Winter thaw turned dirt ruts to sludge, but courier posts bustled under crisp sunlight as workers erected the kingdom's first Post-Towers—octagonal wooden structures combining cycle relay, telegraph station, and reading lounge.
Because news traveled faster than packages, rural citizens thronged towers to read bulletins pinned beneath glass: Truth excerpts, Herald edicts, lightning-line price quotes. An elderly farmer traced trembling finger over a printed weather map, the first he'd ever seen. "Storm tomorrow?" he asked the station clerk. "Yes, sir—comes from the west." The man hurried to secure haystacks, saving half his fodder.
A seamstress read about new dye tariffs same afternoon lawmakers passed them. She adjusted orders the same day, avoiding ruinous costs. These micro-miracles multiplied, weaving an economy of informed decisions.
Sharath toured tower sites with Elina, noting foot traffic. At Wheatfen, tower doubled as tutoring hut; children took cipher lessons while parents delivered produce. At Cloud-Fang, miners sipped salted tea while scanning injury-prevention diagrams on wall broadsheets—workplace accidents fell.
Elina proposed Night-Glow Boards, enchanted crystals storing sunlight by day then shining at dusk, illuminating lobby so travelers could read after curfew. Mage-work not cheap, but tower maintenance fees—one copper per water bucket—covered cost.
Commerce reacted: trading houses printed Wire Gazettes—one-sheet updates telegraphed each morning, delivered by Red-Cap by noon. Smallholders with a single goat read same data as city brokers, leveling playing field.
Yet information overload loomed. Tower walls crammed with clashing posters: miracle tonics, lost-cat notices, political screeds. Mira designed a Color-Band Standard: red border for legal notices, green for agricultural, blue for employment, yellow for social events. Compliance voluntary but quickly adopted; people sought colors instinctively, scanning wall like living directory.
Varek, ever wary, proposed licensing to prevent sedition. Truth countered with public forum panels: once a month, tower wardens moderated debates among citizens. Arguments heated but civil, recorded by scribes for publication.
When a traveling bard incited violence with fabricated tax claims, town warden produced printed ledger from tower shelf—disproving rant in minutes. Crowd dispersed; bard arrested under new False Decree Act. Even Sharath accepted need for penalties against willful fabrication after South Quay riot tragedy.
The Lightning Line extended west into mountains via insulated glass-core cables strung across ravines. Wind howled, ice weighed wires, but rune-heated brackets kept them clear. Messages now reached every border garrison within an hour—empire's nervous system alive.
But Sharath foresaw next leap: multiplex telegraphy to carry parallel conversations; rolled wire stock mass-produced via extrusion press; portable field sets for expedition teams. The information road would soon outpace the physical.
At night, he stood on Moonridge Pass tower balcony, red-cap scarf around neck. Below, lantern dots traced cedar boardwalks; above, telegraph lines hummed faintly like distant bees; beyond, horizon flickered with possibilities: if pulses could travel copper, perhaps voices could ride ether itself.
The kingdom, once a patchwork of isolated hearts, now pulsed as one. But unity demanded resilience. Storms could topple towers, lies could corrupt lines. Sharath understood: roads of information needed guardians—skilled, ethical, vigilant.
Blueprints for Signal Corps Academy took shape. Its motto: Veritas Celeritas—Truth at Speed.