The forge fires usually died down after midnight, leaving Harar cloaked in quiet save for the crickets and the occasional bray of donkeys. But on this night, Tafari's sleep was broken by a faint, acrid scent drifting through his window. Smoke — thick, oily, wrong.
He bolted upright. Not forge smoke. Not cooking fires. This was fire set to kill.
Within moments, Abebe burst into his chamber.
"Master! The western storehouse is burning!"
Tafari snatched his cloak and dagger, racing down the stairs. Outside, the night glowed orange. Flames licked the sky as the storehouse — packed with timber, ore, and half-finished rifle stocks — roared like a furnace.
Panic spread through the compound. Workers shouted, some rushing with buckets, others frozen in fear. Tafari's voice cut through the chaos:
"Form chains! Water from the canal — now!"
Men scrambled into lines, hauling buckets in a desperate rhythm. Yet as Tafari barked orders, his sharp eyes caught something else: figures slipping into the shadows, running away from the blaze.
Saboteurs.
---
"Gebre!" Tafari hissed. His bodyguard appeared, spear in hand.
"Follow them. Quietly. Take two men. Do not strike unless cornered. I want to know who sent them."
Gebre vanished into the night. Tafari turned back to the inferno, his jaw clenched.
Hours later, as the fire died down to smoldering embers, Gebre returned. His clothes were torn, his cheek bloodied, but his eyes burned with triumph.
"They weren't bandits," he spat. "They rode west, toward the Addis caravan road. Carried noble crests on their belts — Ras Welde's men."
Tafari felt the chill of confirmation. The nobles had made their move.
By dawn, the forge yard was a wreck. Ashes lay thick, and many supplies were gone. But Tafari gathered his workers and elders, standing before the blackened ruins.
"They tried to break us," he declared, voice steady. "But Ethiopia is not so easily broken. The fire destroyed wood and stone, but it did not touch our will. Today, we rebuild. Tomorrow, we build stronger."
The crowd roared with defiance. Some wept, others clenched fists, but none bent to despair.
That evening, Tafari convened his circle — Abebe, Gebre, and trusted smiths. Maps and parchments spread across the table.
"They struck once," Tafari said coldly. "They will strike again. We must prepare."
Abebe frowned. "Do we tell the emperor?"
"No," Tafari replied. "If we run crying to Addis, the nobles will laugh and call us children. Instead, we will set a trap."
Gebre leaned forward eagerly. "A trap?"
Tafari's eyes gleamed. "Yes. We will whisper that a new cache of rifles is stored in the rebuilt warehouse. A bait too tempting to ignore. When they come for fire again, they will find steel instead."
The men exchanged fierce smiles.
Outside, the forge hammers began again, louder than before, striking sparks into the night. Harar was wounded, but not broken — and in the shadows, Tafari sharpened his mind into a blade.
The nobles thought they had set fire to his dream. Instead, they had lit the fuse of their own downfall.