The night air in Harar smelled of smoke and iron. From the hills, the glow of the workshops lit the sky—pride of Tafari's reforms, the heart of his secret dream of industry. Men worked through the dark hours, hammering steel into rifles, shaping powder into cartridges.
And then, without warning, fire tore through the night.
An explosion ripped the southern foundry apart, sending molten shards across the yard. Workers screamed, some burned, others crushed beneath falling beams. Flames licked high into the sky, black smoke billowing like a wound across the city.
By dawn, rumors spread—sabotage.
Tafari arrived before sunrise, his face pale with exhaustion but his eyes sharp. The foundry smoldered before him, guards still hauling charred beams aside. A survivor knelt before him, ash streaking his face.
"They came in the night, my lord. Men with foreign tongues. They poured oil, set charges. We tried to fight, but they vanished like ghosts."
Tafari closed his eyes for a moment. Italian agents, no doubt. The attack was not just on steel—it was on his authority.
He turned to Wolde.
"Send word to every workshop. Double the guards. Arm the workers themselves if you must. If the Italians want fire, we will drown them in vigilance."
Later that day, he summoned the nobles to Harar. They came reluctantly, robes brushing ash from the streets. Tafari stood before the blackened ruins, smoke still rising, and spoke with steel in his voice.
"Look well," he said, his hand sweeping toward the rubble. "This is what our enemies do while some of you whisper about tradition and titles. They burn what we build. They bleed our people. If we do not stand united, there will be nothing left to fight over."
Some nobles bowed their heads. Others hid their unease. Few missed the implication: treachery among them would not be forgiven.
But Tafari was not finished. He had anticipated sabotage. Hidden in the hills were reserve workshops, smaller forges running in secret, each producing rifles and powder at a steady pace. The Italians believed they had crippled him. In truth, they had only drawn his trap tighter.
That evening, Tafari sat with his closest circle, his voice calm but edged with fire.
"They strike openly now. Good. Their arrogance reveals them. Every move they make, I will answer twice over. For every workshop they burn, I will raise two more. For every life they take, I will hang three traitors from the gates."
Wolde frowned. "This path is darker, Tafari. Some will call you ruthless."
Tafari's cough broke his words for a moment, blood flecking the cloth he held to his lips. But his eyes gleamed.
"Let them call me what they wish. History remembers the builders, not the complainers. And I intend to build a nation they cannot burn."
That night, as Harar slept uneasily, Italian agents celebrated in hidden rooms, convinced they had struck a decisive blow.
They did not yet know that Tafari's forges still burned brighter, hidden deeper, and his vengeance was already being forged with every hammer strike.