### Chapter 30 – Returning Heroes
When winter's spine finally snapped and rivers cracked with first thaw, the Darsha caravan prepared to leave the capital. Twenty royal cycles gleamed in palace livery; an honor guard escorted wagons carrying new lathes, blueprint scrolls, and a steel press gifted by grateful guilds.
Princess Elina, cheeks regaining color, rode beside Sharath to the city gate. "Your wheels nearly killed me," she teased, "but they may yet save the realm." She pressed into his palm a tiny gear forged of sky-steel. "A token, to remember Highcourt—and a promise I'll ride south come summer."
Beyond the walls, the countryside wore spring's first green lace. Villages thronged crossroads to glimpse the royal-crest convoy. Children chased cycles, laughter echoing across thaw-soft fields.
Yet joy mingled with duty. At each tollhouse, Sharath met local reeves, sharing maintenance manuals, arranging training bursaries for displaced stablehands. Garrick the Farrier—now Chief Axle-smith—rode shotgun, publicly preaching benefits of re-skilling. "Iron shapes to any need," he'd boom, flexing arms. "So too can honest trade."
A week from home, they crested Moonridge Pass. Darsha Valley unfurled—orchards pink with blossom, the manor's pennants snapping. Lady Darsha waited at the gate, tears diamonding her lashes. She pressed Sharath to her heart—boy and pioneer, bearing letters-patent and battle scars of politics.
That evening, as dusk bruised the sky, villagers gathered for a bonfire feast. Sharath climbed a wagon, voice cracking from smoke and emotion. "These wheels began as my dream, but they roll because of you—smiths, farmers, riders, scribes. The king has lent his seal; now we lend each other our strength. Let Darsha forge not just cycles, but futures."
Cheers burst skyward with sparks. Music rose—lutes, fiddles, hammered dulcimers. Under constellations new to this world yet familiar to Sharath's soul, he danced with friends, family, guild-masters—his community.
Much work loomed: scale-up plans, guild charters, safety regulations. But tonight, progress rested on full bellies and muddy boots—the simple human things worth every gear's grind.
As embers ebbed, Sharath slipped to the orchard edge. Wind combed blossoms into drifting snow. He spun Elina's gift-gear between thumb and forefinger. A world could pivot on such small cogs—if guided by steady hands and hopeful hearts.
He vowed the hands would stay steady, the heart hopeful. Beyond these hills awaited mills to build, roads to pave, minds to convince. The cycle had turned; the kingdom rolled forward—and Sharath with it, toward horizons still uncharted.