The autumn wind shrieked across Eldridge's crenellations, rattling stained-glass windows like dying branches. In the highest turret of Aldric's keep, a clandestine conclave gathered: iron-haired nobles, robe-swathed abbots, and three guildmasters whose soot-blackened hands twitched whenever the word "assembly-line" was uttered.
Aldric's gauntlet slammed the map-table. "Darsha's wheels steal our tithe, his papers mock our scribes, and now the crown pays commoners to govern roads. Shall we stand idle while the boy turns dukes into footmen?"
Baroness Telra spoke first. "We tried sabotage. The public martyred him. We tried tariffs. Trade tripled anyway. We need legality, not daggers."
The high abbot nodded, candlelight dancing in watery eyes. "The Synod will soon convene. If we secure an ecclesiastical decree against unchecked novelty, the king must heed—or risk schism."
Guildmaster Torban shifted uneasily; months earlier he'd signed Sharath's station-rune compromise. But peer pressure weighed heavier than promises. "If the Synod brands the cycles sinful—"
"—their workshops close by royal seal," Aldric finished, lips curling. "Prepare your arguments. We strike at Wintertide Mass."
Far below, in Riverbend, Sharath faced a gentler storm. Letters arrived hourly: rumors of doctrinal debate, whispers of a "heresy of speed." Elina grasped his ink-smudged hands. "They fear losing place in the old order. Show them their place in the new."
Sharath exhaled. "Then we need allies beyond engineers and merchants. We need shepherds, healers, teachers—voices the Synod trusts." He drafted invitations to a Grand Symposium on Faith and Craft, praying bridges could be built before Wintertide winds blew everything apart.
* * *