On his fifth birthday, when other children might ask for sugar-dusted pastries or enchanted toys, Sharath made a single, deliberate request.
"I want blacksmiths," he told his parents at the celebration feast. "Three of them. Skilled, quiet, willing to listen."
The hall fell silent.
Lord Rajan raised an eyebrow. "And what would a child do with blacksmiths?"
Sharath didn't flinch. "I want to build. Machines. Devices. Constructs powered by legs, not mana. Metal that moves with muscle, not magic."
Even Magister Veyr stiffened.
"You seek to replace magic?" one of the nobles scoffed, his wine cup half-raised.
Sharath looked up at him, calm as always. "No. I seek to make the world move without depending on it."
Silence again. Sharath continued eating, unbothered by the stares.
Lady Ishvari covered her lips, hiding a smile.
That night, Rajan summoned him alone.
"Machines of movement?" his father asked.
Sharath nodded. "Wheels. Pedals. Gears. I remember how they worked."
His voice was soft but certain.
And in that moment, Rajan realized something deeper—Sharath was no longer just observing. He was ready to act.