The Morning Security Brief (a.k.a. "Why Is the Diaper Talking?") 🐧
If you've never been to a highborn household's morning strategy meeting, imagine the world's busiest coffee shop—but run entirely by overly dramatic theater kids, and managed by someone halfway through a phoenix molt.
By seventh bell, the halls of the manor were a whirl of scent clouds, paper missiles, and individuals hurrying about like there was a clearance sale on exotic griffon eggs.
On this Tuesday, Lord Varundar made up his mind that his baby boy—me, Sharath—ought to "have early exposure to the family trade." Translation: my cradle was wheeled into the council chamber like a wheeled cat bed fit for a royal kitty, with me in it in my best diplomatic onesie.
Varundar, still clad in his armor from practicing his sparring at dawn, pounded his gauntleted fist on the war table. "Reports!" he yelled.
Sentinel #1: Goblin raids in the Forest of Sighs? False alarm—just raccoons on hyperdrive.
Sentinel #2: Trade caravan behind schedule; they're attributing to "meteor shower whales."
Sentinel #3: New gossip claims the infant heir luminesces when dark, thus must be a covert fae.
I did my best to maintain a straight face. NeuroBoop, my in-residence AI hitchhiker, snickered in my head. 🐧
DIAGNOSTIC: RUMOR VELOCITY HIGH. RECOMMENDED MITIGATION—PERFORM LOWER-KEY BABY ACTIONS. SUGGESTION: MID-MEETING SPIT-UP.
Hard pass, I remembered.
Infancy is messy enough without the addition of strategic spit-ups to my resume. So, I mastered a slow, sleepy blink. Five guards observing me turned to mush. Rumor rating decreased by 12%.
The Parentals, Reinterpreted🐧
After strategy speak was finished, Varundar picked me up from my cradle and held me up like he was acting out The Lion King.
"Ironheart," he said, "render your opinion regarding the perimeter."
I gave him my best "wise beyond my weeks" baby glower.
HUMOR MODE ACTIVATED, NeuroBoop hinted. 🐧
So I used the tried and true: "GURG!"
Varundar laughed explosively. Meeting adjourned in the instant.
Coming out, Lady Ishvari blocked our path with her "smiling but I may vaporize you" face. "Bath follow-up?" she inquired of the nursemaids.
"All subdued, my lady."
"I should hope so," she replied, "or the duck gets the incinerator.
🐧NOTE: DUCK VENGEANCE LEVEL: LOW AFTER HEARING THAT.
Courtyard of Competitive Parenting 🐧
Mid-morning was "Social Hour," and it was essentially nobles parading around with their babies and acting like they weren't comparing each other. Minstrels played music, ladies compared embroidery skills, and someone brought out pear tarts so flaky they might sue you for eating them.
My pushchair came parked beneath a pear tree as the noblewomen stood in a semi-circle as if evaluating a fine racehorse.
"Notice his stance—already pensive!" barked Countess Silvene.
"He's itemizing our shortcomings," grumbled another, fussing with her tiara.
CONFIRMATION: YOUR LEFT SHOE BUCKLE COLLIDES WITH YOUR BROOCH, LADY, NeuroBoop whispered. 🐧
On the lawn, another opposing baby—Bram the Brave, allegedly having bench-pressed a goat—began a wail so powerful two pigeons fled the scene.
🐧 ANALYSIS: ATMOSPHERIC MANIPULATION SPELL DETECTED.
Me? Twice I blinked, once I drooled, and I did nothing more. The crowd went wild.
"So stoic!"
"Zen!"
"He will be a philosopher!"
🐧 BRAND STATUS: MYSTERIOUSLY SERENE. PUBLIC APPROVAL: RISING.
Sticky note to self: never underestimate how much doing nothing impresses rich people.
The Bard With the Beeping Lyre🐧
There's always that one guy at every event. In this case, it was a wandering bard with a lyre shrouded in glowing runes that changed color.
He ambled over, strummed, and his strings flashed fuchsia, indigo, neon chartreuse, and then revolutionary crimson.
"That's strange," he grumbled. "It only does that when there's going to be thunder. or political upheaval.
Varundar overheard and grinned. "Thunder's clear. As for upheaval—if it's polite, we'll host it; if not, we'll smash it."
The lyre chirped like it approved. 🐧 POTENTIAL ALLY DETECTED.
Afternoon of Accidental Espionage ?🐧
Nap time wasn't just for sleeping; it was for NeuroBoop's "deep scans."
SCAN RESULTS:
Manor wards = solid rune network.
South orchard node still flickering from the meteor incident.
A six-legged fluffball (codename: Moon-Mop) roams nightly mapping corridors.
OBJECTIVE: Establish diplomatic relations with Moon-Mop tonight.
But first—daily playtime with magical toys.
Porcu-Lion, Redux 🐧
Remember the porcupine-lion hybrid toy that once tried to scream the wallpaper off the nursery? Craftsmen swore they'd "fixed" it. Today, it returned—wearing a bowtie.
"All better," Ishvari said, placing it beside me. "No more screaming."
The bowtie pulsed red.
🐧 WARNING: RECURSIVE HEX FRAGMENTS DETECTED.
The toy's mouth opened.
"Meeeeee—"
…followed by a bass-heavy demon roar.
Auto-shields exploded, sending the toy flying into the courtyard fountain. The fountain retaliated with a high-pressure stream that propelled it onto the roof.
Silence. Then I laughed. Couldn't help it.
The staff came to a standstill. Ishvari pinched the bridge of her nose. "Perhaps a plush bunny next time."
🐧 MISSION COMPLETE: HAZARD NEUTRALIZED. PARENTAL HUMOR +3.
Sunset Sync 🐧
I was standing in the nursery again by evening, observing the last light illuminate the walls.
DAILY REPORT:
Social brand still intact: Stoic Wonder-Baby.
Threats: enemy babies, marauding ducks, soap militias.
Allies: Moon-Mop, conscious lyre, perhaps ducks if reprogrammed.
Outside, lanterns glowing, woodsmoke rising, and from the trees—two silver cats observed, their eyes shining gold.
My pendant grew warm.
🐧IDENTITY MATCH: FOREST ENTITY DETECTED. POWER LEVEL: HIGH.
Tomorrow, things would spin out of control. But for tonight, I allowed NeuroBoop to enqueue his new "lullaby subroutine"—a combination of jazzy plucks and the hum of a far-off lab fan. Surprisingly soothing.
Sleep rushed in. Tomorrow could wait.