No, this is not fine.
That lucid, frantic realization was the first to burst within Sharath Krishnamurthy's newly rebooted mind as awareness crashed back online. A second ago—at least in some definition of seconds a quantum lightning bolt honored—he'd been an overwrought cybersecurity graduate student. Now he was a tomato-colored, screaming burrito, flanked by strangers with lavender, smoke, and the kind of robust enthusiasm only midwives can get up after a twenty-four-hour shift in labor.
He attempted to speak a protest, but his mouth uttered a newborn's angry wail so strong one of the midwives almost lost the slippery form of Sharath 2.0. A half-dozen attendants immediately clustered round, their agitated conversation ringing from vaulted stone ceilings. The speech was like Sanskrit that had eloped with Old Norse and returned with a melodious love child. Each syllable throbbed with vowels of ancient times and unapologetic trills, the sort of dialect you'd imagine druids would employ when dishing about dragons.
"Strong lungs!" a voice exclaimed. "A fighter already!"
Of course I'm screaming, you bloody lunatics, Sharath bawled. I just saw my entire adult life get Ctrl-Alt-Deleted.
He attempted to move his arms, but they flopped like overcooked noodles. Inwardly he issued a bug report to whichever cosmic project manager oversaw reincarnations: Musculoskeletal subsystem initializing at 0.3% capacity. Requesting patch update ASAP.
A chorus of approving murmurs went up around him every time he wriggled. Someone declared him "healthy as a stone-bear cub," which was sounding positive, if nonsensical. Another attendant announced his thrashing to be "auspicious kinetic augury," then started scribbling frantic notes on a wax tablet. Sharath had been a scholar long enough to see the twinkle of publish-or-perish in that scribe's eye.
A soft but authoritative woman's voice cut through the commotion. "Let me hold him."
Warm arms gathered him, turning his wriggling body until his cheek rested against the heartbeat of Lady Ishvari Darsha—his new mother. She looked utterly spent: hair plastered to her temples, regal features softened by exhaustion, yet her smile carried the nuclear wattage of maternal love set to maximum output. Tears shimmered along her lashes when she whispered, "You're beautiful, my sweet son."
Sharath's critical, numbers-oriented mind overloaded. How did one apply statistical analysis to unconditional love? He felt his small chest catch on a sound suspiciously akin to awe. Somewhere in his addled neuronal haze, a plain fact inserted itself like pirated software: Whatever else this world was—runes, stone walls, fishy herbal scents—he was safe in these arms.
One of the older midwives moved closer, speaking in a whisper that people employ in museums even though the T-Rex skeleton was quite clearly deaf. "This one was different. He didn't merely cry—he screamed as if he knew something that none of us could see."
Lady, you don't know the half of it, Sharath considered, both entertained and repelled by the idea.
A heavy-boots striding echoed from the entranceway, followed by the sonorous hum of a baritone that likely shattering doors and hearts in equal proportion. Lord Varundar Darsha moved forward, wide-shouldered, iron-bearded, and exuding paternal pride like a man who had personally brokered a peace agreement with biology. If genetics was a buffet, Sharath hoped he'd served his plate full of that regal facial hair.
"See his grip," the lord whispered, holding up one scarred finger. Reflex asserted itself; Sharath clasped it with a newborn's unsuspected strength. Lord Varundar let out a hearty, pleased laugh. "Ha! Already trying to disarm his enemies!"
"Or trying to pilfer your wedding ring," Lady Ishvari retorted, smiling past her exhaustion. "Seems he has a good eye for precious things."
The pair shared a glance so filled with love that Sharath suddenly felt like a third wheel at his own birth. He let go of Varundar's finger with as much dignity as a drooling infant might, then emitted a polite burble intended to mean, Carry on; pay no attention.
Servants hurried about, swabbing the floors, ridding them of linen, and refilling braziers with fragrant herbs. A shy maid asked quietly, "The cradle?" The other nodded towards the bassinet—an exquisite piece of darkheart cedar, its surface intricately carved in spirals and runic sigils that shone even in poor firelight.
Sharath prepared himself for ungainly limb logistics as he was lowered down. The moment his back touched the silk-lined bed, the carved runes burst with pale blue-white light. Lines pulsed like veins of moonstone, curving around the bassinet in rhythm with his own heartbeat. One glyph fluttered and reassembled itself the moment he hiccuped, as though politely rearranging feng shui.
Silence as thick as a server crash settled over the birthing room. The head midwife took a breath heavy with years of professional composure. "He… powered the cradle wards. Alone."
Whispers spread. A maid exclaimed that her cousin's child hadn't activated her defensive runes until six weeks old—and even so had taken two shamans and a goat of dubious moral character.
Six sets of eyes fixed Sharath like butterflies in a case. He cooed back with a calm, on-the-borders-of-smugness sound. Inside, however, he made a very rapid checklist:
New environment: medieval plus-plus.
Magic system clearly user-driven.
Current survival rating: cautiously optimistic.
The midwives returned to bustling when awe wore off to routine. Ishvari, supported by embroidered pillows, slid toward slumber. Varundar stood guard beside the cradle like a personal bulwark. Sharath slept with eyes watching rune-light play on cedar, mind whirring quicker than any swaddled newborn had a right to.
So. I'm in a respectable family with a mystic cedar cradle and two parents who already love me. I have some sort of born-in mana signature powerful enough to charge woodcraft runes upon touch. And I can't say consonants. Time to try again.
The strategy, he determined, started with scouting, information gathering, and not a single display of baby prodigy until local witch-burning procedures were defined. He stretched his arms over his head. The cradle spun a lullaby-like whorl, cinnamon-scented and soothing. Sharath decided that, as a first day on the job as Magical Royal Infant, he'd done sufficient beta-testing.
Sleep took him to the sound of joyful voices and the light of runes tracing out constellations only he knew how to read