A messenger arrived from the hill village of Grey Shale carrying a wooden box. Inside lay a single, hand-carved pedal crank—maple, not metal—engraved with rough runes of thanks.
Grey Shale's miners had pooled coins to buy one cycle, copied its parts in wood and scrap iron, and built seven sturdy "miner-trikes." Accidents dropped; their ore reached smelters days faster, earning bonuses that funded school lanterns and medicine. The crank was a gift for the boy who'd never seen their slopes.
Sharath held the warm wood and felt the map of calloused hands that shaped it. He ordered a convoy north: thirty refurbished cycles, toolkits, and a letter authorizing the village as **official repair depot** for surrounding hamlets—with profit share.
Word spread. Soon glassblowers in River's End adapted wheel rims into hand-pushed glass-lathe cranks, doubling output. Fisherfolk strapped insulated chests to rear racks, arriving at market with morning catch still glistening. Each story fed the next; the common touch became a kingdom's pulse.
The *Kingdom Herald* launched a weekly "Wheels at Work" column. Contest winners earned parts vouchers and their photo—printed with Sharath's half-tone technique—pinned in taverns from coast to peaks. Innovation was now a pastime, not merely policy.