Though still unsure of his son's intent, Lord Rajan honored the request. Three blacksmiths were assigned to the young heir: Tharn, a gruff but sharp-eyed forge master; Ona, a silent dwarven metalworker with hands like sculpted iron; and Kesrin, a young apprentice with a mind for tinkering.
At first, they believed it ceremonial—a noble child's fleeting fancy.
Then they met him.
Sharath arrived at the forge with parchment in hand. Sketches. Diagrams. Annotated stress values. No magic. Only mechanics.
"I want to build a cycle," he said. "Like a chariot, but powered by pedals. It needs balance. Gears. Leverage."
Tharn blinked. "You mean... move without a horse?"
Sharath nodded. "With legs. Like walking—but efficient."
Skepticism hung in the air like coal dust. But there was clarity in Sharath's eyes. Not madness. Design.
Ona grunted once, then picked up a steel bar.
"What do you need us to do?" she asked