The palace was restless. Whispers of rebellion buzzed in its marble corridors like flies over a corpse. But Tafari moved quietly, patiently, as though listening for a heartbeat beneath the noise.
One noble in particular drew his gaze—Ras Demeke, a man of old blood, wealthy lands, and restless ambition. For months, rumors tied his house to Italian coin. Still, he had worn loyalty like a mask, bowing to Tafari in public, feasting at the Emperor's table.
Tonight, the mask would fall.
In the dead of night, Tafari's secret guard stormed Ras Demeke's estate in Harar. The gates fell open, torches flared, and screams pierced the quiet.
Inside the wine cellar, they found the crates—rows of rifles with Italian stamps, identical to those Tafari had marked weeks earlier. Each one was proof. Each one a nail for Demeke's coffin.
Dragged before the court at dawn, Ras Demeke shouted, his voice hoarse with fury.
"Lies! These weapons were planted! I have served the Emperor faithfully since before Tafari was born. Do you think a boy-prince can accuse me of treason and not face the wrath of every noble in this chamber?"
His words found sympathetic ears. A ripple of unease moved through the court. Tafari had struck at a powerful serpent, and some feared his hand might tremble.
But Tafari rose. He stood tall, though the cough burned his lungs and his hands shook faintly behind his back.
"Let us not argue with words," Tafari said coldly. He gestured. His guards stepped forward, carrying parchments—letters written in Demeke's own hand, intercepted from his courier. Promises to Italian agents. Offers of support in exchange for rifles and gold.
Gasps filled the chamber. Some nobles turned away in disgust, others in secret relief.
Demeke's face drained of color. "Forged! All forged!" he cried. But his voice broke. The court smelled blood.
The Emperor, pale and frail upon his throne, lifted a trembling hand. His voice cracked like brittle wood.
"Ras Demeke… you have betrayed us. There can be no forgiveness."
The sentence was death.
When the axe fell in the square, the crowd roared—some in approval, others in fear. The nobility watched from behind veils and curtains, realizing Tafari's reach extended into their hidden chambers.
That night, Wolde found him sitting alone, staring into the embers of a fire.
"You struck boldly," Wolde said. "But it will not end here. They will close ranks. They will strike back harder."
Tafari's lips curled into a thin smile. "Then let them. Every strike they make exposes another weakness. Every serpent I kill warns the rest. Soon, there will be none left to strike at all."
But when Wolde left, Tafari doubled over in a violent cough, blood flecking his hand. He wiped it away quickly, hiding the stain.
The Empire saw only his strength. They did not see how much it cost.