It was decided: there would be a demonstration.
Whispers had already begun to circulate among the minor lords and artisans of the Darsha lands. Some believed Sharath was being indulged too far. Others whispered that the young heir was meddling with knowledge best left buried.
Rajan Darsha, though cautious, allowed the event.
"If he must unveil his mind," he told Lady Ishvari quietly, "better we control the first spectacle than have it wrested from us."
A circular courtyard was cleared. Banners were raised. Invitations were sent—discreet, but undeniable.
And so they came: skeptical nobles, retired generals, foreign tinkerers, the court mage Veyr, and emissaries from three noble houses. Even the common folk gathered behind the estate's outer walls, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was to come.
Sharath noticed the whispers.
"A noble child with grease under his nails?""A blacksmith's pet project.""He should be learning statecraft, not carpentry."
He didn't respond.
But that morning, he wore not noble silk—but a leather apron. His hands bore soot. His eyes burned bright.
Let them doubt. Doubt was the perfect soil for astonishment.