Chapter 21 **The Noble's Dilemma**
The gilded double doors of Eldridge's Regional Assembly Hall swung inward with a groan that echoed through a cavernous nave of marble pillars and vaulted glass. Morning sun refracted through the colored panes, scattering motes of aquamarine and amber across frescoes of long-forgotten saints—mute witnesses to a new sort of pilgrimage.
Sharath Darsha, scarcely past his third birthday, felt the pressure of those fractured rainbows on his skin like invisible fingers pushing him toward the rostrum. The chamber smelled of jasmine oil and hot wax; rows of nobles—robed in hues that screamed family heraldry—filled semi-circular tiers that rose like stadium seating. At their apex, atop a dais cloaked in indigo velvet, sat Duke Aldric Darsha, Sharath's uncle, every inch the iron-willed warlord the realm whispered about.
Between the duke and his nephew stretched a polished lane of limestone: an executioner's walk for bad ideas. Today it was a path for a child.
Lord Darsha—the boy's father—escorted him by the hand. He paused at the halfway point, muttered a reassurance, then ceded the floor. A hush rippled outward, as if even the dust in the sunlight held its breath.
"Honored lords and ladies," Sharath began, voice clear, high, unbroken yet unwavering. "I stand small, but the cycle behind me carries the weight of our future."
Two palace servants wheeled Sharath's newest prototype forward. It gleamed under the skylight: steel sprockets polished to mirror sheen, cedar frame sealed in clear varnish, new ribbon-brakes dyed royal purple. A murmur rippled—the nobles had heard rumors, but few had seen the contraption up close.
Lady Elara Vellmont leaned to Baron Sorrin and whispered too loudly, "Looks like a plaything." Sorrin's laugh, sharp and nasal, ricocheted off marble.
Sharath swallowed. "It travels five leagues in the time your finest carriage travels two." He let the numbers hang. "It uses no feed, demands no rest, and its parts can be learned, replicated, improved—by our blacksmiths, carpenters, tanners. It is a rising tide for every craft."
Countess Ilari tapped jeweled fingers on her armrest. "And if every peasant rides one, what becomes of the horse trade? Of grooms? Of farriers?"
Sharath inhaled the scented air; the weight of a thousand equations pressed behind his eyes. "The same question was asked in ages past when the plow replaced the digging stick. The answer: those hands did not vanish; they steered the plow. So shall they turn the wrench, fletch the chain, chart the routes. Craft evolves; craft does not die."
Duke Aldric rose. Sunlight struck the silver filigree at his shoulders, blinding. "Child, you speak of change as though change were gentle. Our order—this order"—he swept a gauntlet across the assembly—"was forged in blood, tempered by tradition. A contraption that renders cavalry obsolete is not a tool; it is a weapon against throne and altar."
A flicker of fear doused Sharath's confidence. Yet Lady Darsha—his mother—met his eyes from the gallery, subtle nod anchoring him.
"With respect, Your Grace," Sharath said, "the real weapon is stagnation. Our enemies beyond the western range already experiment with black-powder wagons. Will we cling to reins while they barrel past on burning wheels?"
Aldric's jaw bunched. Before he could retort, Lord Darsha stepped forward. "Let us test claims with steel, not speculation. Five dawns hence, a public run: ten cycles against ten horse wagons, same cargo, same road."
A murmur: risky, dramatic, irresistible. The duke's lip curled in grudging agreement. "So be it. But heed me, nephew: if your wheels falter, the council shall ban them beyond Darsha lands."
The gavel fell. Debate postponed; judgment delayed. Yet outside those stained-glass windows, destiny already turned like a hidden gear.
That night, in a guest suite overlooking Eldridge's moon-lit river, Sharath lay awake. His sketches sprawled across silk sheets; candlelight quivered on fresh ink—calculations for weight distribution, spoke tension, chain pitch. But numbers blurred as worry intruded. What if his uncle was right? What if change bred chaos?
Lady Darsha entered, shawl about her shoulders. She sat beside him, stroked a stray lock from his brow. "You carried truth into a den of lions," she whispered. "That is courage, my son. Yet lions are not tamed by truth alone. You must show them hope."
"How?" he breathed.
"Let them ride." Her eyes shone. "Feel wind instead of fear. The heart shifts quicker than the mind."
And so Sharath planned not just a race, but something subtler: seats reserved for doubters, handlebars offered to skeptics—Velvet revolution on wooden wheels.