The journey to Addis Ababa took weeks, but the weight of what Tafari carried made every mile feel longer. In a chest, locked and guarded day and night, rested two of the new rifles — symbols of Ethiopia's future.
The city greeted them with bustle and dust, its hills crowned by Menelik's palace. Tafari had visited before as a child, but this time felt different. This time, he was not merely the son of Ras Makonnen. He was a bearer of proof.
The court gathered in the great hall, sunlight spilling through high windows onto tiled floors. Nobles lined the chamber in silk and cotton, their eyes sharp with suspicion and curiosity. Foreign envoys from France and Italy stood in corners, their translators whispering constantly.
At the far end, on a carved throne, sat Emperor Menelik II. His beard was silvered, his frame broad but weary with age. Beside him sat Empress Taytu Betul, her eyes keen as a hawk's, her presence commanding.
Ras Makonnen bowed deeply, and Tafari followed suit.
"My Emperor," Makonnen began, "my son brings before you not words of promise, but proof of Ethiopia's strength."
Gasps rippled as attendants brought forward the chest. Makonnen opened it, and the polished rifles gleamed under the light.
A murmur filled the hall. Some nobles leaned closer. Others frowned, their thoughts already racing with suspicion.
Menelik raised a hand. "Come forward, boy."
Tafari stepped closer, heart pounding but stride steady. He held one rifle, bowing before offering it to the emperor with both hands.
"This," he said clearly, so all could hear, "was not forged in Europe. Not in Italy, nor in France, nor in England. This was born in Ethiopian fire, hammered by Ethiopian hands, guided by Ethiopian will."
The silence was heavy.
Empress Taytu spoke first, her voice sharp.
"Big words from a small mouth. Many claim miracles. How do we know this toy is not smuggled from abroad?"
Whispers erupted. Tafari had expected this. He turned to Abebe, who carried a clay pot. Setting it at the far end of the hall, Tafari chambered a round, aimed carefully, and fired.
The crack rang through the chamber. The pot shattered into shards. Smoke curled from the barrel.
Gasps gave way to stunned silence.
Tafari lowered the rifle, his voice steady.
"With respect, Empress — no smuggler delivered this. I can take you to the forges, show you the men who carved, hammered, and filed each piece. This is not foreign trickery. This is Ethiopian craft reborn."
Menelik's eyes gleamed with a mix of pride and calculation. Slowly, he rose from his throne, walking to the rifle. He ran his hand along the barrel, tested the bolt, and nodded.
"Makonnen," he said, "your son has brought us a marvel. If true, it changes much. But a marvel is not yet an army."
Ras Makonnen bowed. "It is the seed, my Emperor. From this seed, a forest may grow — if watered with support."
The nobles stirred, their whispers sharpening. One elder muttered, "A forest for the boy, perhaps — to overshadow us all."
Menelik raised his hand, silencing them. His gaze fell on Tafari.
"You are young, Tafari. Too young for burdens of war and steel. Yet I see your fire. Tell me, if I were to entrust you with men and gold, what would you build for Ethiopia?"
Tafari met the emperor's gaze without flinching.
"I would build fields that feed armies, forges that arm them, and roads that carry them faster than invaders can march. I would make Ethiopia strong not for today, but for a hundred tomorrows."
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. Then Menelik laughed — a deep, booming laugh that echoed through the chamber.
"By Saint George, the boy speaks like an old general!"
The hall erupted in uneasy laughter. Some nobles smiled, others frowned, but all understood: Tafari had caught the emperor's ear.
That evening, after court dismissed, Taytu spoke privately to Menelik.
"This boy is dangerous," she warned. "He has the mind of a statesman already. If he gathers too much loyalty, he could become more than a servant of the throne."
Menelik stroked his beard, thoughtful. "Dangerous, yes. But also necessary. Ethiopia needs such minds. We will watch him closely — but also, perhaps, we will use him."
And so, Tafari's rifles became more than weapons. They became a question in every noble's mind: Was this boy the future of Ethiopia, or the storm that would upend it?
For Tafari, the answer was already clear. As he gazed at Addis Ababa under the moonlight, he whispered to himself:
"The lion's court has seen my fire. Now, I must make sure it never goes out."