Kelrath was a land of stone bridges, waterwheels, and commerce. Unlike Darsha's green valleys, it buzzed with machinery and grit.
The Duke was a paradox—an aristocrat with coal-stained fingers.
He hadn't spoken much to Sharath since birth. Politics. Pride. The usual thorns between nobles.
But Sharath arrived unshaken, blueprints in hand and a glint in his eye.
The guards led him through the mansion halls, past oil paintings and mounted weaponry, into the ducal study—a cavern of maps and ledgers.
The Duke raised an eyebrow. "Eight years old and already marching into my war room. Impressive."
Sharath bowed slightly. "I'm not here for courtesy, Grandfather. I'm here to build an industry."
The Duke's lips curled. "Go on."