Two days later, the oak doors of the workshop groaned open, and in stepped Duke Krishnaar of Riverwood, his presence both regal and worn with age. A man whose silver beard reached mid-chest, he exuded calm wisdom but carried the weight of a hundred noble secrets.
Sharath, oil-stained and determined, didn't bow. Instead, he gestured proudly to the vast schematic pinned across the wall.
"A machine," he said, voice firm, "that can print not one, but hundreds of pages a day. Not with scribes. Not with monks. With gears and rhythm."
Krishnaar raised an eyebrow. "A child's dream?"
"No," Sharath said, eyes blazing. "A society's rebirth."
The blueprint was immense—an intricate blend of rotary presses from Earth, modified for Eldoran metallurgy, fused with flatbed components for durability and adjustable plate alignment. At the bottom corner, in proud script, was the name: Darshan-Vellari Press.
Krishnaar traced it with his finger. "You're blending legacies," he murmured. "Your father's name... and your mother's bloodline."
Sharath nodded. "Because this is no single house's gift. It belongs to the people."
The duke's silence was long. Then he chuckled.
"You'll break the kingdoms with this," he said softly. "And build a better one."