Tafari was nearing seventeen. His body was still lean, not yet carrying the weight of adulthood, but his mind had matured far beyond his years. He sat in the corner of the council hall, silent as a shadow, observing the nobles who had gathered in his father's residence.
The air was thick with incense, yet beneath the perfume was the stench of rivalry. The lords of Shoa and Harar spoke in guarded tones, their voices dipped in courtesy but edged with hidden blades.
"Ras Makonnen grows old," one whispered to another.
"Too much burden rests on him. When the time comes, who shall bear the load?"
Their eyes drifted briefly toward Tafari, then away, dismissing him as a boy.
Tafari's lips curved slightly. They see only a child, and that is my strength.
He listened carefully. His historian's mind — a relic of his past life — catalogued every phrase, every hesitation, every ambition disguised as advice. He had studied centuries of Ethiopian politics, had seen in his first life how betrayal came from the closest allies. Now, armed with foresight, he read men's hearts as if they were open books.
That evening, after the council dispersed, his father called him.
"Tafari," Ras Makonnen said, his voice both proud and weary, "you sit so still, like a priest listening for God's whisper. What do you hear?"
Tafari chose his words with care.
"I hear men speaking of loyalty with their mouths, but of power with their eyes."
The Ras studied his son for a long moment. Then he laughed softly.
"You have the eyes of a hawk, my child. That gift will make men fear you. Use it wisely."
For the first time, Tafari spoke with a firmness that startled even his father.
"One day, I will not only watch them. I will lead them. Ethiopia needs a shepherd who knows wolves by their footsteps."
Makonnen placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Then grow swiftly, Tafari. The world waits for no one."
That night, lying on his thin mattress, Tafari stared at the ceiling beams. His heart was filled with both resolve and impatience. They think me small. Let them. When the storm comes, they will look for a mast to cling to, and I will be it.
The boy was becoming something else—quietly, invisibly—an emperor in waiting.