The palace was heavy with the scent of incense and whispers. The Emperor had taken to his bedchamber more often now, his steps slow, his voice weak. Courtiers spoke of his "temporary fatigue," but everyone knew the truth—his strength was fading. And in the corridors of power, ambition always followed illness.
The great hall filled with nobles, each draped in finery, each speaking with honeyed words that hid sharp daggers. They gathered in clusters—alliances formed in quiet corners, promises exchanged with sly glances. Old rivalries were pushed aside, replaced by new conspiracies.
At the heart of this storm stood Tafari. He moved with calm grace, bowing where required, listening without revealing too much. His silence unnerved many; his words, when spoken, carried weight far beyond his years.
One noble lord, grey-haired but sharp-eyed, raised a toast at the evening feast.
"To His Majesty's swift recovery," he said, voice rich with false devotion. "And to the wise guidance of our noble council, which ensures stability in times of… uncertainty."
The word hung in the air like smoke: uncertainty.
Another lord chimed in. "Indeed. While His Majesty rests, perhaps it is time that certain… duties of governance be shared. We would not wish the burden to fall too heavily upon one pair of shoulders." His eyes flickered to Tafari.
The message was clear. They wanted to bind him, to dilute his influence, to cage him within a council of schemers.
---
Later that night, in a quiet courtyard lit by a half-moon, Tafari met with two of his trusted allies—a loyal priest and a veteran commander.
"They are circling like vultures," the commander muttered. "Waiting for the lion to fall, so they may feast."
Tafari's face was unreadable. "They mistake patience for weakness. Let them whisper. While they plot with words, I build with steel."
The priest placed a hand on Tafari's shoulder. "But you must tread carefully, my son. If you push too hard, they will unite against you. If you do nothing, they will choke your vision in its cradle."
Tafari looked toward the palace windows, where faint candlelight marked the Emperor's chambers. His father's words echoed in his mind: Enemies within are worse than enemies without.
"I will not move openly," Tafari said at last. "Not yet. But when their plots reach too far, I will have the evidence. And when I act, it will be with the law in one hand and the sword in the other."
---
The next day, rumors spread. Some claimed a noble house had received Italian "gifts." Others whispered that the priests were divided—some loyal to the Emperor, others swayed by bribes. The court was becoming a battlefield of tongues, daggers, and hidden coin.
Tafari attended council that morning, his demeanor calm as ever. He listened, nodded, even smiled when appropriate. But as he left, his mind was sharp, already instructing his secret network:
"Follow them. Record every meeting, every bribe, every treacherous whisper. When the time comes, they will not be able to deny it."
For now, he balanced on the knife's edge—between respect for the Emperor, patience with the court, and the steady march of his modernization. But he knew the storm was coming. And when it broke, he would either stand as the heir of a new era—or be crushed beneath the weight of old ambition.