The meeting was held in a high chamber overlooking the palace gardens, where rose petals drifted lazily on the breeze. The scene was serene—a calculated illusion.
Across a golden table sat Sharath, flanked by his grandfather Krishnaar, face unreadable. On the other side, Lord Chancellor Eldrin, the Queen's viper-tongued envoy, slid a thick scroll toward them.
Royal patronage. Unfathomable wealth. A title—Duke of Innovation. Lands, a seat on the Council. And most importantly: direct access to the royal coffers for his work.
Sharath studied the offer without touching it.
"All this," he murmured. "In exchange for what?"
Eldrin leaned forward, too eager. "Just one thing, my lord. The final decision on what goes to print. The Crown must oversee… content."
Sharath's gaze lifted, sharper than glass.
"Then it's not my voice you want," he said. "It's my silence."