The chamber of the council smelled of incense and oil. Sunlight poured through narrow windows, painting the air with beams of gold and dust. Rows of nobles sat in semicircles, their robes heavy with embroidery, their heads adorned with fine turbans and crosses of silver.
At the center of the room, upon a carved ebony chair, sat Ras Makonnen. His presence commanded silence even when he said nothing. Today, however, it was not his voice the court would hear. It was his son's.
Tafari entered with measured steps. His robe was plain, his head bowed in respect. Yet there was no trembling in his movement. His eyes scanned the chamber, not quickly, not timidly, but with the quiet gaze of one who already measured men beyond their words.
"Gentlemen of Ethiopia," Ras Makonnen began, his voice deep. "Today we discuss the question of tribute from the lowlands. The matter is simple: some argue the people must give more to strengthen our defenses; others say they are burdened enough. Before I speak, I will ask my son, Tafari, to listen. And when the time comes, he shall offer us his thought."
A ripple of murmurs ran through the chamber. Some nobles leaned forward, curious. Others scoffed. A child? To advise the council? Surely this was folly — or worse, Makonnen's pride.
The debate began.
One elder rose, his beard white as cotton. "The coffers are thin. Our soldiers must eat. If the people love Ethiopia, let them prove it with their harvest."
Another noble struck his staff against the floor. "And if they starve? Will empty bellies fight for us? Ethiopia's strength is not only in spears but in the loyalty of her sons."
The chamber swelled with voices, arguments clashing like blades. Through it all, Tafari sat silently beside his father. His eyes never left the speakers, and though he made no sound, his pen scratched notes across a parchment.
At last, Ras Makonnen raised his hand. Silence returned. His gaze shifted to his son.
"Tafari," he said. "What do you hear?"
Every head turned. Some eyes glittered with amusement, others with disdain. A boy's words were to be weighed with the affairs of men?
Tafari rose slowly. He bowed first to his father, then to the council. His voice, when it came, was not loud — but it was steady, and the chamber hushed to catch each word.
"I have heard wisdom in both arguments," he began. "One says we must feed our soldiers, the other that we must not starve our people. But why must Ethiopia choose one and not the other?"
A few nobles shifted uncomfortably. Tafari's eyes swept the chamber, calm, deliberate.
"In the books of our forefathers, I read that a king's duty is not only to take from his people, but also to guide them to give willingly. If the coffers are empty, let us not simply demand more. Let us show the lowlands that their harvest feeds their own protection. Let them see the spears their grain supports, the shields their salt preserves. Then they will not feel robbed, but honored."
He paused. A silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
"Burden without purpose breeds rebellion. But burden with honor breeds loyalty. If we remember this, Ethiopia will remain strong."
When he sat, the chamber did not immediately erupt with applause or laughter. It was the stillness of men caught off guard, men unwilling to admit what they had just heard: wisdom from the mouth of a boy.
Ras Makonnen broke the silence with a single nod. "The council has heard my son. Let us not dismiss wisdom because it comes from a young voice."
Later, as the nobles filed out, some whispered behind their hands.
"He speaks like an old priest."
"Dangerous. Too dangerous for his age."
"A lion's cub, perhaps."
But others lingered, their eyes softer, curious, even respectful. Already, the first shift had begun. Tafari was no longer only a boy. He was now a voice.
That night, back in the stables, Abebe clasped his shoulder.
"They heard you," Abebe said, pride in his voice.
"Yes," Tafari replied. "But so did our enemies."
He looked toward the horizon, where the night swallowed the last light of day. His father had given him a stage. He had passed the test.
Yet Tafari knew: the higher one's voice rose, the more ears it reached — both friendly and hostile.
The path forward would not be easier. It would only grow more dangerous.