Spring's first crocus speared thaw-soft earth when Sharath climbed Moonridge Pass once more. Below, cedar boardwalks etched the valleys; beyond, South Quay's masts pricked slate horizon. Newsprint sailed on every breeze; night roads glowed with mana-lamps.
He unrolled a fresh map—Arc 2 dreams inked in sweeping strokes: public sanitation grids, telegraphy wires powered by MageCore batteries, and iron rails his mind had only begun to draft. Footsteps crunched behind him; Elina arrived, cheeks pink from climb.
"Admiring your kingdom, my lord?" she teased.
"Our kingdom," he corrected. He pointed west where cloudbanks roiled like untamed seas. "We've wheeled the valleys; next comes water, light, and letters. Someday—those clouds."
Elina nestled into his cloak. "And when clouds are conquered?"
"We aim for stars," he whispered, half jest, half vow.
Behind them, caravan bells chimed—loads of quick-lime bound for new sewage tunnels, crates of copper wire destined for experimental communication poles. Progress rolled on wheels birthed in a forge, tempered in politics, now racing toward futures neither child nor kingdom had words to name.
Sharath folded the map. Horizon beckoned—unmapped, irresistible. He took Elina's hand, and together they coasted downhill, spokes singing the anthem of a world forever turning toward tomorrow.