Opening Fanfares in the Smart-Castle
If a medieval cathedral and a high-tech Silicon Valley server farm eloped, settled down, and produced one overachieving architectural child—that was the reception hall. Towering ribbed vaults, upward-reaching buttresses, rune-carved pillars that glowed when there was something genuine said (so, very infrequently). Chandeliers the size of war ponies hung suspended from silver chains overhead—except they were connected to mood-stabilizer arrays. The entire space could actually dim the lights if the conversation became awkward.
Every noble family that arrived went through magical arches that performed the noble function of all good security systems: silently judging. Glyphs pulsed in colors of the rainbow as they searched visitors for weapons, contraband magic, and uncool capes. If you made it through? You received a gracious "identity verification complete" and a gentle magic chiming. If not? The arch flashed your "drama quotient" in colorized embarrassment.
House Aldamar waltzed in first. Their capes moved like they were powered by industrial fans, their peacock-topped staves emitted gentle sparks, and their expressions screamed, We're here to be fabulous, not relatable. The arches lit amber for "showy but harmless."
Then came House Vellion, a clan who thought "travel light" literally meant taking a portable library. One of them had an owl perched on her arm, wearing miniature gold glasses. The owl looked around the room with such wagging-judgemental wisdom that Sharath half-suspected it had just graded his soul. 🐧 [Database entry created: "Avian Diplomat β." Caution advised: likely takes notes for superior authorities.]
And lastly, Uncle Aldric burst in as if he'd been exiled from subtlety. Poison-green velvet robes swept dramatically behind him. Gemstones in his beard were attuned to arcane sub-frequencies, and arches pulsed maroon when he strode by. 🐧 [Maroon registered: uniquely aggressive color. The building agrees with us about your uncle.]
Social Engineering by Swaddle
The Infant Introduction Circuit commenced—essentially political speed-dating with a baby for bait. Lady Ishvari wheeled Sharath's cradle from lord to lord, beaming like an ambassador and selling him like the crown prince of Darsha House.
Each visitor cooed, took measurements of the circumference of his skull (shudder), and murmured regarding his "aura of potential." Ishvari, on the other hand, gathered word concessions regarding tariffs, leagues, and sea rights during breaks of "aww."
🐧 [Online live analytics:]
Count Dorn: objects to castle security; flirting with your mother's aide.
Baroness Yva: suspicious; ring containing lie-spell; 30% chance she'll attempt to extract information.
Avian Diplomat β: actively recording through feather-ruffle Morse code.
When Baroness Yva leaned forward with a question obviously intended to catch him out, Sharath responded by hitting her with a beautifully timed blink. She gasped, her lie-detecting ring indicated "truth," and her entire next sentence went off the rails.
Not bad for a fellow who couldn't sign his name legally.
Goatgate: The Short, Crazy Intermission
Midway through the entrée course, the universe determined the night would benefit from some chaos seasoning. The goat—yes, that goat—came storming into the banquet room like a tipsy diplomat showing up late to a scandal.
Four hooves came crashing down on the banquet table. Silverware clattered. It glared at a decorative pineapple… and head-butted it as if the pineapple was in its debt. Glowing fruit pulp burst across the place settings.
Gasps. Murmurs. A unison "What in the Nine Hells?" from the crowd.
🐧 [ALERT: Pineapples were surveillance nodes. Goat inadvertently neutralized them. Suggest applause to position as comic relief.]
Lord Varundar rushed quicker than a man in ceremonial armor should be able to, performing a perfect rugby tackle that swept both goat and tablecloth off to the ground. The nobles, concluding this was clearly intended as part of the show, burst into applause.
At the same time, Ishvari performed the slightest flick of her fingers Sharath had ever witnessed—like she was swatting away a fly—and servants rushed the pineapple wreckage away before any spells could reset.
Sharath silently saluted the goat. Not every hero is in a cape; some are in sashes and poor choices.
Enchanted Cuisine & The Futility of Child-Proofing
Dinner was an enchanted tasting menu ripped from the fever dreams of a bard. Cloud-deer floating with food antlers, gold-particle pomegranate soup, bread that sang three-part harmonies every time someone cut into it.
🐧 [Ingredient scan:] mood enhancers, memory enhancers, light truth serum. Risk level for baby food: moderate.]
Sharath was spoon-fed shimmer-banana puree, which almost made his taste buds petition for divine ascension.
Nobles nearby whispered between bites:
"That baby just coughed in flawless iambic pentameter!"
"Did his bib just assemble a rune?"
"Note to self: never play poker with House Darsha babies."
🐧 [Tip: deflect. Drool, burp, smile. Little suspicion created.]
Sharath did as bid, creating applause so loud that one baron nearly choked on his harmony bread.
Gift Drop – Because What Sovereign Infant Doesn't Need a Sword?
After dessert plates were removed, the nobles stood in ceremonial line for the Gifting Ritual. Every gift was placed on a mystic silk at the side of Sharath's cradle, each one buzzing with political intent practically.
House Vellion: an Evolving-Scroll that shone brighter when curiosity was present.
House Aldamar: a Dragon-Bone Hilt, buzzing with a repressed fight-spirit like a sword that was already somewhat annoyed at him.
House Celarien: a Fluffy Unicorn so cute it must be spyware.
Avian Diplomat β: a Quill that automatically translated baby babble into political drafts.
🐧[Scanning…] Surveillance device neutralized and added to cradle-net. Hilt will soul-bond post-teething. Scroll is already updating with quantum calculus. Quill failsafe disabled. Congratulations, you're now a portable magical IoT hub.]
As each gift joined the growing pile, the enchanted colonnade lights flickered between pastel shades—recalibrating to acknowledge the newborn network administrator of the castle.
From the other side of the room, Uncle Aldric growled to a dark shape, "That boy will redefine the pecking order if he doesn't explode first."
Rude, but also… likely true.
Father's Toast & Reputation Sealed
Lord Varundar, goblet aloft, gave the sort of thunderous, camera-ready toast that could pass as a declaration of war. "My son shall increase in vigor and acumen; his destiny chiseled in stone and heaven!"
Applause like firecrackers. A string quartet somewhere moved to a victorious major chord. A pineapple surveillance node elsewhere rebooted silently, understood the party had already passed, and chose despair as the viable alternative.
🐧 [Public prophecy saved. Fate officially recognized by nobility. Be prepared for heightened scrutiny, unpaid mentorship proposals, and potential attempts at kidnapping.]
Sharath theatrically yawned—open enough to be confused for a tactical withdrawal. Ishvari picked up the cue and spun him out of the hall, leaving the nobles to process both their food and the revelation that an eight-week-old had just taken the role of most intriguing political figure in the room