Before dawn on departure day, the courtyard of House Darsha buzzed with activity. Engineers secured reinforced mounts. A small guard escort—clad in ceremonial silver—stood ready.
But the focal point was Lord Darshan and his son.
Darshan adjusted Sharath's silk collar with care, not unlike the way a blacksmith would align a sensitive tool. His fingers were steady, his eyes storm still.
"You know," he said softly, "when your mother first held you, she whispered you would shake the stars."
Sharath, normally analytical, said nothing. He simply met his father's gaze with that unsettling, soul-deep focus that had unnerved magisters and mystics alike.
"We are not going to beg," Darshan continued. "Nor to appease. If the King seeks progress, he will have it. If he seeks control, he will understand its price."
Sharath nodded once. "And if he seeks to destroy us?"
"Then he'll learn what it means to war with wheels."
With that, they boarded the carriage.
A hundred eyes watched from the estate walls.
House Darsha did not leave for the capital in fear.
They left as equals at the negotiation table of the gods