The sun rose over Navaleon with a strange hue—a sky touched by invention, the horizon humming not with birdsong but the rhythmic squeak of chains and the thrum of wheels on stone. In just six months since the unveiling of Sharath's first cycle, the very air of the capital had changed. Once a city ruled by ritual and quiet luxury, Navaleon now pulsed with industrious energy.
House Darsha, once a respected but relatively static noble estate, had transformed into a sanctuary of movement. The gates no longer opened merely for scholars and soldiers; now they welcomed artisans, traders, and thinkers. Delivery carts pulled by enchanted oxen shared road space with rolling machines of iron and leather. Children raced on tricycles down marble corridors, and shopkeepers fitted custom racks to their new cargo pickups. The world was changing, and at its center, stood a boy—not yet six—scribbling notes beside a forge, soot on his cheek and thoughts leagues beyond the skyline.
Sharath observed it all, seated beneath the veranda where Lady Ishvari often watched him play. But this was no game. The machines had taken root. The people were adapting. The old ways had begun to crack under the weight of possibility.
And while many rejoiced, others whispered. The nobility of other Houses regarded the Darshas with suspicion. Was this progress—or quiet rebellion?