The great hall of House Darsha was aglow with lanterns, their light bouncing off polished steel fixtures—gifts from the newly formed Forge Guild. Lords and tradesmen mingled. Laughter mixed with harp strings. The celebration marked 1000 cycles distributed.
But Lord Darshan stood apart, near the balcony overlooking Navaleon's gently burning skyline.
He held a goblet, untouched.
His gaze followed the flickering torchlights as a cycle sped across the courtyard, ridden by a healer on urgent business. It cut through the night like purpose itself.
Behind him, a servant approached. "The boy is in the study again, my lord."
Darshan chuckled quietly. "Of course he is."
Moments later, he entered Sharath's chamber, the door creaking slightly. Inside: blueprints sprawled across every surface, gears clinking in a miniature assembly prototype, candlelight flickering against Sharath's intense eyes.
"I thought you'd be celebrating," Lord Darshan said.
Sharath didn't look up. "Every day we delay the brake refinement, the slope riders are at risk. The mountain pass to Ravir isn't forgiving."
The words were mechanical. But the drive behind them was human—relentless.
Lord Darshan stepped forward and gently placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "You know… people speak of your genius. The nobles fear it. The merchants worship it. But me?"
Sharath looked up.
"I see the boy who looked at a broken wheel and dreamed of a world that moved with purpose." He raised his goblet. "To you, my son. To the empire that's already forming beneath your feet—silent, steady, and unstoppable."
For the first time that day, Sharath allowed himself a smile