Victory at the fair bred new obstacles—this time within guild halls. The Blacksmiths' Grandmaster, Torban Hammerfall, convened an emergency conclave. Agenda: whether the Darsha "assembly-line method" violated artisan charters mandating that a single smith oversee a work from start to finish.
Sharath, summoned before fifty iron-stained delegates, faced a wall of folded arms. Torban's voice boomed: "Your line treats craftsmen as cogs. Where lies the artistry? Where the honor of creation?"
Sharath inhaled forge-scented air. "Master Torban, is a cathedral stone less noble because fifty masons laid it, instead of one? Division of labor multiplies what any single master can achieve."
Murmurs. One elder smith muttered, "Cathedral's still chisel-marked by each hand."
Sharath nodded. "Then let each station mark its rune upon the hub. Future curators will read our lineage in every wheel." He unveiled a rim etched with tiny glyphs—station numbers, craftsman initials. "Mastery preserved; efficiency gained."
Debate raged till embers dimmed. Finally, Torban struck an anvil—clang of verdict. "We allow assembly lines under two conditions: station runes, and apprentices rotating quarterly so no hand forgets the whole form."
Agreement signed, Sharath exhaled relief. Yet outside, he caught sight of a cloaked figure slipping coins to a disgruntled journeyman. Sabotage brewed; vigilance must not lapse.