The morning sun broke through mist over Harar's hills, painting the city with a pale gold. Tafari stood in the courtyard, listening to the sounds of life: merchants calling in the streets, donkeys braying, the rhythmic clang of blacksmiths hammering iron. To most, these were ordinary sounds of an Ethiopian city. But to Tafari, they were reminders of a truth only he carried — a nation's strength lay not only in its soldiers, but in the hands of its workers, its farmers, its builders.
He remembered, with painful clarity, the future famine that would ravage Ethiopia. In his past life, he had seen the photographs — skeletal children, eyes too large for their faces, mothers too weak to weep. The world had pitied Ethiopia, and pity was a chain as heavy as conquest.
Not again, he swore.
That afternoon, Tafari sought out Abebe, the son of one of his father's retainers. Abebe was two years older, broad-shouldered, with quick hands and a quicker tongue. He had become Tafari's closest companion, though even he did not know the depth of Tafari's thoughts.
They walked together beyond the walls, through fields where farmers bent low, cutting grain with sickles. Abebe gestured at them.
"Always the same. They work, the nobles take, the cycle repeats. Do you ever wonder if it will change?"
Tafari stopped, watching a boy no older than ten carrying a bundle of wheat twice his size. His heart tightened. "It must change," he said softly.
Abebe laughed. "You speak as if you are already an emperor."
Tafari turned to him, his gaze steady. "One day I may be. And when that day comes, men like him"—he pointed to the boy—"must no longer bend until their backs break while others sit fat on stolen grain."
Abebe raised an eyebrow, half amused, half thoughtful. "You speak differently from other nobles. They dream only of more land and more wives."
"That is because they dream only of themselves," Tafari replied. "But I have seen where such greed leads — to famine, to rebellion, to blood in the streets."
Abebe frowned. "Blood? You sound as if you know what is to come."
Tafari hesitated. His secret burned on his tongue. But he forced himself to smile faintly. "Let us say I know what history teaches. And history punishes those who ignore the hunger of the people."
Abebe looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "If you ever rise to power, Tafari, I will stand by you. Not because you are a noble, but because you speak as if you care."
It was a simple vow, spoken in the fields, but Tafari felt its weight. A circle begins with one, he thought.
That evening, he sat again with his father. Ras Makonnen had been in good spirits, having settled a dispute between two governors without bloodshed. Yet his eyes carried the tiredness of years spent balancing loyalty and ambition.
"You are quiet tonight," Makonnen said, sipping his coffee.
"I was watching the farmers today," Tafari answered. "They toil endlessly, yet live with little. Father, why do the nobles take so much and return so little?"
The Ras sighed. "Because that is the way of things. Power flows upward, and grain flows with it."
"But what if Ethiopia is stronger when grain flows both ways?" Tafari pressed. "If the farmers are fed, they will not rebel. If they are educated, they will not be tricked by foreign coins. If they are respected, they will fight not because they must, but because they believe."
Makonnen leaned back, studying his son. "You are not like other boys your age. Sometimes I wonder if you are not even like other men."
Tafari met his gaze, unwavering. "Perhaps that is because I have seen where this path leads."
The Ras chuckled softly. "You speak as if God whispers to you in the night."
"Perhaps He does," Tafari said, though he knew it was not God but memory — memory of a future already lived, of mistakes that must not be repeated.
Later, when alone in his chamber, Tafari took out the parchment he had begun days before. He added a new list:
Land reform must come.
Education must reach even the farmer's child.
A nation cannot survive on tradition alone; it must adapt.
Power must be centralized before it shatters into fiefdoms.
He stared at the words. These were not ideas that a boy of seventeen should carry, yet they pulsed within him like a second heartbeat.
Through the window, he saw Abebe training with a spear under the moonlight, his movements strong and disciplined. A loyal friend, a future commander, perhaps. Tafari allowed himself a rare smile. One follower today. More would come.
He whispered into the night:
"Seeds grow silently before they break the earth. I will plant them now, in men, in words, in actions unseen. And when the time comes, Ethiopia will rise not on pity, but on strength."
The moonlight washed over his face, illuminating not the boy he appeared to be, but the man he was becoming — a man armed with knowledge of tomorrow.