Dawn broke, and the capital gates creaked open, and for the first time ever, a caravan rolled out without a single horse.
Four mighty carriages, each equipped with Sharath's new rune-engines, rolled out on strengthened wheels. Their metal pistons hissed in unison, fire and wind moving in perfect synchronization. Guards rode, rifles slung over their shoulders, and engineers leaned out from the sides, proudly observing their babies devouring the earth roads.
People stood to watch, laughing enthusiastically. Children applauded as the tricycles whizzed past the slow-moving carriages like rowdy puppies chasing round their elders. Farmers rested against their equipment, shaking heads in wonder.
"No beasts, yet it moves like thunder…" one old man grumbled.
"This will change everything," another whispered.
Sharath himself led the caravan, accompanied by Madhu and his most intimate officers. His hands grasped firmly on the gleaming railing of the lead carriage as the convoy surged ahead.
"Engines, rifles, balloons," Madhu said wryly. "You keep this up, Sharath, and even the gods will be nervous."
"Let them be nervous," Sharath retorted, eyes steady on the horizon. "We are no longer crawling. We are racing."
Into Untamed Lands
The caravan moved past the fields, into expanses of forest and rocky steppes that few citizens had been brave enough to enter.
Motorized exploration was unlike any previous expedition. The carriages spanned ground in hours that used to take days. Scouts traveled in advance on tricycles, engines sputtering and whining but propelling them at incredible velocity.
Maps were sketched, rivers indicated, ruins discovered. Each mile hewed the empire's extent wider.
But it also awakened the shadows.
The Goblin Spies
On the third day, when the caravan was traveling across a shallow ravine, one of the scouts came back pale. "My Emperor," he said, kneeling, "we saw movement in the underbrush. Goblins. Not raiders. Spies."
Sharath's face grew grim. "Bring them."
They pulled out three wiry goblins, gagged and bound, eyes wide with terror. Rusty daggers fell from their belts.
Madhu crossed her arms. "Spies already. Your engines are too loud, Sharath. They could be heard miles away."
The goblins spat and hissed threats in their own tongue. One snarled, "We tell the chief. We tell all. Machines for the goblins!"
Sharath's eyes went cold. "Not machines for thieves. Not knowledge for scavengers.
He ordered without thinking. The guards brought up their rifles. Three shots rang out in the canyon. The goblins went silent for good.
The caravan continued on.
Ripples of Fear
Rumors spread quicker than the engines moved.
Travelers told of iron carts with no horses, thundering through the wilderness like fire demons and wind demons. Some claimed they had cannons. Others attested they were towed by bound elementals.
At taverns and courts throughout the continent, kings and nobles murmured nervously:
The elves dreaded Sharath's machines would cut down forests uncontrolled.
The dwarves were curious how rune-steel pistons stood against their furnaces.
The beastmen salivated over the engines, dreaming of their armies transported to battle in hours rather than weeks.
The goblins, incensed at their slain spies, denounced Sharath as a tyrant—but their bluster had little bite.
The Invitation
When the caravan rode back into the capital, dusty and victorious, Sharath did not lose a moment. He called in scribes, dictated missives, and stamped them with the imperial seal.
To the Elves' rulers, to the Dwarves', and to the Beastmen'sYou have seen us make headway. Now, I invite you to see it for yourselves. A summit will take place in my capital. We will exchange ideas, commerce, and make peace—or drive the lines of division sharper. The decision is yours.—Sharath Darsha, Emperor of the Rising Engines.
Hot-air balloon messengers bore the letters over mountains and seas. Replies came back within weeks:
The elves agreed, with a caveat that they would hold Sharath's engines to their standards of respect for nature.
The dwarves eagerly agreed, curiosity trumping prudence.
The beastmen agreed, perceiving benefit in coalition.
The goblins were never offered an invitation.
When Madhu questioned why, Sharath merely replied: "You don't invite rats into your grain store. You lay traps."
Toward the Summit
Preparations started immediately. Roads were swept, banners set up, palaces buffed to a shine. Engineers adjusted the engines that would march past foreign monarchs.
But under the festivities there was tension. The populace murmured of spies and assassins, of envious kings and conspiracies that could strike the instant all monarchs sat together under one roof.
And in the darkest alleys of the goblin realms, chiefs honed swords and vowed revenge on their slain spies.
Sharath stood at the palace balcony, gazing out over the bellowing city. His gaze was unyielding, resolute.
"Let them come," he whispered. "Let them all behold. This is the era of engines. And I will not yield to anyone."
The city below thundered back in response—the rumble of speeding tricycles, horse-drawn carriages snarling, and the City Engine vibrating like the pulse of a new era.