The fire crackled low in Krishnaar's study, shadows dancing along carved mahogany shelves filled with volumes—most of them printed in Scriptoria Vale.
The old duke leaned back, eyes glazed with memory and pride, as he watched Sharath poke at the embers with a stick.
"You've done it," Krishnaar said. "You've reshaped the soul of Navaleon."
Sharath stared into the flames. "Not yet."
"Oh?"
"This is a start. A loud one. A disruptive one. But there's more." He turned, voice steady. "Now we build schools that reach every farm. We make laws written in the people's tongue. We forge a society where a shepherd debates a scholar."
Krishnaar chuckled. "You dream bigger than any king I've served."
"I don't want a crown," Sharath replied. "I want a legacy made of paper and purpose."
Outside, snow began to fall. Silent. Steady.
Inside, a boy who had once been an engineer in another world now prepared to build a civilization with words.
The press had begun the storm.
But what followed would be the Age of Information—a revolution not of fire, but of understanding.