Summer's height found Sharath atop Moonridge Pass, map fluttering against a warm updraft that smelled of pine resin and distant sea. Below, three new cedar boardwalks radiated—one south to spice plantations, one west to iron mines, one north toward the capital. Together with South Quay's factory and the inland franchise boom, they formed the spokes of a wheel far grander than any cycle: a networked economy spinning on cedar and steel.
King Aldwin arrived on horseback, royal guard in gleaming hauberks. He dismounted beside Sharath at the overlook, eyes narrowing as he traced roads with his gaze. "I rode six hours from Highcourt," he said, wiping sweat. "Your couriers made the journey in four, carrying twice my dispatches."
Sharath inclined his head. "Majesty, speed is wealth; wealth well-tended becomes strength."
The king's chuckle rumbled. "And strength requires stewardship. Henceforth, by crown edict, the Boardwalk Authority shall receive a royal charter. You will chair it—under oversight of a council of nobles and guildmasters. Funding: a half-percent toll on cargo, a half-percent from the Mobility Dividend. Failure to maintain any stretch within royal standards will forfeit the charter."
Responsibility settled on Sharath's shoulders like a mantle woven of limestone and cedar. Yet excitement quickened. With formal authority, the network could reach every valley, port, and mountain hold. It would thread the kingdom into one humming organism.
That evening, as sunset bled vermilion across ridges, Sharath dipped a quill to sign the charter. Ink glistened, binding wood, iron, and will into a national promise: that no village sit in mud when planks could bear them forward; that no idea remain stranded for lack of a road.
Empire, he realized, was not legions or tribute. It was connection—bridges of trust, lanes of cedar, gears of cooperation. And with the king's seal cooling on parchment, the first true foundations of such an empire set hard as quick-stone beneath the summer stars.