The court was restless. The Emperor's illness had spread like a rumor carried on the wind—no one spoke of it openly, but every noble's eyes gleamed with quiet calculation. A sick monarch meant a shifting balance of power. And Tafari, the Emperor's rising star, stood at the center of it all.
By day, Tafari walked the palace corridors, calm and respectful, bowing where tradition demanded. He attended councils, where nobles debated trade, land, and taxes. Outwardly, he played the role of dutiful son and loyal servant of the Emperor. But behind his composed expression, his mind calculated each move. He saw which nobles whispered together in corners, which commanders grew distant, which priests suddenly found new patrons.
By night, his true work began.
In a hidden workshop near Harar, furnaces burned red into the darkness. Hammer strikes echoed like a secret heartbeat of the empire. Under Tafari's guidance, craftsmen and foreign-trained blacksmiths were shaping the steel of rifles, bayonets, and barrels. The improved bolt-action rifles—his modified version of the Italian Carcano—were being refined, lighter and sturdier than before. Crates of newly made ammunition, stamped with Harar's mark, stacked higher each week.
Smokeless powder, once a foreign secret, now filled cartridges made on their own soil. Each bullet was a declaration: Ethiopia would not beg for arms from Europe.
One evening, Tafari visited the training fields outside the city. His secret army drilled in silence under the moonlight. They moved with precision, rifles raised and lowered in unison, bayonets flashing like silver teeth. Unlike the traditional levies of the nobles, these men were disciplined, trained in both old spear formations and modern rifle tactics.
A captain approached, saluting. "We can field five thousand men fully equipped, my lord. Another ten thousand will be ready within the year, if supplies hold."
Tafari nodded, though his thoughts were already two steps ahead. "Supplies will hold. Roads are expanding. Farms are producing more grain than last year. No soldier of mine will go hungry."
He looked at the men, sweat glistening on their brows, determination etched into their faces. They were not just soldiers—they were the seed of a modern army, one that would outlast noble rivalries and foreign threats alike.
But in the palace, the whispers grew louder. A noble cousin confronted Tafari during a feast, his voice oily with false courtesy.
"Cousin Tafari," he said, raising a cup, "we hear you have many fine roads, many fine workshops. Yet the throne does not belong to engineers or soldiers. It belongs to the blood of Solomon."
Tafari smiled thinly. "And what is a throne worth if it cannot be defended?"
The noble's eyes narrowed. Around them, courtiers watched with hidden smirks and worried glances. The game of power had begun.
That night, Tafari returned to his maps. Red lines traced roads spreading like veins from Harar. Blue marks indicated factories rising in quiet towns. Small circles marked supply depots where food, powder, and rifles were stored away from prying eyes.
His strategy was clear: while nobles schemed in gilded halls, he would build power in the earth and iron of his homeland. The future would not be decided by whispers in the court but by the strength of armies, the abundance of food, and the steel of rifles forged by his people.
He lit a candle and whispered to himself:
"Let them play their games. I will play mine. When the day comes, only one game will matter."