At thirteen, Tafari was no longer seen as a child. His posture had grown taller, his words more measured, and his eyes carried a weight that unsettled older men. Courtiers began to treat him with a mix of respect and suspicion, whispering when he passed through the halls of Ras Makonnen's residence in Harar.
Some admired his intelligence; others feared it. Ethiopia was a land of clans, loyalties, and shifting alliances. In such a place, a boy who seemed to see too much was both an asset and a threat.
One evening, as the court gathered for a feast, Tafari sat quietly near his father. The nobles laughed, drank tej, and traded boasts of military victories. Yet Tafari's gaze was elsewhere. He noticed who toasted whom, who avoided whose eyes, who leaned in to whisper when they thought no one was watching.
"Prince Tafari," said one noble, a rotund man with wine-stained lips, "you sit too quietly. A young prince should laugh and drink, not stare like a priest."
The hall chuckled, but Tafari only smiled faintly. He lifted his cup of spiced milk, raised it toward the noble, and held his gaze until the man looked away. Ras Makonnen, suppressing a smile, murmured: "Even silence can command."
But Tafari knew silence also carried danger. Later that night, his first follower whispered, "Some of them are uneasy, master. They say you are too clever, that you read their secrets."
Tafari nodded. Let them whisper. Suspicion is a shield as much as it is a weapon.
In the months that followed, his education expanded into politics more directly. He was introduced to the art of negotiation, listening as Ras Makonnen dealt with rival chiefs and emissaries from the Emperor. Tafari's role was still subtle—observing, sketching maps, drafting notes—but his influence grew. More than once, his quiet observations corrected errors in reports or exposed hidden agendas.
One afternoon, a visiting noble from Shoa sought to undermine Ras Makonnen's authority by suggesting that Harar was growing disloyal. Tafari, sitting quietly, noticed the noble's hesitation when speaking of supply shortages. He gestured faintly to his follower, who noted the inconsistency. Later, Ras Makonnen used that detail to dismantle the noble's argument in front of the court.
Afterward, Ras Makonnen clasped his son's shoulder. "Your eyes are sharp, Tafari. But remember—power in Ethiopia is a lion. If you stare too boldly at it, it will devour you. You must learn when to hide, when to roar, and when to wait."
These words burned into Tafari's mind. To rule is not to dominate openly, but to guide from shadow until the time is right.
Meanwhile, Tafari's network grew. The boys he had tutored in strategy and maps now stood taller, more confident. They carried fragments of his thought back to their households, shaping the views of their fathers and uncles. His first follower had become his shadow, a trusted extension of his will. Together, they built small circles of influence—informal councils of youth who would one day inherit Ethiopia.
But not everyone welcomed his rise. A faction of older nobles began spreading rumors. They called him cold, unnatural, even cursed. "The boy speaks little but sees too much," one elder muttered. "What child knows politics like a seasoned man? There is something dangerous in him."
Tafari's mother, worried, warned him one evening: "Do not let your wisdom make you an enemy too soon. Even the Emperor fears what he cannot understand."
Tafari bowed his head, though inwardly he resolved: If they fear me, let that fear be my armor. A lion cub grows teeth; the wise do not mock its bite.
By the year's end, Tafari faced his first true test. A dispute broke out between two powerful chiefs in the east. Both sent envoys to Harar, demanding Ras Makonnen's arbitration. The court was divided, each side lobbying for advantage. Tafari listened closely, sketching the alliances and rivalries on his slate. He noticed something the adults overlooked: one chief's claim to land overlapped with old caravan routes, routes critical for trade with Djibouti.
That evening, he presented his observation to Ras Makonnen through his first follower. His father considered the map and nodded gravely. The next day, Ras Makonnen used the argument of trade to settle the dispute in a way that strengthened Ethiopia's position without alienating either side.
Word spread quickly that the young prince had played a role in the resolution. Some praised him as a prodigy; others grew more wary. The shadows in the court lengthened, and Tafari felt their weight.
Still, he pressed on. Each lesson, each whisper, each map was another stone laid on the path to his destiny. He knew he could not yet reveal the full scope of his vision, but the time would come. For now, he would be patient. He would grow. And he would turn whispers into loyalty, suspicion into inevitability.
As he stood one night on the balcony overlooking Harar, the moon casting silver light over the city, Tafari whispered to himself:
"History watches. I will not fail her again."