The council's summit had ended in a crescendo of applause, diplomatic nods, and scheming behind veils of silk and smiles. But Sharath stood in his private chamber, facing the ghostly glow of his blueprint schematic — alone.
One rune pulsed faintly on the paper, the same one he had dismissed in favor of copper wires and lightning orbs.
"Have I been so blind," he whispered, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment, "to forget this world holds magic?"
His mind flashed back to the incident weeks ago — a young assistant had fumbled a rune-inscribed wick near a candelabra, setting his notes aflame and singeing Sharath's hair. That spark, once a source of comic frustration, now felt like a divine sign. Fire had whispered an idea into his soul.
Magic wasn't just a relic. It was an untapped reservoir, a language this world spoke fluently while he had been trying to teach it physics.
Sharath's obsessions turned manic. Sleep became a forgotten ritual. Food was ignored. Elina watched from the threshold some nights, hesitant to disturb him as he feverishly scribbled formulas that blended quantum theory with ancient runic geometry.
He wasn't inventing a vehicle.
He was redefining how Navaleon moved.