Chapter 29 – The Royal Patent
Snow sifted across the capital rooftops as Sharath's team established a makeshift workshop in an unused wing of the Guild Concourse. The air rang with hammers, smelled of pine shavings and lamp-oil. Skilled hands—some skeptical, some awed—learned to drill bearing races and tension spokes under Henrik's relentless eye.
Guildmasters buzzed, quill-pens scratching contracts. Lady Darsha and Lord Darsha navigated negotiations like dancers, securing steel allotments, paper-work exemptions, and a tithe waiver on outbound prototypes. The cycle pilot took shape: twenty units, each stamped with royal falcon and sequential serial numbers, a royal innovation unprecedented in realm history.
Yet not all cheers. Stable unions warned of job loss; road wardens fretted over new traffic codes. Shadowy pamphlets circulated: *WHEELS OF WOE—CHILD'S FOLLY IMPERILS REALM.* Each bore a serpent sigil similar to Aldric's rebellious cousins.
On rat-cold evenings, Sharath taught palace grooms to ride. Missteps were inevitable—one groom crashed into a marble plinth, sending a bust of Queen Verena shattering. Royal artisans grumbled, but Marshal Helena merely laughed. "Better broken stone than broken bones," she said, slapping Sharath on the back hard enough to jolt his teeth.
Two moons passed; cost-savings tallied. Courier runs to coastal garrisons arrived a day earlier; oats consumption in palace stables dropped by twenty barrels. Even skeptical Chamberlain Varek conceded efficiencies.
Royal scribes drafted a letters-patent: monopoly rights to produce cycles for seven years, so long as production quotas and safety standards were met. The parchment, edged in emerald ink, awaited the king's signature.
Signing day glittered—icicles catching noon sun, bells pealing from cathedral towers. In the Sapphire Salon, Sharath dipped quill beneath the monarch's watchful smile. The pen scratched: **Sharath Darsha, Royal Chief of Mechanical Arts.** Cheers erupted, peppered with polite coughs from those who still doubted.
That night, banquet tables groaned under roast pheasant, sugared plums, and wine older than Sharath's father. Princess Elina—the king's niece—approached. "Lord Sharath, your gears outshine the ballroom's gilt." Her wit quickened his pulse more than any chainstroke. They debated metallurgy beside a frosted window until midnight, breath fogging glass.
Servants circulated goblets of honey-mead. Elina lifted hers, eyes locked with Sharath's—then paused. She sniffed, subtle frown. Quietly she traded cups with him. Seconds later she swayed, pallor draining her rose-kissed cheeks. Goblet shattered to floor; hall erupted.
Healers rushed. Diagnoses flew—Pearlnight toxin, a slow killer. Elina survived only by swift emetic spell. Guards seized Lord Vargis attempting exit, his signet ring stained with the faint scent of Almondbane oil.
King Aldwin's fury froze wine in crystal decanters. Vargis confessed under rune-compulsion: he'd feared ruin of his horse-breeding estates if cycles spread. Treasonous sabotage orders traced back to a web of vested interests.
The king's decree thundered at dawn: **"Any who poison progress poison the realm."** Vargis' titles stripped, estates forfeited to worker cooperatives.
The patent ink was scarcely dry, yet blood had already stained its margins.