The palace at Harar was quiet, too quiet. Torches flickered along the stone walls, their light casting long, uncertain shadows. Tafari sat alone in his chamber, the faint scratching of his quill the only sound. Before him lay coded reports from his network of watchers—letters intercepted, secret meetings tracked, and merchants whose eyes were too sharp for ordinary trade.
The Italians thought themselves clever. They whispered in taverns, bribed discontented nobles, and promised fortunes to the desperate. But they had underestimated Tafari's patience. He had spent two years weaving his own net, a lattice of loyal men and women—traders, priests, even children who sold bread in the marketplace. They watched, they listened, and they reported.
And now, the trap was ready.
Earlier that day, one of his father's oldest allies brought word: a meeting of traitors was to take place in the cellar of an old merchant's house, at the edge of Harar. Nobles, greedy for Italian gold, would meet with foreign agents disguised as monks.
Tafari leaned over the map of the city, his finger tracing the alleyways.
"We will not storm the house," he said calmly, though his eyes burned with fire. "We will let them believe they are safe. And then—when the ink is wet on their betrayal—we close the jaws."
His men nodded. They were not ordinary soldiers, but the secret army he had trained in silence. They knew the art of shadow: how to move without sound, how to strike without warning. Tonight, they would not wear uniforms, but the rags of laborers and beggars.
The night air was cold as Tafari himself moved with them, cloaked in dark cloth. From the shadows, he watched as the conspirators slipped one by one into the merchant's cellar. A noble he recognized entered last—his robe of fine silk hidden under a rough cloak, his face half-covered. Tafari's jaw clenched.
"Let them speak," he whispered.
From a gap in the window, they listened. The Italian agent's voice was low but sharp.
"Rome remembers the shame of Adwa. We offer you weapons, silver, and power. All we ask is your loyalty. Bring us the head of Tafari, and the throne will open to you."
The nobles murmured in agreement. Gold clinked against the table. A betrayal sealed.
Tafari raised his hand. His men moved like shadows. The door was barred from outside, and hidden lanterns flared to life. Panic erupted inside the cellar as Tafari stepped through the doorway, flanked by his silent guards.
The traitorous noble's face went pale. "Y-your highness—this is not what it seems—"
"On the contrary," Tafari's voice cut like steel, "it is exactly what it seems."
The Italians reached for hidden pistols, but were too slow. Arrows loosed from the shadows struck their hands, sending weapons clattering. Within moments, they were bound.
Tafari walked slowly to the table, lifted a sack of Italian silver, and poured it onto the floor. The coins spilled across the dirt like drops of blood.
"This," he said coldly, "is the price you put on your honor? The price of your countrymen's lives? Silver from foreign hands will not buy your souls back."
The nobles begged for mercy. Tafari did not answer at once. Instead, he turned to his captain.
"Send them to stand trial before the Emperor. Let the whole court see their shame. But the foreigners…" His eyes hardened. "…they will not leave this city alive."
By dawn, the conspirators had been dragged before the palace guards, their fine robes torn, their eyes filled with terror. Word spread like wildfire: Tafari had crushed the Italian plot in Harar. Fear turned quickly into awe. The young prince was no longer just a dreamer of roads and factories—he was a hunter of traitors.
Yet as victory sweetened the air, a darker shadow fell upon the palace. Messengers whispered in hushed tones: the Emperor had taken ill. His strength was fading, his steps growing unsteady.
Tafari stood at the Emperor's bedside later that evening, the smell of incense heavy in the chamber. The old lion's breath was shallow, his eyes weary. He placed a trembling hand on Tafari's arm.
"You must… watch them all, my son," he murmured. "Enemies within… are worse than enemies without."
Tafari bowed his head, his mind racing. The Italians had failed this time, but they would not stop. And with the Emperor's health failing, the throne itself would soon become a battlefield.
The silent war was only beginning.