The Darsha estate, once a serene cradle of nobility, now buzzed with hushed speculation. Word of Sharath's intellect had spread—not by intent, but through the unavoidable gravity of brilliance. Tutors began to refuse assignments, claiming the boy "read their thoughts before they spoke." Visiting nobles left with furrowed brows and nervous glances.
In the court's upper halls, where gold-leafed domes reflected the soft light of warded lanterns, whispers grew sharp. Was this child the fulfillment of prophecy—or a harbinger?
"The soul of flame, born beneath veiled stars...""One who deciphers the weave itself..."
The prophecy of return, long relegated to superstition, was now being read in earnest.
And Sharath? He felt the pressure, but bore it like the still center of a storm. He showed kindness even to those who feared him. When a chambermaid dropped a tray in his presence, he bent down—not with arrogance, but gentle assurance—and helped her gather the silverware, whispering, "Even stars must fall before they rise again."
He never asked for recognition. But his every action spoke with precision and meaning.
That only made them more wary.
Even Lord Rajan Darsha, proud but pragmatic, grew conflicted. He saw in his son a force that could uplift their House—or unravel it. He began meeting with Magister Veyr in secret, seeking counsel on how to shield Sharath's gifts from the larger world.
"Do you fear him?" the Magister asked one evening.
"I fear what he awakens in others," Rajan replied. "Jealousy. Awe. Ambition. The gods curse us not with monsters, but with miracles too early understood."