In Kartha, a town scarred by dry winds and cracked roads, a boy was locked in a silent battle with a cart too heavy for his frame. He strained, barefoot, coughing in the dust. The wheels had sunk into the muck.
No one stopped to help.
Sharath did.
Without a word, he gripped the side of the cart and pushed. Together, they rocked it free. The boy—skinny, bruised, resilient—looked up at him with wonder.
"What's your name?" Sharath asked.
"Jiran," the boy wheezed. "Will you fix the roads, my lord?"
Sharath couldn't speak. But something in him shifted.
The boy had spoken to a lord like he was just a man. Because in Jiran's eyes, titles meant nothing. Only action did.