When he returned to the palace, dusk had painted the towers crimson. Sharath looked nothing like a prince. His hands were caked with mud. His boots were torn. His face unreadable.
He did not speak to Elina that night. Not yet. He locked himself in his study. The candles flickered as he unrolled maps, blueprints, and charcoal sketches. He tore pages from old journals and cross-referenced magical matrices.
Old Earth systems. Navaleon materials. Modern intention.
By dawn, his desk was a battlefield of ideas—and from that battle, a revolution was born.