Morning came in prismatic beauty. Light streamed through a stained-glass lancet window, shattering into geometric rainbows on nursery walls. Sharath awoke to the flavor of warm air that smelt of cedar and something sugary—a whiff of molasses perhaps. The bassinet vibrated gently, as if it were fitted with an organic GPU rendering a dreamscape. A bird sang an impossibly on-pitch arpeggio somewhere, like a songbird that had done an auto-tune masterclass.
First order of business: situational analysis. He tested each limb; motor control still lagged, but fingers flexed better today. Vision remained crisp—apparently the reincarnation fairy included premium retina upgrades. He logged notable stimuli: stone walls mortared so cleanly you could fillet fish on them, carved ceiling beams depicting entwined wyverns, a faint draft tinted with chimney smoke and rosemary.
A robed girl swept the chamber, muttering about herbal ratios. "I warned Milady not to blend lavender with mandrake again. Baby started radiating brighter than a harvest moon." She jabbed at floating dust motes like each speck owed her rent. Turning, she caught Sharath's gaze and softened. "Awake, young master? Such clever eyes. As if you're solving riddles already."
Lady, if you only had an idea of the encryption keys jangling around in here, you'd wrap me in lead.
She pressed a rune close to the headboard of the cradle. Instantly a soothing wave cascaded through Sharath—similar to moving under a warm blanket after an Arctic coding marathon. Biometric mood control, he observed. Upmarket nursery technology. On Earth it would have been worth more than his entire doctoral grant.
In the following hours he conducted covert experiments any reputable scientist would be proud of—if they could turn a blind eye to the diaper interruptions. A properly executed tantrum demonstrated the gem set into the center chandelier of the chamber's dimmed in sympathy, as if the lighting system was fueled by toddler mood. Smiling, on the other hand, sent a warm glow through the room. He speculated about a thaumic feedback loop tied to emotional frequencies. Moral parenting or magical monitoring? Jury still out.
At one humiliating diaper change he hummed, simply because he was bored, a snatch of the lullaby Ishvari had sung. In an instant the oak-finished changing table burst into neon butterflies fashioned out of light. The maid shrieked so loudly she surprised herself into silence, then ran off bawling that the "glowing babe had summoned joy-spirits to sanctify the linens."
Sharath recorded that under Unintentional Side Effects → Public Relations Risk.
By day three he'd accumulated a modest cache of observations:
Linguistic baseline: 60% Sanskrit phonemes, 25% Old- Indic tonal rises, 15% runic glottal stops ideal for cussing politely.
Architectural style: Rhodic High Gothic—flying buttresses miniaturized for aristocratic manors.
Magical interface: Runes react to focus, feeling, melody, and, uncomfortably, gastrointestinal bubbles.
That final discovery came as he rested in his bassinet wracked with colic. With every jab of stomach pain, there was a ripple of purple sparks down the path of the rune. The healer, called in a state of panic, declared him "tuning in to ley currents" and gave him a fennel-fenugreek paste—to taste like bitter licorice passed through a sarcasm filter. It helped, though, and Sharath made a vow never to discount medieval cuisine again.
Early evening of the fourth day brought his first outside visitor besides immediate staff. A lean young boy of around ten summers slipped in, holding a wooden practice sword far too big for his thin physique. He gazed into the crib, brown eyes wide with serious intent.
"I am Jivran, your cousin. Mother says it's my responsibility to keep an eye on you when Uncle's off." He brandished the toy sword, taking a pose full of bluster, short on physics. "Don't worry. Any goblin that comes to take you away will get a taste of wood."
Sharath watched the sincere protector and concluded humanity—in any form—was sometimes cute. He waved a motivating fist. Jivran took this to be a sign of approval and went on to recite the whole family history, half of which Sharath comprehended, the other half lost to baby-sized memory. He made out that House Darsha owed allegiance to a King Ramanir, had dominion over a few frontier provinces, and boasted of producing warriors, scholars, and seemingly one glow-in-the-dark baby.
A full hour later the cousin tried to instruct Sharath in sword grips by employing a cuddly griffin as model. The lesson terminated upon the arrival of Lady Ishvari, shocked to see a stuffed animal performing decapitation exercises next to her recently born child. She removed sword and griffin alike, reprimanding with ire softened by affectionate eye-rolling. Jivran saluted Sharath as he left, vowing to one day come back once he had learned to execute "the double-reverse dragon swing." Sharath wished him luck making it through puberty in secret.
Evening brought Lord Varundar's calls. He'd walk in with a scent of forge-fumes and cedar, his great hands ineptly tender as he scooped up Sharath to chest level. "There he is—little ironheart," he'd rumble, voice like a far-off avalanche, before launching into tales of border raids, hunting adventures, and once, a meticulous analysis of army boot stitching. Sharath ought to have been bored, but the rhythm of his dad's stories had a soothing hypnotic quality. And the tactical information could come in handy; you never know when a reincarnated computer programmer will have to flank marauding orcs.
With all these household vignettes, one reality throbbed just below the surface: magic permeated each brick of Darsha Manor. Lamps illuminated without oil. Carpets stayed dust-free thanks to reserved dust-sprites that came nightly to clean. Even the nursery rockers rocked themselves when they felt sleepiness. Sharath fluctuated between wonder and scholarly indignation; none of this had user guides or peer-journal records. How was a scientist to get reproducibility?
He decided to make his own. Working with mental mnemonics initially created to memorize IPv6 blocks of addresses, he set out to build a taxonomy of runes, ambient magic, and social mores. In week one, his mental spreadsheet had 173 distinct data points—an incredible achievement marred only by the inconvenient truth that he wasn't yet able to write or speak. Small hindrance. He'd write papers down later. For the moment, silent watching was enough.
Meanwhile, palace gossip bubbled like a fermentation jug left open. Servants spoke of the "Rune-illuminated Heir," of nursery walls aglow with mysterious sigils, of a baby who hummed once and caused bathwater to float. Sharath sighed to himself. Note: Launch PR campaign touting cute normal behaviors—drooling, laughing, occasional spit-ups—to counter mythic expectations.
Time, slippery in baby-land, ticked forward to his first formal public appearance: the Naming Ceremony. He heard nursemaids making plans: guest lists, flower arches, a ceremonial platform sprinkled with some sort of called star-salt, which likely provided sparkle unless swallowed, in which case it could vaporize kidneys. That was reassuring.
Sharath prepared himself. Launch day was near. He wasn't a build in beta anymore; he was set to go production-grade in front of the aristocratic network. And as each software launch taught him, something always went down.