The palace kitchens were alive with noise: pots clanging, knives chopping, servants rushing about with trays of steaming injera and platters of spiced lamb. Yet hidden among the chaos, conversations flowed freely. Men and women spoke of their masters' tempers, their debts, their ambitions. It was a river of gossip — and for Tafari's circle, the perfect place to begin.
Abebe slipped through the doorway first, carrying a basket of firewood on his shoulder. He looked like any other errand boy. Behind him, Bekele followed, his small frame hunched, eyes darting nervously. Tsehai had chosen to stay behind; her presence might draw suspicion, but her role was no less important: she would record everything they learned.
"Remember," Tafari had told them before they set out, "do not ask questions. Only listen. People will always speak more when they think no one cares to hear."
Abebe moved to stack the firewood by the hearth, his ears sharp as blades. Two cooks argued nearby over salt and spices. A young boy carried water and muttered about the noble he served. Then came the words that made Abebe pause.
"…Ras Hailu again," one cook whispered, stirring a pot. "Always scheming. He says the boy Tafari has bewitched the council. That Makonnen parades him like some holy relic."
The other cook snorted. "Careful. Even walls have ears."
"Then let them hear," the first spat. "Hailu swore in his chambers that the boy must be cut down before he grows into a tree no axe can fell."
Abebe's blood ran hot. He gripped the firewood tighter, but forced his face into calm blankness. He had what they needed. Slowly, he finished his work and slipped out, Bekele close behind.
Back in the stables, Tafari listened as Abebe relayed the whispers. The words were sharp, heavy, filled with the kind of danger that made men vanish.
"So it has begun," Tafari said softly, his hands folded. "I knew Ras Hailu's smile was a blade."
Bekele trembled. "But what do we do? He is powerful. If he wishes you harm—"
"We do nothing openly," Tafari interrupted. His eyes gleamed, dark and determined. "If we strike too soon, we confirm his fear. Instead, we watch. We listen more. We learn who repeats his words, who carries his anger. The tree that grows too fast shows where the roots lie."
Abebe frowned. "You mean to let him move first?"
"Yes," Tafari answered. "Because when he moves, we will already know where his feet will fall."
The circle sat in silence, the weight of the game sinking into their young hearts. They were no longer merely boys with dreams. They were players in a struggle that could end their lives.
That evening, as Tafari walked with his father in the garden, Ras Makonnen glanced at him.
"You were quiet today," his father said.
Tafari kept his gaze steady. "I am learning, Father. The loudest noise often comes from the weakest roots."
Makonnen studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Perhaps you are right. But be careful, Tafari. The court is not a school of wisdom. It is a pit of lions. And lions do not forgive cubs who roar too soon."
Tafari bowed his head respectfully. But inside, his mind was already working, weaving threads of whispers into a net.
He was not roaring yet. But the lions would hear him soon enough.