The gates of the Imperial Capital loomed like the jaws of an ancient beast.
Sharath had seen the city in maps, miniatures, and oil paintings—but never like this. Giant banners of silk rippled down marble towers. Streets of gold-flaked stone buzzed with courtiers, guards, and petitioners. Yet beneath the opulence, Sharath sensed friction—the way gears grind when overloaded.
Darshan rode beside him, expression carved in steel.
Their arrival was not announced by trumpets, but by silence.
In the Hall of Echoes—a cavernous chamber lined with obsidian columns—King Harilan IV awaited. Clad in imperial crimson, the monarch bore the weight of legacy and fragility alike.
Sharath was not overwhelmed.
He was studying load-bearing archways and acoustics.
"Sharath of House Darsha," the King finally said, his voice deliberate. "You disrupt much."
"I build, Your Grace," Sharath replied, "so that others may rise."
And so it began—not a trial, but something colder.
An imperial audit of a boy who'd outpaced time.