The sun did not merely rise over House Darsha — it burst into being like some stellar show-off determined to take home the prize for "Most Dramatic Entrance Before Breakfast." The hills to the east glowed golden, birds sang operatic duets, and the whole estate appeared to vibrate with a strange combination of urgency and self-absorption. If this sunrise had an PR person, they were due for a raise.
Servants scurried like stagehands preparing for a royal show — banners unfurl, flowers artfully puffed out, and even the horses appeared to have had their morning spa treatment.
[🐧 Ah yes, nothing says "good governance" like having more time spent primping horses than plotting infrastructure.]
I, Sharath Virayan Darsha, heir apparent and three months old, was at the center of all this activity. Today was my first official field trip outside into the greater world — or, as unnervingly gleeful as it was announced by the domestic staff, "The Great Adventure." My parents referred to it as "inspection of local trade centers." I referred to it as "industrial reconnaissance mission."
Of course, my two cents weren't valued by anyone… except the voice in my head. NeuroBoop. My constant helpful, constant sarcastic AI friend who had somehow opted to embody a sardonic British penguin in my mind.
[🐧 Educational value: high. Risk of you trying to rebuild their economy before lunch: also high.]
I was being dressed for the event in the nursery, which had become a setting halfway between a royal fittings room and a hostage standoff. Silk robes, embroidered sashes, protective charms sewn into the clothing — the whole shebang.
"Hold still, young master," Rani, my head nurse, ordered, as if I could actually hold still when three different people were pulling at me in three different directions.
The pièce de résistance was The Hat. Capital T. Capital H. Picture a crown got a drunken romantic tryst with a sofa cushion — that was The Hat.
"It's darling," one maid sighed.
"It's a death trap," the steward grumbled. "The kid will die before he makes a good impression."
[🐧 I concur with the steward. It's not so much a hat as it is a moveable architectural detail. Perhaps lease it out as a spare bedroom.]
I bubbled my discontent, which in my mind sounded like: Take this cranial abomination away before I register an official complaint with the baby fashion police.
[🐧 Translation: he dislikes it. Not that it matters — diplomacy is 80% faking liking inane things.]
The Hat remained. My dignity… did not.
We set out in a grand procession that might have served a traveling circus. The family carriage shone, guards rode in tight formation, and supply wagons rumbled behind. Even I, in my bassinet, could overhear guard chatter.
"…three more breaks out of the dungeon this month," one muttered as he tightened his saddle straps.
"…Guild's discovering artifacts in the deep shafts," another whispered, lowering his voice. "Some cursed. Some that… shouldn't exist."
[🐧 Ah, great. Nothing screams 'fun family outing' quite like hushed references to haunted items.]
A third guard interrupted my internal questioning before I could continue it. "My brother reports the mines are… off lately. Sounds in languages unknown. Equipment moving by itself."
Father's voice cut through the air at this point. "About what?"
Silence. Then: "Old miners' stories, my lord."
Father didn't seem to believe it. "Old stories have a tendency to make themselves true in these countries. We'll talk about this later."
[🐧 Your dad is concerned. Also, did you catch how he didn't brush it off? That's not how one speaks of harmless gossip.]
I mentally added it to the list: dungeon escapes, eerie whispers, cursed relics. Today's mission just became. interesting.
The route to Kavrenn's Crossing passed through fields and hamlets. People saluted, vendors greeted, children ran with the caravan until they grew weary.
Kavrenn's Crossing itself was a wonder — rambling stone walls, towers overgrown with pennants, and an atmosphere heavy with the combined smells of spices, roasting meat, and a thousand varied industries at work. The gates swung open with ceremonial reluctance, and we drove into the marketplace.
The place was a riot of color and noise. Merchants hawked everything from enchanted cookware to self-sharpening quills. A street performer made a lute levitate while juggling apples. Somewhere nearby, a goat in a tiny vest was trying to eat a tax ledger.
[🐧 Honestly, the goat is the most competent accountant I've seen so far.]
Mother descended elegantly from the carriage, smiling and waving like royalty. Father descended as well, shaking hands with guild master craftsmen. I was paraded in my bassinet like some sacred relic, The Hat brooding above me like a silk storm cloud.
All the merchants wanted to show their best wares to "the young master." One jeweler attempted to give me a sapphire-covered gold rattle.
[🐧 That thing is worth enough to finance a miniature coup. Don't drool on it, though.]
I saw the workshops past the central market — the actual center of Kavrenn's Crossing. Smiths, glassworkers, looms for cloth — the equipment of civilization. If I could just move in closer—
Sadly, my way was barred by a delegation from the Baker's Guild, who insisted on giving me a ceremonial honey cake about the size of my torso.
[🐧 Brilliant. A diplomatic sugar coma before noon.]
I was merely accepting a day of pompous formalities when I sensed something amiss. The market background noise. changed. A shiver of tension ran through the throng. Eyes looked in the direction of the northern quarter — the factory district.
Father had seen as well. His gaze narrowed. He apologized to the guildmaster in mid-sentence. Mother trailed behind, her fan folding with a snap.
Our guard captain approached, voice low. "My lord — there's been an… incident at the glassworks."
We were moving before I even realized it, the bassinet jostling as the procession cut through the uneasy crowd.
The glass factory was a long, low structure, its huge furnaces normally rumbling with heat and life. One furnace remained cold this morning, its employees huddled outside in small, whispering groups. The foreman was pale, his tremulous hands as he welcomed my parents.
"It began an hour back," he explained. "The furnace. sang."
Father's brow creased. "Sang?"
"A low hum, like… harmonious voices. And then the molten glass started to… form itself. No tools, no hands. Just… moving."
[🐧 Oh yes, nothing out of place about spontaneously assembling molten glass singing in harmony. Happens every Tuesday.]
They took us in. The air was slightly ozone-like and metallic-tasting. On the workbench there was a half-cooled sheet of glass… engraved with strange runes that none of the workers could identify.
Mother's voice was strained. "Has anyone handled it?"
"No, my lady. We recalled the tales."
[🐧 Translation: 'We're not fools, my lady.']
Father addressed the guard captain. "Seal this building. Double the guard. And dispatch a message to the Guild archives — I wish to have all records of anomalous artifacts in the hour.
As we talked, I sensed… something. A vibration, barely there but unmistakable, along the lines of the bassinet frame. A thread tugging at the frayed edge of my mind.
[🐧 You sense that too, don't you? Not merely the baby version of indigestion.]
It was emanating from the glass sheet. Whatever had formed it… wasn't finished.
Before I could examine it further, a sudden crack rocked the air. The sheet broke, runes burning for an instant before extinguishing into nothing. The vibration stopped.
The foreman cursed under his breath. Father's jaw clenched. "We depart. Immediately."
The trip back to the market was strained. The crowd's previous excitement had turned to murmured gossip. Rumor spread quickly here — quicker than official denials.
As we went by a group of merchants, I heard one of them whisper: "…same as in the mines… voices before the break…"
[🐧 Well, well, well, congratulations, you've had your very first experience with an unauthorized magical event. At three months old. Overachiever.]
At the carriage, Mother resettled The Hat on my head with a shaking hand. "You saw nothing," she whispered to herself, not to me.
Too late for that.
[🐧 Indeed. And with the way your father's already giving orders under his breath, this little trip just became the supporting act to something much larger.]
As the gates of Kavrenn's Crossing shut behind us, I watched the receding rooftops. The market still thronged, the banners still streamed, but somewhere beneath all that sound and color, something had started to move.
And I was going to discover what.
[🐧 Oh yes, let's add "infant investigator of eldritch market anomalies" to your CV. I'm sure that'll go over well.]