The palace was alive with whispers. Some spoke of the emperor's lingering sickness, others of Tafari's growing shadow stretching across Harar, Shewa, and beyond. To many nobles, his rise seemed inevitable, but to his rivals, it was intolerable.
One evening, Gebru entered Tafari's study with quiet urgency.
"Another plot," he said, laying down intercepted letters. "This time, not just idle words. Your father's old rival, Ras Mengesha, is gathering men in Tigray. He speaks openly of restoring the old balance of power."
Tafari scanned the parchment. Mengesha's letters promised gold to discontented nobles and whispered of foreign support—possibly Italian agents eager to exploit Ethiopia's internal fractures.
"We expected this," Tafari said, his voice calm but his eyes sharp. "Power attracts daggers as much as it attracts loyalty."
Meanwhile, Wolde had gone silent. He had been sent north weeks before on reconnaissance, but no word returned. It gnawed at Tafari—Wolde was more than a loyal servant; he had become a trusted blade in the dark. His absence meant danger.
In the court, the intrigues thickened. The emperor, increasingly frail, struggled to maintain his authority. He summoned Tafari more often, sometimes addressing him not just as a son, but as a councilor. This only fueled the jealousy of the older nobility.
At one council session, Ras Mengesha's allies launched a verbal strike.
"Tafari may be young," one sneered, "but he acts as if he alone holds the wisdom to guide the empire. Does the council exist merely to hear him speak?"
The chamber grew tense. All eyes turned to Tafari. He did not rise to anger. Instead, he replied with quiet precision, weaving his vision of industry, roads, and education into a narrative of strength for the empire as a whole—not himself. By the time he finished, even some of Mengesha's allies nodded grudgingly.
But he knew words were only one battlefield. The other was steel and powder. In the forges of Harar, production of rifles and ammunition increased. His secret army, drilled in modern tactics, remained hidden—unseen but ready.
That night, in the shadows of the palace, Gebru returned.
"News from the north," he said grimly. "Mengesha moves sooner than expected. And Wolde… his fate is uncertain. Some say he was captured."
Tafari closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then he opened them with resolve.
"Then we move first. If the nobles play their games in court, let them. But in the field, we will show them that Ethiopia"—he paused, then corrected himself—"that the empire cannot be divided."
The lamps in the study flickered. Outside, thunder rolled across the highlands. A storm was coming—one of politics, steel, and betrayal.