The morning sun painted the palace courtyard in golden hues as Sharath stepped into his newly crafted carriage—a marvel of his own design that incorporated both springs for comfort and silent-running wheels. At twenty-seven, he had grown accustomed to the privileges that his innovations had brought him. The Royal Chief of Innovation lived in a world of clean linens, purified water, and fresh air. But today, something gnawed at his conscience, something that had been building for months.
Princess Elina had planted the seed weeks ago during one of their evening walks through the palace gardens. "Sharath," she had said, her voice carrying a weight that made him pause mid-step, "when was the last time you truly saw your kingdom? Not the grand halls or the workshops, but the places where most of your people actually live?"
The question had haun could he claim to serve the kingdom when he had never truly witnessed the lives of those his innovations were meant to help? The bicycles he'd created had transformed commerce and communication among the merchant class and nobility, but what of the common folk? The printing presses had spread literacy, but to whom? The electrical systems illuminated the great houses and important buildings, but darkness still claimed vast portions of the realm.
"Today, we venture beyond the comfortable boundaries of court life," Sharath announced to his small entourage as they departed the palace gates. His personal secretary, Marcus, looked uncomfortable at the change in routine. The usual trips were to workshops, academies, or meetings with other nobles. Today's destination was written only as "the outer districts."
The carriage wheels hummed smoothly along the main thoroughfares, where Sharath's innovations had left their mark. Street lamps stood proud and tall, their electrical glow replaced now by the honest light of day. The roads were well-maintained, with proper drainage systems that kept them passable even during the heaviest rains. Citizens here moved with purpose and prosperity—many riding bicycles, others conducting business with the confidence that came from regular meals and secure shelter.
But as they traveled farther from the city center, the transformation was gradual and heartbreaking.
The first thing that struck Sharath was the smell.
It began as a faint sourness in the air, barely noticeable at first. But as they moved deeper into the outer districts, the odor grew stronger, more complex—a mixture of human waste, rotting organic matter, and something else, something that spoke of sickness and despair. Sharath found himself breathing through his mouth, then covering his nose with a handkerchief.
"By the gods," Marcus whispered, his face pale. "How do people live in this?"
The carriage slowed as the roads deteriorated. What had been smooth, well-drained paths became rutted dirt tracks, scarred with deep puddles that never seemed to dry. The electrical lines that had seemed so comprehensive from the palace perspective simply... ended. As if someone had drawn a line on a map and declared that light and power would venture no further.
Sharath called for the carriage to stop at what appeared to be a small marketplace. As he stepped down, his fine leather boots squelched into something that might have been mud but carried a stench that suggested otherwise. Around him, a different world unfolded—one that existed mere miles from his comfortable workshop, yet felt like a different realm entirely.
The buildings here were ramshackle affairs, constructed from whatever materials could be found or afforded. Walls of rotting wood, patched with metal scraps and cloths, leaned against each other for support. Roofs of thatch and salvaged materials sat at precarious angles, many showing gaps that would offer little protection from rain or wind. Between the structures, narrow alleyways disappeared into shadows that seemed to swallow light itself.
But it was the people who broke Sharath's heart.
A young mother sat on a pile of stones that might have once been a doorstep, cradling an infant whose cries were weak and sporadic. The woman's eyes held a hollow quality that Sharath recognized with growing horror—it was the look of someone who had learned not to hope too much. Her dress, which might have once been colorful, was now a patchwork of repairs and stains. When she noticed Sharath's fine clothes and obvious wealth, she didn't beg or plead. Instead, she simply looked away, as if his very presence was a reminder of how far apart their worlds had grown.
Children played in the muddy streets, but their games were listless affairs. Unlike the energetic youth he saw in the palace districts, these little ones moved with the careful economy of those who understood that energy was precious and food uncertain. Their skin held an unhealthy pallor, and many bore the telltale signs of malnutrition—distended bellies, thinning hair, and eyes that seemed too large for their faces.
An elderly man approached them, his gait unsteady and his breathing labored. "Beggin' your pardon, my lord," he wheezed, his accent thick with the rural dialect that Sharath had studied but rarely heard spoken with such raw need. "You wouldn't happen to know when the healers might be comin' through again? My grandson's been coughin' up blood for nigh on a month now, and the fever won't break."
Sharath's throat tightened. "I... when did they last visit?"
The old man's laugh was bitter. "Last spring, I reckon. Maybe the spring before. Time runs together when you're just tryin' to survive each day." He coughed, a wet sound that spoke of illness taking root in his own lungs. "They come when they can spare 'em from the important folks, you understand."
As Sharath moved through the district, each step revealed new horrors disguised as everyday life. A well that served dozens of families was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a rotting wooden cover. The water within was dark and carried an odor that made Sharath's stomach lurch. Yet he watched as people filled buckets and jugs from it, because it was all they had.
Women washed clothes in a nearby stream that also served as the community's primary toilet. The mathematical part of Sharath's mind immediately understood the horrible efficiency of this arrangement, but his heart rebelled at the thought of children playing near waters so obviously contaminated.
"How many people live in this district?" Sharath asked Marcus, though he dreaded the answer.
Marcus consulted his notes, though his hands shook as he did so. "According to the last census, approximately eight thousand souls, my lord."
Eight thousand. Sharath tried to reconcile that number with what he saw around him. Eight thousand people living without clean water, without proper sanitation, without access to the medical care that he took for granted. Eight thousand citizens of the kingdom he had sworn to serve through his innovations, yet who had seemingly been forgotten in his grand plans for progress.
A woman emerged from one of the more substantial buildings—which still would have been condemned as uninhabitable in the palace district. She moved with the purposeful stride of someone accustomed to taking charge, and Sharath recognized the bearing of a leader, even in these circumstances.
"You're not from around here," she said, her voice carrying both suspicion and curiosity. "We don't get many folks dressed like you unless someone's done something wrong."
"I'm Sharath of House Darsha," he replied, unsure how his name would be received here.
The woman's eyes widened slightly. "The inventor? The one they call the Kindly Flame?"
"Some call me that, yes."
She studied him for a long moment, then gestured toward the building she'd emerged from. "I'm Mira. I run what passes for a healing house in these parts. You want to see what your progress looks like from down here?"
Sharath nodded, though his stomach was already churning with dread.
The interior of Mira's healing house was dimly lit by candles that flickered in the drafts that found their way through countless gaps in the walls. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, herbal remedies, and the underlying scent of death that seemed to permeate everything here. Along the walls, crude beds held the sick and injured—far too many for the space available.
"This time of year, we see mostly the lung sickness," Mira explained, moving between patients with practiced efficiency. "Comes from living in damp conditions with poor air. In summer, it's the stomach ailments from bad water. In winter, it's the cold taking the old and the very young." She paused beside a bed where a child no more than six years old lay unconscious, his breathing shallow and rapid. "This little one's been fighting the fever for two weeks. His mother brings what food she can in trade for his care, but..."
She didn't need to finish. Sharath could see the resignation in her eyes.
"How many die here each month?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Too many," Mira replied simply. "More in winter, fewer in summer, but always too many. The young ones fight hard, but they don't have much to fight with, if you understand my meaning. Not enough food, not enough warmth, not enough of anything that makes fighting worthwhile."
Sharath moved through the healing house like a man in a nightmare. Each bed told a story of preventable suffering—illnesses that could have been avoided with clean water, injuries that could have been treated properly with better access to care, infections that should have been minor inconveniences rather than death sentences.
In one corner, a young woman held a baby who was clearly struggling to breathe. The infant's skin had a blue-tinged pallor that made Sharath's blood run cold.
"Started coughing yesterday," the mother murmured, not looking up from her child. "Just like his brother did, before..." She trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air.
Sharath found himself kneeling beside her, his fine clothes forgotten. "What happened to his brother?"
"Lung fever. Took him in three days." Her voice was flat, emotionless—the tone of someone who had learned that feeling too much was a luxury she couldn't afford. "The healer said there wasn't anything to be done. Said it was God's will."
The phrase hit Sharath like a physical blow. God's will. As if disease and suffering were inevitable forces of nature rather than problems that could be solved with knowledge and resources. Problems that he, with all his innovations and influence, might actually be able to address.
When they finally left the healing house, Sharath stood in the muddy street feeling fundamentally changed. The comfortable certainty of his accomplishments had crumbled, replaced by a crushing awareness of his own limitations and oversights.
"My lord?" Marcus ventured quietly. "Perhaps we should return to the palace?"
Sharath shook his head. "No. Show me more."
They spent the remainder of the day exploring district after district, each one revealing new layers of suffering and neglect. They visited areas where entire families lived in single rooms, where children worked dangerous jobs because their labor was necessary for survival, where the elderly were abandoned because caring for them meant the difference between life and death for everyone else.
By the time the sun began to set, Sharath had seen enough to understand that his kingdom was not one realm but two—the prosperous, innovative world he had helped create for the wealthy and influential, and this other world where basic human dignities like clean water, adequate food, and medical care were luxuries beyond reach.
As their carriage finally turned back toward the palace, Sharath sat in silence, his mind racing with calculations and possibilities. The same intellectual fire that had driven him to create bicycles and printing presses now focused on a different challenge—one that was more urgent and more fundamental than anything he had tackled before.
"Marcus," he said quietly as the palace walls came into view, "tomorrow I want you to arrange meetings with the kingdom's leading physicians, engineers, and administrators. I also want detailed reports on the living conditions in every district we didn't visit today."
"Of course, my lord. May I ask what you're planning?"
Sharath looked back over his shoulder toward the districts they had left behind, where candlelight flickered in windows like distant stars. Somewhere in that darkness, children were coughing themselves to sleep, mothers were watching babies struggle for breath, and people were dying from ailments that could be prevented or cured with resources that existed mere miles away.
"I'm planning to fix this," he said, his voice carrying the same quiet certainty that had driven every innovation he had ever created. "All of it."
The carriage rolled through the palace gates, returning Sharath to his world of comfort and privilege. But something fundamental had shifted. He had seen beyond the palace walls, beyond the carefully curated success stories that surrounded his daily life. He had witnessed the hidden cost of a progress that had left too many people behind.
And Sharath of House Darsha, the Kindly Flame, the Royal Chief of Innovation, would never be the same