The rain had fallen through the night, leaving the palace courtyard slick and gleaming in the morning sun. Tafari walked with careful steps, his robe brushing against puddles as he made his way to the stables. He found Abebe already there, tending to the horses with hands strong and sure.
"Tafari," Abebe greeted, bowing slightly. "You should not come here so openly. Eyes are everywhere."
"All the more reason," Tafari replied. "Let them see me as nothing more than a curious boy who likes the smell of horses."
They exchanged a smile. What the nobles saw as childish wandering was in fact cover for their meetings. The stable had become the quiet heart of their small circle.
That morning, Tsehai arrived carrying a bundle of parchment under her arm. Her eyes lit up when she saw Tafari.
"I copied the words you asked," she said softly, unwrapping the scrolls. "The maxims of Saint Yared, the wisdom of Zara Yaqob. You said these words must be remembered."
Tafari nodded, taking the scrolls with reverence. "Words are weapons sharper than spears, Tsehai. One day, these will guide us."
Abebe leaned closer. "And who else will guide us, Tafari? A circle cannot remain three forever."
The boy prince's gaze grew distant. He remembered Hailu's smile, the poisoned promise of power. He had rejected it, but he knew others would come. If his circle was to grow, it must be carefully — not with wolves in sheep's clothing, but with those who could be trusted.
That afternoon, an opportunity appeared.
A young boy named Bekele, son of a lesser official, lingered at the edge of the courtyard where Tafari was reading. Bekele had always been quiet, more often bullied than respected. But Tafari had noticed him: the way he listened, the way he absorbed without speaking.
When Bekele finally approached, his voice trembled. "They say you are… different. That you see more than others. I wish to learn. Will you teach me?"
Abebe bristled, stepping forward as if to shield Tafari. But Tafari raised a hand.
"Why do you wish to learn?" he asked.
Bekele lowered his eyes. "Because I am weak. And the weak are forgotten. But you… you make even silence seem strong. If I can learn that, perhaps I will not be forgotten."
The courtyard fell still. Even the sparrows seemed to hush. Tafari studied him with the calm of a priest. Then he gave a slow nod.
"You may join us. But know this: our circle is not for pride or ambition. It is for Ethiopia. If you come, you must swear that you seek strength not for yourself alone, but for our land."
Bekele placed his small hand upon his chest. "I swear."
And so, the circle grew to four.
That evening, Tafari sat with his father, Ras Makonnen. The great man poured wine into a shallow cup and handed it to his son.
"You are no longer a child, Tafari," his father said. "Soon you must show the court what kind of man you will become."
Tafari bowed his head respectfully. "What would you have me do, Father?"
Makonnen's gaze was steady, sharp as a drawn blade. "Tomorrow, you will stand before the council. I will give you no script. You will listen to the debates — and when I call on you, you will speak. Not as my son, but as a voice of your own."
Tafari's heart quickened, but he did not flinch.
"Yes, Father," he said.
When the moment came, it would not only test him — it would reveal to the court, for the first time, the boy who was destined to be more than a boy.
In the shadows of the stables, in the hearts of a few loyal friends, and now in the halls of power itself, the seeds were beginning to sprout.