Frost still silvered the palace flagstones when King Aldwin III summoned his Council of Ministers to the Highcourt Map Room. Scrolls littered the conference table—reports of quarrels in taverns sparked by contradicting headlines, merchants petitioning for reliable grain figures, magistrates clamoring for daily legal updates.
"Truth breeds argument faster than swords breed scars," the monarch observed, fingers drumming on a rolled edition of The Daily Truth. "Argument is welcome—but only if it rests upon swift, certain fact. We need a messenger system as dependable as my own heartbeat."
The messengers of old—mud-splattered road-runners and weary posting horses—could not keep pace with daily newsprint. Eldridge's inner districts saw a paper every sunrise; hill duchies waited four, sometimes seven days. By then, speculation had sprouted like weeds in an untended field.
Sharath, present by royal invitation, felt the weight of the room's eyes. He had dreamed of a connected kingdom; now the king demanded it—immediately.
"Majesty," he began, unrolling a fresh diagram, "speed lies not only in wheels but in the intersections between them. We must build relay nodes—half-day apart—where riders hand bundles to fresh legs. Standardized packs, synchronized departure bells, and most crucially…" he pointed to a small brass tube strapped to the courier's thigh in his sketch, "…mana-sealed dispatch capsules for urgent documents. A capsule removed from its leather cradle breaks a rune and lights a crimson beacon on the previous relay's board—instant proof of hand-off integrity."
Minister of Treasury Branson frowned. "How many riders? How many horses? What cost?"
"Fewer horses, more cycles," Sharath replied. "A well-conditioned rider on the latest Quay Swift averages fifteen leagues per shift, terrain permitting. Add fresh legs each station, and Highcourt to South Quay—sixty leagues—drops from three days to eighteen hours."
Chief Marshal Helena's brows rose. "Faster than my fastest courier corps."
"And cheaper," added Lady Darsha, unveiling the first month's cost projection: initial outlay steep—road markers, beacons, training—but annual operation less than the court's falconry budget.
The king slapped the map. "Your plan, Lord Sharath, shall be the Crown Courier Network. Funds released today. I grant you six months to prove your boast. Fail, and we return to my war falcons."
Riverbend workshop became a hive of courier innovation. Mira refined pannier hooks so sealed bundles snapped into place with one-handed motions. Garrick forged rune-burnished brass capsules whose seams vanished under a water-proof charm. Jakob carved cedar signposts, each branded with the Crown Courier crest: a stylised wheel flanked by wings.
Training the riders proved harder. Many were former post-boys, thrilled by cycle speed but fearful of rune devices. Others were retired border scouts, legs thick as tree trunks, suspicious of "toys." Sharath created The Red-Cap Manual—forty pages, five-star SK paper—detailing everything from spoke-wrench checks to beacon-board protocol. Recruits studied by lantern-light while Mira drilled them on tire swaps against a sandglass.
The first relay chain spanned fifteen leagues: Eldridge Gate → Birch Hollow → Wheatfen Bridge. On launch morning citizens lined the road, bread and mulled cider in hand. A brass gong sounded; the lead Red-Cap, cheeks ruddy above crimson knit cap, pushed off. Wheels hissed over frost. Three hours later a trumpet at Birch Hollow announced flawless arrival; a fresh rider launched in under thirty breaths. By dusk, the capsule reached Wheatfen—record time.
Word of the red-capped riders spread faster than the riders themselves. Children chalked red caps on alley walls; balladeers sang of "Wheel-Wing Johnny." And every relay board, erected on stone plinths, became a village notice point: if yesterday's bundle arrived, the beacon glowed emerald; if delayed, amber. People gathered evenings to cheer the flash of green.
After six weeks, Sharath presented the king with statistics: average hand-off deviation five minutes, lost bundle rate zero. King Aldwin smiled openly—rare indeed. "Your network outpaces rumor," he said. "Make it reach every shire by Harvest."
Sharath bowed, mind already racing toward the next challenge: if physical bundles now moved in a day, could raw information—weightless, priceless—move faster still?