Become the Empress
September 12, 1916. The mornings in Addis Ababa always dawned quietly. In this hour when the highland's chill air slowly pushed the warmth from the palace walls, I leaned my arms on the balcony railing and gazed toward the square. History was coloring itself slowly, but unmistakably, just like the dawn sky bleeding red from black.
Abuna Mateos. The patriarch of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. That old man would appear in the square today. The scene I'd replayed in my mind countless times was about to become reality in just a few hours. The deposition of Iyasu V. In history books, it was just a political event—a coup by the church and nobles united. His pro-Islam policies had been the pretext for toppling the throne. But now, that "Iyasu" was my own little brother.
"…Hah."
I watched my breath fog white between my lips. No time for sentiment. I'd already finished talking with Tafari all through dawn, secured my brother's life as collateral, and right now, the calculator in my head was running nonstop. Once the crowds gathered in the square, where should I be and what should I do? When to summon Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis? Should I move before Ras Mikael rallies his troops? Planning had always been a solitary, quiet affair. In my old world, and now too.
The square began filling with people as morning broke. From the palace balcony, I looked down on the scene. The crowd swelled and surged like waves. People wrapped in white netellas, soldiers lined up with spears, merchants who looked like they'd rushed from the markets. It felt like Addis Ababa's morning had halted for this one event.
Abuna Mateos ascended the platform. For such a massive frame, his steps were astonishingly heavy and slow. The gold-embroidered robes unique to the Ethiopian Orthodox patriarch gleamed in the morning sun, and in his hand was surely the excommunication decree. Tafari had told me last night: 'Abuna Mateos has declared excommunication.' The conclusion was already set; the old man was just here to formalize it.
Without amplifiers or microphones, Abuna Mateos's voice boomed across the square. His thick, low Amharic sliced through the highland air. The moment Iyasu V's name was mentioned, the crowd stirred. Apostate. Ally of Islam. Defiler of the empire's sanctity. Each word ignited the masses' emotions like a spark to tinder.
I felt it but kept my expression unchanged. Right now, I needed to wear the face of the princess, not the big sister.
Iyasu. Sorry. Sis will keep you alive. So just stay quiet. As I repeated last night's internal promise, the square erupted as one.
"Saint of Adwa!"
"Princess Zenebework!"
Ah, this. I'd totally expected it, but chills anyway. The crowd's cheers weren't calling my name—they were invoking a symbol. The princess born on the day of the Battle of Adwa. Granddaughter of Menelik II. Guardian of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. None of them knew that the being they hailed was just a dead Korean history and engineering major who craved kalguksu and hummed K-pop tunes at night.
I lightly gripped the balcony railing and waved. A restrained, regal motion. That alone set the crowd roaring again.
My mental calculator whirred. Right now, public opinion in this moment tilted toward me. Time to leverage this momentum was limited. Before Father—Ras Mikael—raised troops from Wollo, I had to get my hands on the imperial army's command structure.
Fitawrari.
"Summon Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis for me."
Back in my chambers, my chief maid's eyes widened at my words.
"Right now, Your Highness?"
"Right now."
No hesitation. If I didn't bring this old man in now, the order would get tangled later. Before Ras Tafari fully secured him, I needed to stake my claim first.
Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis. War minister who'd defended the empire since Menelik II's days. In original history, the real architect of this coup and core of the conservatives. An aged lion. The true power in military command. Without winning him over, any reform plan in my hands would be a paper tiger.
The old man entered my chambers soon after. White hair. Thick knuckles. The lion pelt over his shoulders draped heavily, as if bearing the weight of years on his body. His eyes didn't hide his displeasure at responding to a young princess's summons.
An elder's arrived. I bowed politely.
"Thank you for gracing us this morning, Fitawrari."
"When the princess calls, one comes."
His words were so, but his tone dry. Having to come despite his reluctance must irk him. I ignored it and offered him a seat.
"Could you take a look at that rifle on the table?"
The old man's gaze shifted to where I pointed. On the table lay an outdated rifle. French Gras model of 1874. Captured at Adwa or imported before—a single-shot bolt-action relic. Most Ethiopian infantry still carried these, or worse.
"Why is the princess examining a rifle?"
"Just take a look."
I approached, picked it up. He watched. And I began.
Click. Lifted the bolt and pulled it back.
Click. Click. Click. Disassembled the bolt assembly, removed the bolt carrier, tapped the barrel with my fingertip to check resonance, separated the stock from the barrel.
Disassembling things I'd only seen behind museum glass in my past life still felt oddly thrilling, but I kept it off my face.
The old man's expression changed.
"Rust inside the barrel," I said first. "That oil smudge will cause misfires if not cleaned. Unchecked cartridges raise dud risks. The bolt spring's tension is weak—continuous fire would jam it."
Fitawrari said nothing. Good sign.
"This rifle is the main firearm for most Ethiopian infantry."
I set down the barrel and met his eyes.
"How many of our soldiers clean their own guns?"
"……."
"Cleaning tool distribution? Where do they get oil? Ammo storage humidity control?"
Complexity crossed the old man's face. Irritation, bafflement, reluctance to admit.
I didn't stop.
"We won at Adwa. Proud moment. But we won because Ethiopia was strong and Italy was stupid."
His eyes narrowed.
"The next war's different. In 20 years, Italy returns. With machine guns, gas, artillery barrages. If we can't even systematize basic rifle maintenance now…"
I paused.
"Adwa's miracle won't repeat."
Silence filled the chamber. Fitawrari stared at the rifle parts long, then spoke slowly.
"Princess…"
He trailed off. Instead, a low cough, head tilted slightly. I intuitively read it as his way of acquiescing.
Good. Door's open.
But as I wrapped up and set down my teacup, Tafari entered. That silent, lion-like gaze from morning. His eyes flicking between Fitawrari and me felt edged, ever so subtly.
Ah, this guy's on alert. Understandable—me meeting solo with the army's power broker was an unplanned variable for him.
"Ras Tafari."
I spoke first, before offering a seat.
"Perfect timing."
He stood without reply. Fitawrari read the air and rose quietly.
"I'll take my leave."
The old man withdrew, leaving just Tafari and me. His gaze fixed on me.
"Your meeting with Fitawrari."
"Talked logistics," I said. "No rifle maintenance protocols. Needs systematizing."
"No need for the princess to discuss that personally."
"There is."
I cut him off. Gently, but firmly.
"Ras Tafari. I think your reform vision is vital for Ethiopia. That's why I pledged cooperation last night. But that doesn't mean I sit idle."
His silence was his answer. I went to the drawer, pulled out a thin bundle of papers, placed it on the table, and stepped back.
The moment Tafari's eyes hit it, they sharpened. Pages filled with cipher. Bizarre symbols like no script he'd seen—letters aligned top to bottom, clusters of consonants and finals.
Of course. Hangul. No one in Ethiopia knew Korean. I'd written all my notes and plans in it. Perfect code. Indecipherable to any European diplomat or Ethiopian noble.
Tafari's eyes narrowed at the cipher.
"This is."
"Modernization blueprint," I replied calmly. "Rail extensions, army reorganization draft, military funding roadmap via customs revenue. Core metrics to hit before 1935."
"……Can't read it."
"That's the point."
I met his gaze.
"Can't publish this yet. Conservatives would riot, foreign legations leaking it would be trouble. But you need to see it."
Tafari looked up from the papers.
"Why me."
"If we're aiming the same direction."
I said,
"We need the same map."
No grand rhetoric. I knew concrete figures and feasible plans swayed him more.
A cooperation proposal. He got it, staring at the papers long.
Creeeak—
Then the door opened again. No knock.
Seeing who entered, my heart skipped a beat.
Ras Mikael. King of Wollo. Alongside Ras Kassa Haile, Ethiopia's mightiest military power. Father of Iyasu V.
And my father.
In original history, he'd be mustering troops outside Addis Ababa by now, prepping to clash with the coup forces. He'd march south, lose at the Battle of Sagale, get captured. The tale of a father fighting to the end for his son.
Yet here he stood at my chamber door. Age hadn't dimmed his intimidation. Thick shoulders, deep wrinkles around eyes burning with unreadable fury or grief.
"Father."
I spoke first. He glanced at me. At Tafari. Back at me.
"Iyasu."
His voice trembled on that one word.
"He's alive."
I said immediately.
"Secured him with Tafari last night. Iyasu won't be harmed."
Ras Mikael's eyelids quivered. He stood silent a moment. Reassured, he crossed the room to stand before me. Even now, his closeness overwhelmed. A giant no past-life me could ever get used to.
"Zenebework."
He said, low.
"Become empress."
The chamber went still. In one second, two, I processed the weight.
Empress. The throne. History put Zewditu there—Menelik II's daughter, Ethiopia's first reigning empress. She'd take the throne, Tafari regent.
But now, my father proposed it to me. Baffled, I glanced at Tafari.
What the hell? You knew?
Tafari's face unchanged. Maybe a micro-shift in his brow, but he gave a short nod. As if it were already agreed.
Wait. When did these two cook this up?
"Princess. No, Empress."
Ras Mikael called again. I drew a breath, met Father's eyes. Finally read it: pain of losing a son. Deeper still, fear of the empire crumbling.
Iyasu's lost the throne. Then another of my blood must fill it.
His calculus. He'd chosen me.
Nobles backed Zewditu. Church wanted her. But Ras Mikael wanted his daughter. And for some reason, Tafari agreed.
I tapped the table once. 18 years to 1935. The throne was necessary anyway. Regency was too slow. Better I ascend directly than prop Zewditu while Tafari pulls strings.
Knowledge is power. It comes from machine guns.
And the throne.
I bowed slowly to Father.
"Understood, Father."