that carried both respect and warning, he departed.
Tafari remained seated, his hand clenched around the pen. His heart pounded, but his face was calm. He looked down at the ink that had spilled across the parchment.
"Not yet," he whispered to himself.
Later that night, he met Abebe and Tsehai in the courtyard. He told them of Hailu's words, though not every detail.
"They will come to me again," Tafari said. "Others will follow, each with promises. But we must not bind ourselves too soon. A bird that accepts a gilded cage cannot fly free."
Abebe nodded. "Then we stand only with each other?"
"For now," Tafari said, his voice firm. "And for Ethiopia."
The torch crackled, shadows dancing across their young faces. Tafari knew he had made his first real choice — not to grasp at quick power, but to wait, to endure, to build in secret.
Already, the court tested him. Already, he had said no to honeyed poison.
And in that quiet refusal, Tafari felt something stir in his chest — not pride, but destiny.