It began in classrooms.
Teachers swapped brittle, inconsistent vellum for smooth SK paper. Children learned to write faster, cleaner. Ink costs dropped by half.
Next came the merchants—ledgers flowed, contracts multiplied.
Then: law. Court transcripts, property deeds, marriage records—all moved to SK.
Each sheet bore the discreet watermark: S∴K, etched just below the corner fold. It became ubiquitous, silently embedding itself into the bloodstream of civilization.
Every proclamation, every order, every law passed—flowed through SK paper.
Sharath didn't just control communication.
He controlled permanence.
If it wasn't written on SK, it wasn't official. If it wasn't on SK, it could be denied.
And the terrifying truth was this: only Sharath and the Duke could halt that flow.
A quiet dominion. No banners, no armies.
Just ink and cellulose.