The summons came on black parchment.
Royal crest. Crimson wax. Sealed with the mark of King Edwric IV himself.
Sharath entered the Hall of Suns, the royal throne room, under heavy silence. Gold columns. High glass windows. Ten thousand eyes—not of people, but of painted ancestors—watched him.
On the throne sat Edwric IV. Stern. Regal. Wrinkled with the weight of tradition. Beside him, Queen Alira—sharp, composed, and cloaked in suspicion.
"You presume too much, boy," the king began.
"I presume nothing," Sharath replied, calm as ice.
"You print what you will, shape public thought, stir discontent. That's not innovation—it's sedition."
Sharath stepped forward, voice level. "If truth is a danger to your throne, then the throne is built on rotting wood."
Gasps. One lady fainted.
The Queen stood. "You arm the masses with knowledge they don't understand. You turn whispers into rebellion."
"I offer clarity," Sharath said. "If clarity causes rebellion, that's not the ink's fault. That's the ruler's."
The King's voice cut through the chamber. "You've stolen the sun's light. You burn it on paper and hand it to peasants."
Sharath bowed. "Better they burn ignorance than live in it."
A long silence followed.
When he left the chamber, the guards did not stop him.
But behind him, the balance of power had shifted.