That night, the King sat alone in his Garden of Quiet Stone. He traced a finger along an old statue—his grandfather, blade raised, foot on a rebel's back.
That had been the old power: control through fear.
But the boy offered something new: influence through innovation.
His ministers debated into the night. Some cried treason. Others, genius.
But the monarch—true to his name, Harilan the Calculating—did neither.
He saw that ruling by suppression had limits.
He also saw that ruling by collaboration extended dynasties.
At dawn, he made his decision.
House Darsha would keep the blueprints.
The Empire would gain a ministry.
And the roads—those iron arteries of progress—would now lead not away from the throne, but through it.