The Emperor's declaration hung in the air for weeks like a heavy curtain over the empire. Lij Iyasu, the named heir, became the subject of endless gossip in markets, monasteries, and military camps. His youth promised vigor, yet his inexperience bred unease. Some nobles courted him eagerly, hoping for influence. Others whispered that the boy was easily swayed, vulnerable to both foreign hands and ambitious courtiers.
Tafari remained outwardly calm. He trained his men, expanded workshops, and oversaw the slow but steady modernization of arms. Yet his mind never left the matter of succession. He understood history too well to ignore it: empires did not collapse from foreign invasion alone; they often crumbled because of division within.
When Iyasu arrived to formally take his place beside the Emperor, the palace trembled with new energy. He was handsome, sharp-eyed, and quick to laugh. But Tafari noticed the arrogance in his stride, the way he dismissed the counsel of older nobles, the way his attention wandered whenever governance was discussed.
The boy had charm—undeniable, even magnetic. Soldiers respected his lineage, priests praised his bloodline, and merchants sought his favor. But charm without discipline was a flame too eager to burn.
Tafari bowed to him as tradition demanded, but his keen eyes measured every word, every gesture.
"Cousin," Iyasu said with a grin, "I have heard of your rifles and your victories in the jungle. One day, you must show me how you command men so fiercely."
Tafari smiled faintly. "One day," he said. But inwardly, he thought: You do not yet understand the weight of command, nor the cost of rashness.
Not long after Iyasu's arrival, strange rumors began to circulate. Some said he spoke warmly of foreign merchants who whispered promises of gold and modern luxuries. Others claimed he dined privately with envoys from abroad, speaking recklessly about the empire's weaknesses.
To Tafari, the pattern was unmistakable: Italian hands were at work again, dangling temptation before a young heir eager to prove his independence.
One night, Tafari's agents brought him word of a secret gathering in the garden pavilion Lij Iyasu, surrounded by new "friends," some of whom spoke in clipped Italian when they thought no one was listening. Tafari's hand tightened on the parchment.
"The boy is already a target," he murmured. "If I leave him unchecked, he may bring ruin faster than any army."
Rather than confront Iyasu openly, Tafari moved carefully. He instructed his counter-espionage corps to shadow the envoys, intercept their letters, and plant false information. If the Italians wished to manipulate the heir, then Tafari would let them—only he would choose the game's direction.
He also began to shape Iyasu's image subtly, inviting him to witness military drills, to observe industrial workshops, and to sit quietly during council meetings. Tafari knew the boy was not yet ready to learn—but exposure could plant seeds. Seeds that might one day grow into respect for discipline and vision.
In private, Tafari kept his counsel: "History tells us that young rulers often drown in flattery. If I can anchor him with truth before the flood, perhaps he will not drift too far."
Meanwhile, the Emperor's health grew worse. His cough deepened, and his strength failed. He could no longer sit long in council, and often left decisions to others. This only heightened the tension between factions. Some nobles shifted to Iyasu's camp, eager to secure influence early. Others clung to Tafari, whispering that the young prince was their true shield against chaos.
The palace air thickened with intrigue. Each feast was a battlefield of words; each prayer at the cathedral carried double meanings; each night, letters crossed the city bearing secrets and lies.
One evening, after a long council where Iyasu had spoken recklessly about expanding trade with foreign powers without consideration of risks, Tafari returned to his study and unrolled a map.
His hand hovered over it, tracing the roads, the rivers, the mountains where battles might one day be fought—not only against foreign invaders, but against the mistakes of an unprepared ruler. "If history repeats itself, this boy will falter," Tafari whispered to himself. "But I will not allow history to write our fall. If he cannot be guided, then I must be ready."
And with that, he set down his pen and began drafting not only military reforms, but contingency plans—silent preparations for the storms he knew were approaching.