The invitations were wax-sealed and gold-threaded. Lord Darshan spared no expense. Guild masters from every province, caravan leaders, famed tinkers, and skeptical nobles arrived at House Darsha's hall. It was the largest summit held outside the capital in decades.
Sharath stood atop a low dais, his size dwarfed by the giant iron-and-oak gears suspended behind him. He wasn't nervous. He was focused. His voice, when he began, was clear—not loud, but resonant. It carried the weight of someone who knew.
"You don't need to believe in me," he said. "But believe in what these machines have already done. Believe in your own capacity to build. We do not seek to own production. We seek to enable it."
Murmurs echoed. Some were impressed. Others cautious.
An elder from the Tinkers' Guild asked sharply, "And when your machines replace our carriages, and your chains outprice our magic wagons, what then?"
Sharath paused only a second. "Then you sell the wheels. The wagons. The future. You become more than what you were."
A child speaking to titans. Yet the room listened.