Jakob's breath steamed in the lantern glow as he bolted lattice supports beneath the new relay tower at Moonridge Pass. Beside him, mage-apprentice Azra etched delicate runes onto a palm-sized limestone slate. "This anchor stone will feed beacon-crystal," she explained. "Mana pulse every half-hour. If signal fails, previous station flags delay."
Such failsafes mattered; the Pass was notorious for bandits emboldened by steep ravines. But Red-Cap riders carried nothing thieves could fence—only bundles bound in tamper-rune seals that flared scarlet if broken. First time a brigand slashed a strap, the rune exploded in acrid smoke and dye, painting attacker and loot bright indigo. Roads went safer overnight.
Yet physical dangers paled next to political winds. Chamberlain Varek's sleek messengers distributed Kingdom Herald along the same routes—state facts side-by-side with Truth's citizen dispatches. At first couriers cooperated, stopping at the same inns, comparing times. But Herald riders, clad in silver and black, soon convinced innkeepers to give them reserved stables and first table at supper. Complaints bubbled; Red-Caps refused to be slighted.
At Riverbend, Sharath hosted a banquet—stew from the same pot, beer from the same keg—inviting both factions. He toasted "Speed and Accuracy, the Twin Sovereigns." Riders left grinning, but rivalry simmered.
The network fanned outward: copper beacons winked from Cedarfork to sea-facing Azure Bluff; rune-burned mile markers replaced weathered milestones. Every tavern along the loop stocked spare tubes, tire leather, oat-cakes, and the prized Red-Cap repair tokens redeemable at any royal shop.
Noble houses tested the service: Countess Ilari shipped fresh orchids north—arrived still damp. Duchess Meren sent a crate of rare inks east; pigments held true. Soon, merchant princes paid premiums for "night-wing" runs—urgent capsules under moonlight.
But the crown demanded more. In spring council, Aldwin asked, "Can you guarantee same-day delivery totalling one hundred leagues by Midsummer's Eve?" The room gasped; even Helena's scouts balked. Sharath considered, eyes narrowing on the map's red lines. "Yes—if we double relay posts and devise Rain-Runner Tyres for muddy seasons."
Henrik and Mira forged prototypes: laminated hemp-rubber rings filled with goose-bladder tubes. Rolling resistance spiked, but traction held through quagmire. Riders trained on drenched tracks; wipeouts left bruises thicker than bread heels.
Midsummer's Eve dawned torrential. Streets ran like creeks. Spectators huddled beneath awnings as royal watchers lit torches at Capitol Square. At noon the lead Red-Cap launched, capsule destined for cliff-top Citadel of Dawn ninety-seven leagues away—the king's challenge.
Night deepened; rain hammered. In courtyard below Citadel's stone watchtower, stewards set lanterns and an hour-glass. At the eleventh stroke, a bell clanged; a figure burst from gloom, tires sluicing water. The courier dismounted, legs quivering, and placed the intact capsule into steward hands—seventeen hours, ten minutes. Cheers echoed across ramparts.
Report reached Highcourt by return rider before dawn. King Aldwin posted public proclamation: Crown Courier Declared Official Postal System of Navaleon. All prior couriers, horse or otherwise, invited to integrate or retire.
Silver-black Herald riders faced choice. Most donned red. Rivalry settled into friendly competition: whichever rider arrived first to a post earned free ale, charged to Sharath's ledger.
Courier network success stoked demand for something more immediate than cycles could grant. Sharath stood at Moonridge beacon tower one starlit night, watching mana pulses wink along valley. He imagined words traveling not in sealed brass but in invisible threads of energy—arriving before the wheels even cooled.
The next revolution would require neither horse nor bike, but lightning.