The whispers spread like smoke. In taverns, along caravan trails, among camel drivers and petty traders, the rumor drifted: Tafari's forges had already replaced the burned rifles, stockpiling dozens more in a new warehouse on the western edge of Harar.
By design, the rumor sounded careless — as if Tafari's men had boasted too loudly while drunk. But in truth, every word had been seeded by Abebe's careful tongue.
One moonless night, shadows crept along the outer road. A band of riders, wrapped in dark cloaks, their horses' hooves muffled, moved toward Harar. They carried torches, blades, and oil flasks. Their leader whispered harshly:
"Strike fast. Burn everything. Leave nothing for the boy."
They reached the new warehouse — a sturdy structure of stone and timber, strangely unguarded. Just one lantern flickered in the distance.
The men grinned. Too easy.
They slipped inside, striking flints to light their torches. The smell of oil greeted them, thick and strong. One saboteur laughed.
"Ha! The boy's fools have left barrels ready for us!"
But as the torches flared, the truth revealed itself — the barrels were not filled with oil, but water. And the walls, the floor, even the rafters, were lined with sandbags and hidden slits.
A voice rang out in the dark:
"Welcome to Harar, gentlemen."
From every shadow, armed men stepped forward. Tafari himself emerged, flanked by Gebre with spear and Abebe with crossbow. Workers, farmers, and soldiers alike surrounded the saboteurs, rifles leveled, eyes blazing.
The raiders froze. One cursed. Another reached for his blade — but Gebre's spear point pressed against his throat before steel cleared scabbard.
"Drop them," Tafari ordered. "Alive, you're worth more than dead."
Reluctantly, one by one, the saboteurs let weapons clatter to the floor.
By dawn, the captives were paraded through Harar's streets. Crowds gathered, shouting curses, some throwing stones, others spitting in fury. These were no nameless bandits — the noble crests on their belts shone clear. Ras Welde's mark.
Tafari stood before the people, raising a hand for silence. His voice rang across the courtyard:
"Last night, traitors came to burn what we build with blood and sweat. But Harar does not bend. Harar does not burn. These men sought to make us weak — instead, they have made us strong."
The crowd erupted, chanting his name, their loyalty hardening like iron.
That evening, in the quiet of his study, Tafari wrote a careful letter to Emperor Menelik. He described the attack not as rebellion, but as a "grave misunderstanding among certain hot-headed lords." He made no direct accusation — yet the message was clear. Menelik would see that Tafari was both capable of defending himself and cautious enough not to shout treason.
Abebe frowned as he sealed the letter.
"Why spare them, master? Why not expose Ras Welde's treachery openly?"
Tafari's lips curved in a thin smile.
"Because, Abebe, a snake you can see is safer than one hidden in grass. Let Welde writhe. Let him wonder how much I know, how much I hold back. Fear is a sharper chain than iron."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming.
"And besides… when the time comes, I will not simply accuse him. I will bury him."
Outside, the forge hammers beat their rhythm once more. Harar had turned fire into steel — and now steel into power.