The execution of Lord Gebru shook the Empire. His body was gone, but his shadow lingered. Families who once called him ally whispered together in shuttered halls, their loyalty now tainted by fear.
Into this tension, new poison slipped.
Merchants arriving from the coast carried not only goods, but rumors: Italian gold was flowing like water, bribes paid in secret, weapons smuggled under false names. The nobles who bent their heads in court by day plotted in darkness by night.
One evening, as Tafari sat with Wolde over maps and reports, a messenger stumbled in—bloodied, half-dead.
"My lord… a convoy of rifles… seized by your men… the crates bore Italian seals…"
Tafari's eyes sharpened. "So they arm us even as they plan to chain us."
The crates, when opened, revealed rifles—Carcano types, the same model Tafari's factories had improved. But these bore no Ethiopian craftsmanship, only Italian steel, meant for traitor hands.
Wolde clenched his fists. "They are preparing another Gebru. Another serpent in the court."
Tafari stood slowly, his body heavy with fatigue. Yet his voice cut sharp.
"Then we must not wait for the serpent to strike. We set the traps first."
That very week, a noble house rumored to be Italy's new ally received word of a "secret shipment." In truth, the shipment was bait—rifles forged in Tafari's own workshops, marked with Italian stamps, laced with hidden tracking marks.
The nobles fell for it eagerly. They took the bait, hiding the rifles deep within their estates. And when they met under torchlight to swear their loyalty to Italy, Tafari's men were already in the shadows, listening, recording every name.
The trap closed in silence.
But danger was never one-sided.
One night, a servant brought Tafari wine. His loyal hounds growled. Tafari paused, his hand hovering over the cup. A faint smell—too bitter. He set it aside. The servant was seized, and under torture confessed: a bribe from Italian agents, to poison the prince slowly.
The court gasped the next day when the servant was hung in the square, a placard reading: The price of betrayal.
Yet Tafari's cough grew harsher, his nights longer. He knew the poison attempt was not the first—and would not be the last.
In the quiet of his chamber, Wolde spoke.
"They strike with bribes, with whispers, with poison. You cannot fight shadows forever."
Tafari, pale but unyielding, looked him in the eye.
"No. But I can become a shadow greater than theirs. They think me weak, ill, distracted. Good. Let them think so. When they strike next, I will not only catch their knives—I will turn them back upon their masters."
Beyond the palace, Italian envoys smiled. They believed their plot was hidden. They believed Ethiopia could be carved apart like the carcass of a fallen beast.
They had yet to see that Tafari's traps were already woven into their every move.