The morning of Sharath's Naming Ceremony came dressed in its best sky: a peach and gold gradient that would have reduced Renaissance masters to pitch palettes in despair. Courtyards were abuzz with servants arranging garlands of moon-petaled roses; minstrels tuned lutes whose strings glimmered like compressed aurora; kitchen hearths roasted spiced pheasants until the air was festive-tasting.
In the great hall, nobles congregated in silks and armor, tittle-tattle whirling higher than the banners above. Sharath, wrapped in ceremonial cream-colored cloth with silver thread edges, sat on a silk pillow on an elaborately carved obsidian pedestal. He looked out at the crowd, one eyebrow—if anyone might have seen it under baby fat—angling in surprise at the outright betting going on behind paeans of respect.
Two knights conferred beside a pillar under a tapestry depicting great boar hunting. One clinked a coin pouch so full it hung like a ripe fruit. "Twenty gold on 'Varundar Junior.'" His friend snorted, gesturing to the dim rune glow leaking from under the pillow. "With magic like that? The astrologer will select something magnificent. Fifty on 'Elithran the Radiant.'"
Glowing? Sharath swore under his breath. He babbled in protest, which everyone misunderstood as cute yawning. If this world wanted him to be called Elithran, he could organize a toddler revolution.
Near the edge of the dais a betting pool became more hectic. A steward vowed the boy had sneezed on a rune circle, whereupon it burst into starry patterns. A duchess visiting swore her sister's maid had overheard the babe speak in tongues. Sharath snorted so vigorously milk dripped from his nose. Last week's notoriety burp had clearly achieved Homeric proportions.
A silence fell as the court astrologer stepped out of shadows like the intro of a boss fight. He moved forward, robes bejeweled and rippling, staff topped with a crystal that vibrated with subwoofer threat. His beard had more braids than a festival hair stall, each topped with small silver bells. Sharath named him Last Boss of Grandpas and braced himself for a cut-scene.
The astrologer stuck his staff in the ground, bells ringing. "Speak, stars," he spoke, voice creaking aged oak and midnight reverberation. Servants stood aside. Lady Ishvari, shining in sky-blue silk, was holding her breath; Lord Varundar stood rigid parade rest, brows furrowed like tectonic plates for war.
From a velvet pouch he pulled out a palm-sized lens carved of opal so sheer it appeared to drink light and emit daydreams. He held it over Sharath's chest. Cold light spilled across the lens, filling the infant with starlight that cut like flavor. Sharath's awareness snapped—chunks of code streams, the acrid scent of burned circuits, Madhu's coffee-frothed laughter—then opened onto a panorama of stars curving down cathedral vaults of darkness. Glyphs unfurled above, spinning runes that spat silver sparks. One was unmistakably a Wi-Fi icon. Sharath almost gagged on his pacifier.
Gasps erupted around the hall. The astrologer's eyes widened until iris met eyebrow. "Hmmmm," he murmured, the way scholars do when they stumble on footnotes that upend entire theses. "This soul… it is not new."
Ishvari's hand flew to her mouth, knuckles whitening. Varundar's shoulders squared as if daring the cosmos to insult his son.
But it is good," the ancient seer went on, a warm smile softening his stern face. "Strong. Heavy with possibility and. mysteries."
He took the lens from his eye. The drifting glyphs exploded like fireflies on a celebrant's night, dissolving to specks. Candlelight regained its normal warmth. Nobles sat forward, tension tighter than crossbow coils.
With dramatic flair the astrologer flung out his arms. "This child shall be called. Sharath Virayan Darsha!
A thud echoed as multiple bets landed on stone floor. Someone in the rear sputtered, "Sharath? Didn't we just have an Uncle Sharath?" Another complained that "Varundar Junior" would have doubled his coin. Dozing off cosmic names apparently devastated gambling odds.
Sharath's brain cartwheeled. Statistically unlikely. From trillions of phonetic possibilities within this world's vocabulary, the starlight had coughed up his Earth name. Coincidence? Destiny? A cosmic joke? He wished he had eyebrows expressive enough to convey philosophical meltdown.
The seer explained: "Sharath—he who perceives beyond illusion. Virayan—bearer of light. Darsha—one who reveals the concealed." Each title settled in like the chapter heading flipping into place. Sharath felt begrudgingly impressed. The name wasn't so much a jumble of random letters but more like metadata on his reincarnation patch notes.
Applause broke out, wine splashed, horns honked a celebratory fanfare that approximated suspiciously 'Take Me Home, Country Roads' played in minor key. Sharath glowed under the adoring attention, inwardly concentrating on slowing the rune light lest someone assume he could summon dragons as party favors.
Post-wedding feasting began. Sharath was taken to a less boisterous solar where Ishvari tended him while trading courteous dagger-sharp repartee with visiting countesses. Varundar volunteered to have braggarts hold his son; half declined once they saw leftover sparks smoldering across the baby blanket. Sharath didn't hold it against them. He resembled a Woolworth's lamp stand canvassing for a seizure warning.
Back in the great hall, gossip grew more rapidly than version numbers in open-source firmware. By dessert time, a sous-chef was swearing the astrologer had told them that the child's aura was flavored with lightning and question marks. Another swore they'd seen a whole sentence inscribed in runes on the ceiling: UPDATE AVAILABLE—RESTART KINGDOM?
Sharath inwardly sighed. So much for a peaceful infancy.
Later that night, when partygoers stumbled away and minstrels stowed lutes, Sharath rested in his cradle stomach-aching from both milk and existential horror. Runes drew calm spirals under the canopy, drowsy and satisfied. But outside of manor walls he felt movement—something colossal abrading against the forest's ley filaments. Not evil per se, but sentient. Observant. Waiting.
His small fingers wrapped around the pendant his parents had given him—moonstone set in silver, tied on a silk cord beside his pillow. Its stone shone pale blue, echoing the cradle runes in eerie harmony. He sensed the power flow through wood and crystal, then seep into his heartbeat, sending his nerves quivering like lightning before a storm.
And there it was once more: a shadow on peripheral perceptions, looming at the periphery of awareness. Something whose footfalls created imprints in magic itself.
Sharath took a breath in, exhaled, then made a rational executive choice: He started crying. Noisily. The cradle retaliated by emitting sleepy clouds to comfort him, but he cried even louder. In seconds Ishvari rushed in, enveloping him close, calming with gentle hums. Underneath her gentleness Sharath permitted tears to droop into whimpers. Not out of any improved sense of safety—though that too—he but out of paternal swords and maternal lullabies being the strongest firewall protocols at hand. The shadowy presence receded, dissolving into forest quiet.
His eyelids lowered. Runic clouds obscured. He held the moonstone pendant, thinking about probability curves, defense mechanisms, and where a baby might requisition encryption material. The world folded itself around him like brackets within brackets, and dream-code bore him off-line