The Hall of the Emerald Seat unfurled like a jeweled scroll—cavernous nave, mosaic floor of serpentine and onyx, frescoed ceiling depicting the realm's founding battles. At its far end, beneath a window of emerald glass, sat King Aldwin III: silver-haired, eyes gimlet-keen beneath a circlet of dragonsteel. Courtiers thronged the dais in concentric ripples of silk and suspicion.
Sharath inhaled the cold stone scent, then advanced, wheeling his demonstration cycle. The clang of chain on marble rang through hush thick enough to taste.
Protocol demanded three deep bows: to the king, the queen, and the empty Throne of the Ancients. Sharath executed them flawlessly—thanks to dolorous hours under etiquette tutors' rods.
The Chamberlain's voice reverberated: "Behold Lord Sharath Darsha, Bearer of Knowledge, Bridge Between Worlds. He petitions to present marvels of mechanical craft for royal judgment."
King Aldwin's gaze flicked from boy to machine. "Rise, young lord. The court tires of whispers. Show us this wheel that walks without beast."
Sharath swallowed. "Your Majesty, I humbly present the Darsha Cycle—pedal-driven conveyance, efficient and durable." He outlined technical merits: gear ratio of 3.2-to-1, bearing smoothness of two hundred microns, frame load capacity of two average riders. Courtiers blinked in incomprehension.
Time for spectacle. He hopped onto the cycle, pumped the pedals, and scooted into a controlled circle around granite columns. Gasps erupted as he lifted both hands, balanced, then braked to a feather-light stop before the throne.
"Speed is half the wonder," he said, voice carrying. "The other half is economy." He signaled Henrik, who rolled forward a draught horse skeleton carved of beech and leather. "A horse eats twenty pounds of oats daily. A cycle eats a bowl of grease each moon." Laughter trickled, then laughter grew as nobles grasped the joke. Even the king's lips twitched.
Sharath produced parchment ledgers—projecting savings in royal courier costs, grain-tax deliveries, military scouting. Advisors leaned in, abaci clicking. Yet dissent hissed at the margins: Lord Vargis, portly and crimson-robed, murmured to Baron Sorrin's capital cousin.
Aldwin's voice cut the air. "Impressive. But novelty dazzles; endurance convinces. Lady Marshal, test the boy's toy."
A statuesque woman in steel brigandine strode forth. She mounted awkwardly, almost toppled. Sharath guided her hands—pedals here, balance there. On second attempt she propelled down the nave, laughter echoing like ringing steel. When she returned, breath fogging, she saluted the king. "Majesty, this contraption would outrun any messenger in my stables."
Murmurs rose to swell. Yet Lord Vargis stepped forward, face slick with scented oil. "Your Majesty, consider road upkeep, unsightly accidents, destabilized horse markets. Such disruption courts chaos."
Sharath had prepared. "We propose a graduated introduction—royal courier fleet first, noble estates next, subsidies for displaced stablehands to retrain as cycle smiths." He listed job-creation figures, derail risk mitigations.
The king motioned silence. "You have vision beyond your years. Yet vision unchecked breeds ruin." He tapped scepter to floor—emerald pulse crackled. "Thus I decree: a six-month pilot under My purview. Twenty cycles for palace couriers, built in Highcourt under guild oversight. If, by Frost's End, savings prove as claimed, we shall expand production kingdom-wide."
Sharath bowed, heart hammering triumph and relief.
But as chamber doors swung closed behind him, a whispered argument erupted near throne steps. Lord Vargis, red-faced, hissed at the Chamberlain. Sharath caught two words before guards ushered him away: "—poison—cup."
The warning prickled beneath his skin like unseen nettles.