Highcourt revealed itself first as a haze—industrial chimneys and mage-lit watchtowers looming behind winter fog—then as soaring marble and lapis spires that dwarfed every provincial keep Sharath had known. The eastern gate yawned; the caravan rattled beneath gargoyles whose eyes glowed rune-blue, tracking newcomers for contraband magic.
The street beyond was a living artery. Silk-veiled carriages jostled ox-carts piled with saffron hay. Street criers bawled headlines from *The Kingdom Herald*, their broadsheets printed on SK paper still crisp with midnight ink. Sharath grinned at the sight: his pulp mills two hundred leagues away had birthed these pages.
Yet industry's roar was matched by squalor. Smoke-blackened tenements leaned over canals slick with refuse. Children hacked coal dust from their lungs while noble ladies passed in palanquins. Progress here, Sharath realized, was fractured—advancing in bright shards that left dark hollows between.
That first afternoon he toured the Guild Concourse under escort. Nine colossal halls represented carpenters, masons, alchemists, and more. Inside the Blacksmiths' Dome, trip-hammers taller than oaks pounded red ingots; enchanted brass golems hauled slag. Foreman Garan—arms roped with soot-sheened muscle—scoffed politely at Sharath's portable drop-forges until the boy produced gear blanks whose tolerances shamed Concourse output by a full hair-breadth. By the time Sharath departed, Concourse scribes trailed him, pleading for licensing terms.
Evenings belonged to court tutors hired by Lord Darsha: linguists who rehearsed royal protocol, historians who recited kingly lineages, a fencing master who insisted a gentleman inventor know blade balance though Sharath could barely lift a rapier.
Across town, whispers multiplied. A child-engineer from Darsha lands, they said, who rode a horse-less cart and promised guild-breaking miracles. Some hailed a prodigy; others muttered "upstart sorcery." Under torchlit arcades, spies traded coin for any scrap of blueprints.
In the rented townhouse, Sharath worked by mage-lamp till his eyelids sandpapered. He sketched a collapsible stand to display cutaway hubs, rehearsed speeches to counter likely objections—weight limits, road maintenance, lost horse taxes. Yet doubts dogged him like puppies: Could figures on parchment convince lords fattened on centuries of tribute? Could a city so enormous move fast enough to grasp a new gear before rust set in?
On the eve of his palace presentation, a note slid under the townhouse door—parchment smelling of clove and smoke: *Withdraw, or the wheel stops turning.* A smear of black resin sealed its edge, reminiscent of sabotage fires past. Lord Darsha tightened guard rotations; Henrik slept with hammer under pillow. Sharath tucked the threat into his ledger like a pressed thorn. Tomorrow he would face the throne—thorn and all.