The Grand Assembly Hall had never seen such stillness. Nobles, engineers, and high mages gathered, expecting another ceremonial speech. Instead, Sharath arrived in a worker's tunic, scroll case in hand.
When he unrolled the blueprints on the obsidian table, the iron rods securing the case clanked ominously.
"This kingdom," he began, voice even and sharp, "bleeds from its streets. It does not need patchwork. It needs healing."
There was no fanfare. Only purpose.