That night, under the crescent moons of Navaleon, Sharath lit a single candle in the forge.
Before him: parchment, charcoal, and a head buzzing with memory.
He drew valves. Steam coils. Pistons. Pressure regulators. He labeled them in Eldora and Earth terms both.
Steam was coming.
So was magnetism. And then, maybe—electricity.
He didn't smile with pride.
He smiled with intent.
"This," he whispered to the forge, "is only the beginning."
And the candle, as if understanding, burned brighter