The court was silent for days after Ras Demeke's fall. Nobles who once whispered freely now weighed every word, afraid of spies in their own households.
Tafari took advantage of the fear.
Edicts spread across the provinces: estates suspected of hoarding grain were seized and redistributed. Roads under construction expanded deeper into the countryside, lined with garrisons of soldiers loyal only to Tafari. Workshops in Harar clanged day and night, smoke rising from forges where rifles, tools, and machinery were produced in numbers once thought impossible for the empire.
To the people, Tafari's reforms meant bread, roads, and protection. To the nobles, they meant chains.
At a council meeting, an old lord dared to voice his discontent.
"You erode the old ways, Tafari. Nobles are not merchants to be measured by production or soldiers to be drilled like peasants. Ethiopia—"
"—is not a relic," Tafari cut in sharply, his voice filling the chamber. "Our enemies do not wait for us to argue about tradition. They build rifles, ships, and schools while some of us count titles like children counting stones. The old ways fed foreign invaders. I will not let them feed us to wolves again."
The chamber fell silent. The Emperor said nothing, too weak to intervene.
But beyond the highlands, in the Italian consulate, men in fine suits and polished boots gathered around maps. Ras Demeke's death had rattled them. Bribes had failed, spies had failed, poison had failed.
"It is clear," one Italian agent muttered. "The boy is dangerous. He thinks too much like us."
Another slammed his fist on the table. "Then we treat him as an equal enemy. No more whispers. We strike where it hurts—destabilize his factories, burn his roads, fund every noble who will lift a dagger against him."
A third leaned back, smiling coldly. "And if that fails… then Tafari himself must fall. No prince, no schemes. Ethiopia without its shadow."
They raised their glasses in agreement. Plans were drawn—gold to fuel riots, saboteurs to slip into Harar, assassins to move in the dark.
Back in his study, Tafari pored over reports. His agents confirmed unrest in the provinces: sudden fires in warehouses, caravans ambushed by "bandits," nobles spending more than they should. It was Italy's hand again, no doubt.
He pressed his palm against the map.
"They think fire and gold will break us," he murmured. "But fire can forge steel… and gold can buy their downfall as well."
Wolde entered, carrying a tray of tea.
"They won't stop, Tafari. They will come until you are dead."
Tafari sipped slowly, his eyes never leaving the map.
"Then let them come. Every move they make teaches me more. And when the time comes, Wolde, I will strike back not as a prince hiding in shadows… but as a ruler they will never forget."
Outside, the forges roared louder, rifles stacked higher, and roads stretched longer. Inside, the game of smoke and steel moved into its next phase.