The winter sun filtered dimly through the tall glass windows of the Darshan estate, casting long beams of amber light across stacks of parchment and prototype designs. The once pristine workshop now looked like a battlefield of crumpled papers, half-dried ink pots, and broken quills. Sharath, now eight years old, sat cross-legged on the floor, his brows furrowed, a half-written ledger before him.
"Ink blot again," he muttered, tossing the ruined paper onto a growing pile beside him. "I can't keep doing this."
He had spent months working on the logistics of expanding his bicycle designs into modular blueprints for wagons, carts, and more versatile transportation frameworks. The problem wasn't the ideas or even the manufacturing—his father, Lord Darshan, had overseen the expansion of a small metalwork district into a humming industrial hub. No, the problem was more rudimentary. It was paper.
Paper had quietly become the bottleneck to his ambitions.
In a world still largely reliant on parchment made from animal hide and crude pulp methods, paper was a luxury. He had underestimated how quickly his own projects would consume what little supply was available. Paper wasn't just scarce now—it was expensive, monopolized by traditional guilds, and of inconsistent quality.
On the morning of his eighth birthday, instead of waking up to gifts and cake, he sat in front of his towering paper shelf—empty save for a few curled, yellowing scraps.
"That's it," he said, springing up. "Time to fix this."
His destination wasn't the royal capital, nor his father's estate offices, but the far northern Duchy of Greystone. His mother's homeland. There lived his maternal grandfather, Duke Konrad Krevian, a man known for his ironclad will, sharp business acumen, and unmatched control over the northern trade routes. Unlike Lord Darshan's kingdom-oriented influence, Duke Krevian operated on the edge of aristocracy and mercantile dominance.
Their relationship had always been formal but distant—Konrad didn't understand why his daughter had married a southern noble, and Sharath had never quite forgiven him for staying away from most of his early life.
But now?
He needed him.
---
A week later, Sharath sat across from the Duke of Greystone in a stone-walled drawing room that felt more like a war room. Schematics, ledgers, and tax records were spread out like battle plans. The fireplace crackled, and the scent of aged oak and spiced wine permeated the space.
"So," the old man finally said, stroking his white beard, eyes boring into Sharath's. "You've come not for toys, nor sweets on your birthday, but for a business proposal."
"Yes, Grandfather," Sharath said firmly. "Your Duchy has access to the northern woodlands, cheap labor, and mills. I need high-quality paper, mass-produced, and cheap. In return, I'll provide the technology to produce it."
"And what makes you think I can—or will—divert resources for an eight-year-old's scribbles?"
Sharath held his ground. "Because those scribbles are blueprints that created an entire vehicular market in the south. Because my ideas earned my father audiences with foreign kings. And because the paper you make won't just feed my needs—you'll corner the market for the entire kingdom."
Konrad raised an eyebrow. "Ambitious."
"Accurate," Sharath replied.
The Duke leaned back, studying the boy.
"Let me guess. You're not here because of a shortage in the south. You're here because the royal family is sniffing around. You don't want them getting their hands on your next invention."
Sharath hesitated, then nodded. "They summoned me to the capital and demanded the blueprints to the bicycle. They wanted to 'centralize' production. If they find out I'm planning mass-scale information systems, they'll seize that too."
For the first time, Konrad's eyes softened with something like admiration.
"You remind me of your mother. She used to come to me with that same fire when she was your age. Always with ideas that would upset the balance."
He rose from his chair and walked to a side cabinet, pulling out an old leather-bound map. Unrolling it, he pointed at the edge of his domain.
"There's an old textile mill in Windvale. Long since defunct. We could retrofit it into a paper mill. Pulp production, drying chambers, watermarking. We could use river reed and flax instead of wood—cheap, fast-growing, renewable. You have the method?"
Sharath pulled out a small notebook from his satchel. It was thick, bound with linen, and filled with sketched diagrams.
"Of course. Compression drums, sun-drying racks for energy conservation, starch enhancement for durability. It's all here."
Konrad chuckled, flipping through it.
"You know\... the southern court thinks you're just your father's prodigy. But you're more than that, aren't you? You're dangerous."
Sharath tilted his head. "If progress is dangerous, then yes."
There was a long pause.
Then Konrad slapped the table.
"Done. Fifty-fifty partnership. I supply labor, location, logistics. You supply tech, quality control, and branding. We keep your name off the records. We'll sell under my Duchy's merchant house."
Sharath grinned. "Perfect."
---
Three months later, the market saw the launch of a new paper brand: SK Sheets.
The nobles thought the K stood for "Krevian". Only Darshan and Konrad knew the truth: it was "Sharath-Krevian," a pact between the future and the past.
SK Sheets revolutionized education, administration, and commerce. For the first time, scribes could purchase uniform, water-resistant, long-lasting paper at a third of the price. Traders bought ledgers in bulk. Schools ordered reams. Even the royal treasury discreetly replaced their old scrolls with the new material.
The best part? No one knew how it was made.
One afternoon, Lord Darshan stood with Konrad at the paper mill, watching sheets dry in rhythmic motion.
"You know," Konrad said, "I always thought the boy was too... southern. Too soft."
Darshan smiled. "And I always thought you were too cold. Too removed."
"Looks like we were both wrong."
In the distance, Sharath was sketching something new, watching how light passed through different paper densities.
Konrad glanced at his grandson. "What now?"
"I think he's working on a printing press," Darshan replied.
Konrad laughed. "Of course he is."
---
In a secret chamber beneath the paper mill, only three people knew the true formula, stored in a locked vault that required all three signatures to open: Darshan, Konrad, and Sharath.
The royals tried to investigate. They dispatched emissaries, demanded records, and sent spies.
They found nothing.
All they knew was that the Darshan-Krevian alliance had made another fortune, and the boy at the center of it was no longer just a child with ideas.
He was becoming a force.
And the world would soon have to reckon with him.