"Kiss the Baby, Whisper About Succession, and Try Not to Drop the Future Lord" had its own scroll in the Codex of Royal Etiquette. It was an old, unwritten tradition of life at court: trot out the significant new baby, have all the nobles attempt to gauge its "future greatness" by the consistency of its drool, and feign not to notice when the baby clearly disliked them.
Somehow, I was the most highly heralded baby meet-and-greet of recent times. Gossip of my "soothing aura" and "expression that could value the soul" had traveled faster than complimentary wine at a harvest celebration. By the time Lady Jalendra of the Emerald Braids strutted into the room, I had been poked, prodded, and cooed over more often than the court jester's pet ferret (and that ferret despised it).
Lady Jalendra inclined her head in calculated poise, the emerald strands in her hair glistening in the light like miniature serpents coiling to strike. Around her throat lay a jeweled collar that breathed—literally. Each gemstone glowed with a faint pulse, expanding and contracting in rhythm with her breathing. The newest fashion rage: Living Jewelry, magical to "tie into the wearer's mood." Personally, I believed it resembled the gems attempting to escape.
"I hear his aura is… radiant," she remarked, as one might speak of a quality wine.
Her similarly extravagantly dressed friend leaned in. "The Royal Seer reported that it glowed at him… as though taunting his pronunciation of old Elvish."
I glared at them. If my aura taunted his Elvish, it's because he referred to a 'sacred oak' as a 'pancake of destiny.'
An older nobleman who wore a robe so stiff it would make a decent piece of armor added: "It's the way he looks at you. Like he's gauging your value. Or judging your hat in silence."
Yes. His hat was horrid—gold feathers, a silver band, and a swinging ruby that suspiciously resembled a boiled tomato.
Then the debutante. The Overly Enthusiastic One. "Who's the most precious little darling?" she shrieked, wiggling fingers heavy with diamonds in my face like a disoriented duckling expecting to be fed bread.
Instinct—refined over several lifetimes, a few bar fights, and one misadventure with a pickpocket—engaged. My small hand clamped on her index finger with the Baby Death Clasp™.
"Eee!" she shrieked, tears in her eyes. "He's so strong! Like a wee lion cub creating new grappling techniques!"
More akin to an old hitman checking grip, but hey, let's roll with that. I let go before circulation was cut off.
The Gift-Giving Gauntlet
Next came the gift bearers.
The Marquis of Butterford offered a wee silver sword—dull, naturally—but still able to poke toes if tossed properly.
The Duchess of Whispermere presented a bird in a cage of gold. It trilled sweet songs… except whenever it felt like warbling court gossip. At a volume.
Sir Chavrin of Nowhereton contributed a cupcake that never lost its freshness. Nor ceased its shrieking when one bit into it.
I glared at it. The cupcake glared back. We understood each other: we hated each other.
But then Lady Ishvari glided in with her contribution—her childhood companion. A wooden monstrosity part lion, part porcupine, and entirely regrettable.
"This is the Porcu-Lion," she said reverently. "It sings nursery rhymes when squeezed. Well… sometimes it screams."
She squeezed its belly.
The noise it made was… indescribable. A chorus of squirrels gargling melted cheese reciting four dead-language curses comes close. The windowpanes shook. Crows flapped out of the skies. A vase burst in sheer terror.
My reflexes took over. I slapped the Porcu-Lion off the cushion with the speed of a holy exorcist in a hurry.
Gasps.
And then—laughter. Lady Ishvari swooned against a chair, laughing and crying. "Impeccable taste! And lightning reflexes!"
The nobles were quick to imitate, laughter sweeping like a contagious charm. Wagers changed from "Will the baby cry?" to "Will the baby create lightning before dinner?"
The Parents' Competition
My father, Lord Varundar Darsha, thundered in like a battering ram crashing through the front gate. His bellowing voice could have been heard summoning ships from miles out. "Behold my lad! Come, Sharath! Pinch your old man's thumb and assert your dominance!"
I complied. Two-hands on the hilt. White-knuckle determination. Varundar laughed with pride. "Fencing before words! What face is that already scheming siege warfare!"
Lady Ishvari smiled. "Please. He took after me. Observe how he just dodged the Porcu-Lion? That was planning."
"It was fear," Varundar replied.
"Planning," she said.
It was both, I believed. Survival reflexes are planning.
Enter the Arch-Magister
A blast on a trumpet almost deafened half the court. The herald's voice thundered: "His Jolliness, Arch-Magister Boffin Quillfeather of the Sapphire Conclave, desires audience for aura… calibration."
"Is that safe?" Ishvari asked in a whisper. "The last time he scanned someone, the palace cat learned to play the lute."
"If he floats, we stop him," Varundar answered.
The door creaked open and in waddled Boffin Quillfeather—three-quarters wizard, one-quarter crazy uncle, one-quarter catastrophe looking for an audience. His hat was three sizes too high and partially ablaze (he didn't appear to notice). His robe was the same color as an oversteeped cup of tea, covered in what appeared to be. soup splatters? His staff looked like a breadstick that had attended magic school.
"Fear not!" he exclaimed, almost bowing over. "Merely a gentle scan. No explosions ahead of dessert!"
The Aura Scan (a.k.a. Magical Chaos)
Boffin jabbed the air with his staff. Runes materialized like tipsy fireflies, circling my head. There was a gentle humming in the air. Then—confetti. Glowing pink confetti.
"Oh, that's not supposed to do it," Boffin said, swatting at it. "Disregard the glitter, it's from last week's Birthday Divination."
The runes started whirling at a faster speed. Sparks emitted. A cupcake (the second shrieking cupcake) appeared in midair and landed on Lord Butterford's lap.
"I sense… code?" Boffin narrowed his eyes. "Magical code. Spellwork blended with binary. this is wonderfully bizarre."
Varundar moved forward. "So, he's strong?"
"Strong? My lord, this child's aura is refined. It's. acerbic."
Varundar burst out laughing. "Like his mother!
The runes sparked again, this time projecting a miniature storm cloud that rained only on the Porcu-Lion. It hissed like an angry kettle.
Boffin tapped his chin. "I also sense… mischief. And poultry-related destiny. Keep him away from enchanted chickens."
The nobles murmured, half-impressed, half-confused. Someone started taking bets on whether I'd summon lightning before my first birthday.
Boffin slammed his hands together, spilling the runes. "All finished! No side effects—well, aside from the weather in that corner." He gestured toward the Porcu-Lion, now exhaling a faint steam.
The Silver Cats
The aristocrats wandered off to luncheon, discussing my "aura potential" and "grip strength." I was returned to my cradle, free at last from the procession of scented strangers.
That's when they showed up.
Two silver-colored cats crept in through the open balcony doors—silent, deliberate, their fur shining like moonlight on water. Their eyes were mismatched: one gold, one deep blue.
They didn't walk like regular cats. They walked like scholars examining an artifact… or assassins examining a target.
The first cat sat beside my cradle, tail curled over neatly, and cocked its head as if to say, Well, aren't you interesting.
The second sprang lightly onto the railing, glowering at me with disquieting intensity. Then it purred—a noise that sounded more like the buzz of protective runes than actual purring.
I flinched. Great. Even the wildlife here wants to perform diagnostics on me.
The cats shared a look—a real, significant look—and then walked out as quietly as they'd come.
Nobody else noticed them.
That evening, as I fell asleep under the vigilant glare of the Porcu-Lion, I couldn't help but feel like the silver cats hadn't been run-of-the-mill animals. And the way they'd gazed at me… it was the same manner the Magister had gazed—like they already knew my secrets.
And perhaps, just perhaps, they were going to share them with someone