The royal court was not quiet for long.
By week's end, King Edwric sent an emissary—not with a blade, but with a parchment. A demand: submit all publications to a new Royal Office of Censorship.
Sharath read the scroll once, then tossed it into the hearth.
"You would defy the King?" asked Krishnaar.
"No," Sharath replied. "I'll negotiate."
And so, on a crisp autumn morning, he returned to the Hall of Suns with a new document—a counteroffer.
"I will not censor truth," Sharath said before the crown. "But I'll grant the throne its own voice."
The room froze.
"You want me to… write for your paper?" the King blinked.
"Not you," Sharath said, smiling. "Your scribes. Your ministers. You have the crown. I have the ink. Let the public judge your words beside mine."
The Queen's mouth parted in stunned offense.
But the King… laughed.
"A duel in words. Fine. Let's see if the boy bleeds when challenged."
Thus began the era of the Royal Column, a weekly feature within The Kingdom Herald. The court found itself forced into transparency, and the people found themselves reading between the lines.
Sharath didn't win with defiance. He won with audacity