The forge was no longer just a workplace—it had become a sanctum of rebirth.
The machines had evolved. What began as crude prototypes now stood with grace and function. A tricycle for stability, shaped with a child's ease in mind; a two-wheeled velocipede, agile and responsive, for speed; and a broader, sturdier cycle-pickup—a hybrid between a cart and a cycle, designed to transport goods.
The sight of them alone stirred curiosity. Metal gleamed with polished precision. Gears rotated with purpose, held by hand-forged chains and wheels spoked with carefully balanced weight.
Sharath walked the floor like a young master architect, his expression serene but his eyes alert. He instructed Kesrin to sand a joint thinner, advised Ona on heat timing for more elastic steel, and frequently challenged Tharn with counter-proposals that made the old blacksmith grumble—but obey.
"These aren't toys," Tharn admitted, running a calloused hand over the handlebars. "These are… tools. Real ones."
But even tools, in the wrong hands—or seen by the wrong eyes—could become threats.
Sharath knew that.
Which is why he insisted, to all who worked in the forge: "Don't speak of these outside the estate. Not yet. Not until we're ready."
He was five years old. But when he gave instructions, even grown warriors listened.
Because what he built wasn't just a machine. It was a declaration.