The sky stained crimson at dawn two days later, as if predicting blood, not triumph. Near Riverbend forge, a crowd had formed. Craftsmen in leather aprons; laborers smelling of straw; matriarchs with babes on hips. They gathered under a rough-hewn banner: *No Wheels, No Ruin.*
Garrick the Farrier—a human anvil with arms like hammers—stood atop a cart bed. "Brothers!" he roared. "The nobles dangle miracles while we lose our bread! When stables turn to scrap, who buys your iron shoes? When wagons rot in barns, who hires your hands?"
Cheers. Hot breath fogged the cold air.
Within the workshop, Master Henrik and Sharath heard the uproar. Henrik's weathered face creased. "They're good men, lad. Fear twists them." He tugged a pair of heat-gloves, voice lowering. "But fear also breaks bones. Stay inside."
Sharath instead stepped onto the threshold. The crowd's volume dipped, shock at a child confronting giants. He raised grease-stained palms. "Garrick, your work ferried grain that fed my cradle. Would I now steal your livelihood? No. I invite you to join ours. We need smiths to forge axles, weld frames, shoe—" He stopped himself. "—shoe new paths."
Laughter scattered. Garrick spat. "Empty promises. How many you paying? Copper a day?"
"Two coppers above stable wage," Sharath replied. Gasps. That figure traveled like lightning; yet fear's grip remained.
A hooded priest stepped forth, amulet carved with the Old Oak symbol. "Blasphemy rides on these wheels! The Creator set man's pace to the beat of hoof and heart. Devices that hasten steps invite hubris."
The chant swelled: "Burn the wheels!"
A lump of slag flew, striking the tricycle prototype's wooden fork, splintering it. Oranger sparks erupted as someone shoved a coal-pan into straw bales near the door. Flame licked upward.
Chaos.
Henrik cursed, dashed for water. Garrick stared, torn between protest and arson. Sharath grabbed a half-finished cycle, kicked it into motion, pedaled straight for the river barrel at the yard's edge. He braked hard, splashing water into a pail, wheeled back, dousing the flame.
In that heartbeat of motion, the crowd witnessed speed—life saved by the very invention they hated. Silence doused rage.
From the smoky doorway, Garrick's ten-year-old son, Lio, emerged coughing—face smeared with soot, eyes wide with gratitude at Sharath. The farrier sagged. "Enough!" he bellowed, turning on the priest. "My quarrel's with hunger, not miracles. The boy saved my kin."
The priest's sermon found no audience; fear had lost its footing.
That evening, at the newly quenched forge, Garrick approached Sharath, cap in callused hands. "I can shoe horses," he muttered, "but maybe I can shoe your…whatever these are."
"Name's still in flux," Sharath smiled, extending a pint-sized handshake, black grease under his nails. "But we'll forge it together."
Behind them, the shattered prototype was already clamped in Henrik's vice. Sparks flew—not of destruction but of mending.