The city of Addis Ababa slept under a cloak of stars, but not all within her walls dreamed peacefully.
In the stone courtyards of noble estates and the echoing halls of monasteries, whispers slithered like snakes. The Church and the aristocracy—long pillars of Ethiopia's ancient order—had begun to move in secret, their pride wounded by Tafari's reforms, their power slowly eroded by his modern hand.
They had seen the future he envisioned—a nation built on merit, learning, and machinery instead of lineage and divine decree. And they hated it.
In a secluded monastery north of Shoa, twelve men gathered around a candlelit table.
They were nobles and bishops, men of ancient houses, each more powerful in his province than the Emperor's word itself.
"His Highness grows arrogant," said Ras Hailu, his voice thick with resentment. "He calls himself loyal to the Emperor, yet rules in his name. He defies the Church, taxes our lands, and opens schools where pagan sciences are taught."
The Archbishop, his silver beard glinting in the candlelight, crossed himself. "He would turn our holy empire into a kingdom of machines. He builds rifles, not churches. He sends our sons to Europe to study, and they return mocking our faith."
Another noble, Ras Gugsa, slammed his hand on the table. "We cannot wait for the old Emperor to die. When that happens, Tafari will seize the throne outright. We must act now silently, decisively."
And thus was born the Covenant of the Twelve, a secret league of nobles and clerics sworn to end Tafari's rise. Their plan was not immediate rebellion, but infiltration cutting off his networks, spreading dissent, and stirring the conservative provinces against him.
But Tafari was no fool. His education in the ways of statecraft and war had taught him that every noble smiles with two faces—one for the court, and one for the dagger.
Unknown to the conspirators, their every move was already being watched.
Since his youth, Tafari had quietly built a network of loyal informants traders, priests, officers, and even servants who owed their livelihoods to his reforms. His Ministry of Internal Affairs functioned as the first Ethiopian intelligence bureau in all but name. Letters were intercepted, travelers questioned, and whispers in taverns recorded.
One night, in his private study, Tafari read through intercepted messages brought by his most trusted aide, Colonel Yonas.
"Ras Gugsa has sent letters to Gondar, Your Highness," said Yonas. "He calls upon the old warriors to march if the Church blesses them."
Tafari looked up, his calm eyes reflecting the candlelight. "And the Church?"
"Divided, sir. Some bishops side with you; others… not."
Tafari leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "Then we must divide them further."
Over the next months, his intelligence agents spread disinformation. False letters bearing Ras Hailu's seal were "leaked" to rival nobles, suggesting betrayal. Priests loyal to Tafari whispered that the Archbishop planned to crown a false emperor in Gondar.
Confusion began to fester within the Covenant itself.
At the same time, Tafari used his secret funds to strengthen the Imperial Guard, equipping them with new rifles of his own design an improved 6.5mm bolt-action model based on his earlier work. He trained select officers in European tactics and modern communication, introducing signal flags and radio sets smuggled through Djibouti.
Each night, he studied maps by lantern light, marking roads, supply depots, and mountain passes. He remembered the history of rebellions from his other life—the French Fronde, the Russian uprisings, and the Indian mutinies. He would not repeat their mistakes.
"Control the supply lines," he murmured to himself. "Cut the messengers before they cut your rule."
By early 1927, the plot reached its climax. Ras Hailu and Ras Gugsa had planned to raise their banners in Gondar, claiming to defend the faith and the Emperor's dignity against Tafari's "modern corruption."
But Tafari was ready.
Weeks before their march, his spies had intercepted the coded messages, replaced them with altered ones, and sent false assurances to the conspirators. The rebels thought they were gathering thousands of men. In truth, most of their allies were neutral or already under surveillance.
Then came Tafari's masterstroke.
He called for a grand council in Addis Ababa, summoning every major noble and bishop under the pretext of celebrating the Emperor's recovery. The conspirators, fearing exposure if they refused, reluctantly came.
The morning of the gathering, the Imperial Guard surrounded the palace. The great doors were closed.
Tafari, clad in his ceremonial white cloak, stood before them his expression calm, his voice steady.
"My lords, my fathers of the Church," he began, "Ethiopia stands at the edge of two worlds. One ancient, one new. Those who seek to divide her seek to destroy her."
He gestured to his guards. Several scribes brought forward scrolls—intercepted letters, signed confessions, sealed documents revealing the conspiracy. Gasps filled the hall.
"I offer mercy," Tafari said softly. "But only once."
Ras Hailu fell to his knees. Ras Gugsa stared in silent rage.
By evening, several nobles were under arrest, others stripped of rank, and the Church was forced to publicly reaffirm loyalty to the crown.
The rebellion ended before a single shot was fired.
The following months saw sweeping reforms. Tafari reorganized the military command, placing loyal officers trained under his new doctrine. He established a secret Office of National Security—a precursor to the intelligence systems of future Ethiopia.
Factories in Harar and Dire Dawa expanded their output, producing ammunition and rifle parts at an unprecedented rate. The education reforms accelerated new schools for orphans of soldiers, new workshops for mechanics and artisans.
Tafari's power was now absolute, but so was his isolation.
At night, as he stood on the balcony overlooking the glowing city, he thought of the path ahead.
He had outmaneuvered the nobles, tamed the Church, and strengthened the army but at a cost. The old Ethiopia now saw him as a stranger, a reformer touched by foreign ways.
Yet Tafari only smiled faintly to himself.
"They call me foreign," he whispered. "But I am only what Ethiopia must become."
Far away, in Rome, Italian diplomats read the reports with interest.
"The regent grows stronger," said one officer. "He could become dangerous."
Mussolini, newly in power, tapped his desk thoughtfully. "Then we shall remind him who rules Africa."
The wind outside Tafari's palace carried no hint of what was coming no scent of oil and iron, no echo of war drums. Yet the next storm was already forming beyond the sea.
For now, the Lion of Shoa had survived the hunt. But soon, the hunters would return with steel wings and banners of black and red.