Once, the Darshan-Vellari Press was a curiosity.
Now, it was a force of nature.
New editions appeared: The Young Herald, written in simplified language for children and first-time readers. Trade & Tithe, a monthly economic review. The Inventor's Digest, showcasing innovations and citizen submissions. The Scholar's Light, filled with peer-reviewed research, adapted from Sharath's Earth knowledge.
The printing seal—SK—became a mark of truth, utility, and vision.
In taverns, judges quoted the Herald in rulings. In courtrooms, lawyers cited past columns to dismantle false witness. In royal dinners, nobles argued over satirical sketches. And in schoolyards, children played pretend—not as knights or mages—but as news-runners, carrying ideas instead of swords.
Sharath visited a village in Riverwood and watched a blind man dictating aloud from the Herald while children sat cross-legged, listening as if to prophecy.
"This," he whispered, "is more powerful than any wand, blade, or coin."
In the distance, the royal scribes delivered their column—a rebuttal to a critique on grain taxes. The press and the crown had become dance partners, neither able to retreat without shame.
For every printed word became a seed, and the kingdom was now a field in bloom.