The morning sun struck the palace courtyard like molten gold, but the mood inside was iron-cold. The trial of Lord Gebru had begun.
Nobles filled the chamber, robes rustling, eyes hungry for spectacle. The charge was treason—conspiracy with foreign agents. Proof lay in coded letters, intercepted by Tafari's counter-spies. Yet the trial was not about Gebru alone; it was about Tafari's strength.
Gebru knelt before the council, his face pale but proud.
"I deny these charges," he declared. "These letters are forgeries. Lies forged by my enemies to ruin me. Will the Empire destroy a loyal servant over the whispers of shadows?"
Gasps rippled. He spoke well—desperate men often did. Some nobles shifted uneasily. Perhaps he was guilty, but if Gebru fell, who might be next?
Then a voice rang out from the back. Wolde.
"The shadows he speaks of are his own. I saw his messengers. I tracked their movements. I delivered their trail to Tafari's spies myself. If Gebru denies it, let him swear before God and the Emperor."
The chamber froze. For Wolde to speak was bold—dangerous. The elder nobles eyed him with malice, waiting for Gebru's retort.
Gebru's lips twisted into a smile. "How fitting. The son of a traitor accuses me of treason. Tell me, Wolde, do you betray me to wash the stain of your father's shame? Or does Tafari use you as his dagger, too cowardly to bloody his own hands?"
The words were venom. Nobles leaned forward. The trap was set—turn Wolde's lineage into doubt once more.
But Tafari rose, silencing the room with a gesture. His voice was low, but carried like thunder.
"Enough. This trial is not about fathers, but about actions. Gebru chose his path. He plotted with foreign hands while feasting at my table. Wolde chose differently—he stood with me when others faltered. Deeds, not blood, define loyalty."
He raised the intercepted letters high. "The evidence is plain. Gebru betrayed his Emperor. For treason, the penalty is death."
The verdict struck like a hammer. Gebru's face drained of color. He struggled, shouted curses, even called Tafari a tyrant in the making—but his words were drowned by the guards dragging him away.
The nobles bowed their heads, though not all in loyalty. Some bowed to hide their rage, others their fear. They saw Tafari's hand—unyielding, decisive, merciless when betrayed.
Yet later that night, when the hall was empty and the torches burned low, Tafari sat alone in his chamber. His hand trembled slightly as he poured wine. His body ached, a hidden weakness gnawing at him in silence.
Wolde entered quietly.
"You showed strength today," he said.
Tafari gave a weary smile. "Strength is easy in daylight, Wolde. It is in the dark that it costs the most."
Outside, the wind carried whispers—Gebru's allies plotting revenge, Italians fanning flames of division, nobles calculating how to survive.
Inside, Tafari coughed softly, wiping blood from his lips before Wolde could see.
The Empire believed their prince stood unshaken. Only he knew how fragile the balance truly was.