The palace was unusually still that morning. Courtiers moved like ghosts along marble corridors, whispers curling through the air like smoke from incense. Tafari entered the great hall, careful to keep his posture calm, his expression unreadable. His mind, however, was a storm of calculation.
The Emperor, frail but regal even in illness, sat upon his throne. His hands shook slightly as they rested upon the carved armrests, the veins of age like rivers etched into his skin. He called the court to attention, and a hush fell.
"My children of the empire," the Emperor's voice was firm but fragile. "The years weigh upon me. I have seen dangers both near and far, and I must act to ensure the future of our nation. After much thought, I declare my successor: Lij Iyasu."
A murmur ran through the court. Tafari's eyes narrowed. He had expected this possibility, though he had hoped the Emperor's wisdom would favor merit over tradition.
Tafari's historian mind flickered back to what he had read in his former life: Lij Iyasu, a young man with the blood of the Solomonic line, yet a boy who had been raised in the peripheries of power. Known for his ambition and capricious nature, he had often been manipulated by advisors, yet possessed charisma capable of rallying factions.
Tafari's inner voice reminded him: This boy could either unite the empire or shatter it. And Italians and nobles alike would watch his every misstep.
In the hall, the nobles whispered openly, some in relief, others in fear. "Iyasu is young," one said. "Can he command respect like Tafari?"
Another replied, "The Emperor chooses blood. Nothing else matters."
Tafari remained silent, studying the reactions. He noted the subtle shift in alliances—the murmurs of nobles who had long resented his growing influence. Some would see Lij Iyasu as a puppet, others as a rival. Both possibilities presented opportunities.
In his mind, Tafari revisited events of the past that had led to Iyasu's reputation. Lij Iyasu's upbringing, his exposure to foreign influences, and the political errors of his predecessors—all were pieces of a puzzle Tafari could exploit. He knew that Iyasu lacked experience in military command, industrial development, and administrative control. His knowledge of history allowed him to anticipate mistakes Iyasu might make, and the alliances he might unwittingly create or destroy.
Tafari also realized the danger: Iyasu's bloodline would give him legitimacy that no industrial army or rifle could override. The people revered the Solomonic line, and the Italians would surely attempt to manipulate Iyasu's youth to destabilize the empire further.
Tafari bowed to the Emperor, concealing the surge of strategy forming in his mind.
"Majesty," he said carefully, "Lij Iyasu is a worthy heir. May he learn quickly and lead wisely. And may the empire endure."
The Emperor nodded, his eyes tired but approving. "You understand, Tafari. You are wise beyond your years. I trust you will guide him, even when I cannot."
Tafari's lips pressed into a thin line. Guide him. Yes—but on whose terms? In his first life, he had seen emperors fail because they had allowed youth and naivety to dictate decisions without counsel. Tafari's task was now twofold: preserve the empire, and shape the young heir to withstand the storm he knew was coming.
The courtiers looked between Tafari and Iyasu with growing tension. Many of Tafari's allies shifted uneasily, unsure of their loyalty. Some whispered that Tafari might move to undermine the boy, or that he might accept the Emperor's will quietly while waiting for the right moment to act.
Tafari noted it all silently. Each gesture, each whispered phrase, each furtive glance would become a piece of intelligence he could use. He had survived assassins, jungle battles, and the scheming of Italian spies; navigating court politics required a different kind of vigilance, but it was no less deadly.
Later, in the quiet of his private study, Tafari traced his fingers along maps and letters, planning the next steps. He would need to monitor Iyasu closely, understand his temperament, and subtly guide him without revealing the breadth of his own knowledge.
"History teaches that the young and ambitious can either elevate a nation or destroy it," Tafari murmured. "I will ensure he rises, but not at the cost of everything I have fought to build. If he falters, I will be there to correct the course."
The prince-turned-general-turned-historian realized the stakes had shifted. Battles would no longer be fought only in the jungle or on dusty roads—they would now be fought in halls of power, in whispered letters, in subtle manipulations of loyalty. The Italians would exploit any weakness. The nobles would test the limits of patience. And Iyasu, untested and inexperienced, was a wild card.
Tafari's resolve hardened. The future of the empire, of the people, and of the modern vision he had begun to craft now rested upon delicate balance, careful guidance, and, when necessary, swift action.
As the sun set over the palace, casting long shadows across the courtyard, Tafari made an oath—not just to the Emperor, not just to the empire—but to history itself. He would not allow the mistakes of the past to repeat.
And in the quiet halls, the first echoes of the coming struggle began to stir.