The hush that fell over the courtyard was total.
Sharath stepped forward, pushing a two-wheeled machine none had ever seen. Polished silver and brass, its wheels shimmered in the afternoon sun, its frame balanced with the precision of a sword.
He did not bow. He did not ask for silence.
He simply spoke.
"This," he said, placing one hand on the handlebars, "is a cycle. It moves with you, not against you. It turns muscle into motion. A common person—child, worker, farmer—can travel twice the distance in half the time. Without a horse. Without magic. Without debt."
A stunned silence.
Lady Ishvari clutched her gown. Veyr's eyes narrowed. Rajan watched, unreadable.
Sharath mounted it with ease. He did not wobble.
One push.
Two.
And then—he moved