The morning sun cast a pale light over Harar, but inside the palace, it was a day of reckoning. Messengers had come throughout the night with grim tidings: Ras Mengesha had begun gathering his forces in Tigray. Villages were already whispering his name as if he were a king-in-waiting, and his allies in the court pressed for delay, demanding endless debates instead of action.
Tafari, however, would not wait.
The Emperor's Weakness
The emperor lay in his chambers, his body weakened by illness, his spirit dimmed by the constant quarrels of nobles. His once-commanding voice now carried only faintly, like a candle struggling against wind. When he summoned Tafari that morning, the hall was heavy with silence.
"You are my son in spirit, Tafari," the emperor said, his hand trembling as he reached for him. "But my throne is surrounded by jackals. They smell weakness. If Mengesha rises, others will follow."
Tafari bowed deeply. "Then I must silence him, before his bark becomes a roar."
The emperor's eyes lingered on him, filled with both pride and a flicker of fear. For even he could see that Tafari was no longer simply the young prince with modern dreams—he was becoming something greater, a force reshaping the empire itself.
The Council Divides
That afternoon, the council gathered. The hall buzzed with tension. Ras Mengesha's allies stood ready to defend him. They argued that Mengesha was a loyal servant, that the rumors of rebellion were exaggerations, that to act against him would be to fracture the empire further.
Tafari let them speak. He sat calm, hands folded, as if the storm were far away. Then, when the room quieted, he rose.
"Loyalty is proven by deeds, not words," he said, his voice steady. "Mengesha sharpens his sword while you argue. I have intercepted his letters, promising foreign coin to those who join him. If you doubt me, then doubt the parchment I place before you."
He laid the intercepted letters on the council table. The room erupted. Some nobles shouted betrayal; others demanded verification. But beneath the noise, many eyes turned to Tafari with something new—respect mixed with unease.
Ras Hailu, an older noble and ally of Mengesha, sneered.
"And who made you the guardian of this empire, Tafari? You build your factories, drill your secret soldiers, and speak of modernization as though the wisdom of our ancestors means nothing. Beware—too much ambition has burned many men."
The chamber fell silent. Tafari did not flinch. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp as steel.
"I do not seek to replace wisdom. I seek to arm it. Would you rather face Italian rifles with empty prayers? Would you rather feed your children with words instead of bread? This empire must change—or it will die."
No one dared speak after that.
The Secret Army
That night, Tafari rode to the outskirts of Harar. Hidden beyond the city, in a valley veiled by forest, his "ghost army" awaited. Thousands of men, drilled in formation, wielded rifles forged in Harar's new factories. Their discipline, their precision, their silence—it was unlike anything Ethiopia's nobles had ever seen.
Gebru stood at his side.
"They are ready," he said. "Some call them your shadow. Others call them your throne before the throne."
Tafari watched the men, their rifles gleaming faintly under torchlight. They were his creation, the embodiment of his vision—modernity forged from steel and fire. But he knew they were also a secret too dangerous to reveal too soon.
"Let them remain in the shadows," Tafari said. "When the time comes, the empire will see what has been prepared for its survival."
Wolde's Fate
Just as he prepared to act against Mengesha, news arrived of Wolde. A captured scout escaped north and returned with chilling words: Wolde had indeed been taken by Mengesha's men. His fate was unknown, but whispers claimed he was being used as a pawn—interrogated for information about Tafari's factories and weapons.
The news struck Tafari harder than he showed. To lose Wolde, his loyal blade, would be not just a personal wound but a crack in the armor of his plans. He gave no outward sign of grief, but that night, as the lamps burned low, Gebru found him staring silently at the city below, his jaw tight with fury.
"He is still alive," Gebru said quietly, trying to ease the tension.
Tafari's reply was cold, almost mechanical.
"Then Mengesha will learn what it means to provoke me."
The Counter-Move
While the council squabbled, Tafari moved through his father's network of loyalists, using his father's name and his own growing influence to rally hidden support. He dispatched riders to secure villages near Tigray, sending weapons and supplies secretly. He spread misinformation through false letters, convincing Mengesha that spies had infiltrated his ranks.
Meanwhile, the factories doubled their output. The Harar rifle, modeled after the Italian Carcano but improved for durability and accuracy, was now paired with domestically made ammunition. Smokeless powder, once smuggled in through secret channels, was being refined under Tafari's own chemists. For the first time, the empire could arm itself without bowing to foreign suppliers.
Gebru oversaw the logistics. Roads that Tafari had built under the guise of "trade routes" now became arteries for troop movement. Caravans disguised as merchants carried rifles instead of grain. The pieces were falling into place.
The Emperor's Silence
As Tafari's preparations advanced, the emperor grew weaker. Some days he did not rise from bed at all. Rumors spread in the court that his end was near. Some nobles began to whisper about succession. Would Tafari rise, or would the empire fracture among competing heirs?
Tafari visited his father late one evening. The emperor's face was pale, his breathing shallow.
"You are not only my son, Tafari," he whispered. "You are my legacy. Do not let the empire fall into pieces after me."
Tafari bowed, hiding the storm inside him. "I will not let it fall, Father. I swear it."
The Coming Storm
By the time winter rains swept across the highlands, Tafari's plans were ready. Mengesha had raised his banners in Tigray, convinced the emperor was too weak and the court too divided to stop him. But he did not yet know the true reach of Tafari's shadow.
In Harar, factories thundered day and night. In the valleys, the ghost army trained tirelessly. Roads carried supplies at speeds unseen in the empire's history.
The storm was coming—and Tafari intended to meet it not with prayers alone, but with steel, fire, and the cunning of modern war.