The amber sky over Mohenjo-Daro bled into the busy streets below, where merchants bartered and women returned from the river with water pots balanced like crowns. Above it all, standing atop a small stone balcony, was Aarav—now seventeen, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, his silhouette outlined against the setting sun.
He had become more than just a gifted child. Now, he was a craftsman, a statesman, and to many, a symbol of the city's rising future.
---
The City Hall, Morning
"Flood channels must be cleared before the monsoon," Aarav said, his voice calm but firm. "Or we risk another year of famine."
The chieftess, seated on a raised seat carved from black stone, nodded. "Your proposals have brought more solutions than problems, Aarav. The council listens when you speak."
Whispers echoed through the chamber. Some praised his youth and vision. Others resented his rapid rise. But none denied his growing power.
---
His Workshop, Afternoon
The scent of hot metal and dry wood filled the air as Aarav knelt beside his newest creation. The chariot was like none Mohenjo-Daro had seen before—light yet durable, reinforced with coiled springs of bamboo and copper alloy.
"Attach the stonewheel model," he said to the boy assisting him. "And tighten the axle. It must glide—not groan."
A group of merchant guild leaders stood nearby, skeptical but intrigued.
Merchant Chief: "These river trails break ordinary carts in half. And you say this… will ride through them?"
Aarav, wiping sweat from his brow, smiled. "Not ride. It will command the road."
He whistled once, and the chariot raced forward—balanced, swift, almost floating. Gasps followed. When it came to a stop, even the most doubtful merchant stepped forward.
"We want ten."
"Make it thirty," Aarav replied, "and I'll have them delivered before the new moon."
---
Aarav's House, Evening
The smell of lentils and ghee drifted through the mud-brick rooms. Aarav entered, stretching his arms when he saw his mother and father waiting.
His mother turned from the fire, narrowing her eyes.
"You're seventeen," she said bluntly. "Half the city's mothers have sent proposals. Some girls are already weaving wedding garlands."
Aarav blinked. "I've barely finished the chariot prototype."
His father chuckled, sipping from a brass cup. "You've conquered the city with wheels and words. But your mother thinks it's time to face a far greater challenge."
Aarav tilted his head. "War?"
"No," his mother said sharply. "Marriage."
---
Rooftop, Later That Night
Alone under a silver moon, Aarav sat cross-legged with his flute resting against his thigh, the same one he'd carved as a child. The wind stirred his long hair as he gazed out over the city—his city.
He had come far.
From a child with questions to a youth who shaped answers.
The road ahead was long, and the empire yet unwritten…
But the wheels had begun to turn.