The first month was chaos.
Sparks flew. Metal bent. Ideas failed.
The prototype collapsed under its own weight. Pedals snapped. Chains clattered. The smiths argued, sometimes loudly. Tharn nearly quit after the second design burned his palm.
But Sharath never raised his voice. Never scolded. He adjusted. Redrew. Re-explained. Every failure became a data point. Every accident, an insight.
Ona began sketching beside him. Kesrin started testing axle balance during meal breaks. Tharn, though he grumbled, found himself staying longer at the forge—curious.
By the second month, the first tricycle stood complete.
Wooden frame, steel-reinforced wheels, gear pulley held together by patience and persistence.
Sharath climbed on, trembling with anticipation. His small feet touched the pedals.
One push. Then another.
The machine moved.
Not by spell. Not by beast.
But by human will, transmuted into motion.
And for the first time in centuries, in a world ruled by wands and runes, iron moved without magic.