By the time Aarav turned seventeen, the child prodigy had become a young statesman.
Gone were the mischievous glints of boyhood—replaced by a gaze steady as a drawn bow, by footsteps that carried the weight of ambition, and a heart that burned for Bharat's unity.
His name echoed through the streets of Mohenjo-Daro not as a flute-player or a charmer of crowds—but as the strategic mind behind every city reform, trade expansion, and conflict resolution.
---
"He is my second voice," declared Chieftess Vesha, the matriarchal leader of the city.
A stern woman draped in pearls and crimson silk, Chieftess Vesha had ruled with dignity for nearly two decades. Yet it was Aarav, barely seventeen, who now stood beside her during council meetings—whispering strategies, managing rival clans, and negotiating between merchants and priests.
He had become her right hand.
And the city began to change under his unseen hand.
---
One dusky evening, as the council chamber emptied and only oil lamps flickered against the stone walls, Vesha turned to him.
"You do not seek the throne... but you wield it better than most who sit upon it. Why?"
Aarav bowed slightly, a playful glint still hiding in his maturing face.
"Because I don't seek control," he replied, "I seek preparation. Bharat will need more than rulers—it will need vision."
---
Yet even with his growing responsibilities, Aarav refused to let his hands soften.
Chariot Yard – Mohenjo-Daro's Outskirts
Aarav's body was soaked in sweat. His long hair was tied up, chest bare beneath the sun. His fingers were calloused from hammer and rope, not pen and flute.
He was among the wheelwrights now, learning from blacksmiths and carpenters how to build chariots suited for every terrain: the muddy deltas, the gravel plains, the dense jungles, and the dry dunes to the west.
---
"Make the axle thicker," he told a craftsman, "This design won't survive in the Aravalli hills."
The blacksmith blinked. "How do you know?"
"Because I've traveled there," Aarav said simply, wiping the sweat from his brow, "And if we're to unite this land, our wheels must reach every corner of it."
---
Nights were short for him now.
Mornings in the council. Midday in the chariot yards. Evenings meeting caravan heads. And nights... alone, staring at maps, thinking.
"One day," he murmured to himself, "these roads will connect every city, not just for trade—but for unity."
---
In the Market Streets
A young potter's daughter approached him shyly.
"Aarav... you used to play the flute in the square. Do you still play?"
He smiled gently, lifting the flute from his waist.
"Only when I forget I'm building an empire."
She laughed, cheeks warm.
"Then I hope you forget often."
---
The System offered no new prompts.
But Aarav didn't need them.
He was carving a path of his own—through politics, technology, and the hearts of people.
The wheels of destiny were turning... and he was the one building them.