The morning sun was the golden, filtered sort that filtered through high lattice windows and spilled over the marble floors like silk. Sharath was brought out into the family's spacious garden — a groomed rectangle of ornamental beauty — for what his parents referred to as "nature exposure," but he suspected was more about demonstrating that the Ishvari home could budget for a gardener whose main specialty was informing weeds they weren't invited.
[🐧ENVIRONMENTAL ANALYSIS ????: This "garden" is basically a floral flex selfie. No food being grown, 100% form being maintained.]
The air was fragrant with clipped jasmine hedges and waxed stone fountains, with the subtle underpinning of wet soil that suggested someone had risen early to water the roses. Birds sang politely, as though they knew they were included in the carefully created atmosphere.
It was there — among the carefully groomed flowerbeds — that Sharath saw his first live demonstration of the kingdom's social order in practice. And, typically with the early lessons in Sharath's life, it presented itself as a tempest in a teapot.
A beautiful child, around five years old, stood in the center of a gravel path, wearing a miniature of the full and ornate court tunic — dark indigo silk with gold thread that seemed to have been sewn by an expert who did not view time and eyesight as essential resources. His hair was styled in that meticulously rumpled look that requires three slaves to accomplish, and his diminutive face already bore the disciplined look of the man who thought the universe existed to make him comfortable.
The object of his focus — and annoyance — was a barefoot servant boy, patched tunic at both elbows, matted hair from humidity. The boy held an empty water jug, clay surface damp where the spill had happened.
"You bow when nobles go by," the noble child announced, puffing out his chest. His voice wasn't angry so much as dismayed, as if someone were correcting a gross faux pas at the opera. "Even to babies like this one."
He waved at Sharath with the air of casual ownership of someone indicating an heirloom vase.
[🐧SOCIAL DYNAMICS ANALYSIS ????: Noble brat deploying "I outrank you" posture. Textbook inherited arrogance. Would be cute if it weren't socially corrosive.]
The servant boy dipped his head, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. His shoulders curled in as if to make his body smaller — an instinctive flinch honed over years. His voice, when it came, was flat. "I'm sorry, my lord."
"Again," the noble child demanded. "Louder."
"I already—"
The boy's noble hand jerked upwards. Not a slap yet — but the promise was there, stuck in him like learned-muscle memory from observing grown-ups assert their dominance.
[🐧ALERT ????: Direction of hand indicates imminent low-force blow. Nobility training drill, it seems.]
Air sealed in. Sharath's infantal mind — technically adult mind in infant skull — balanced options. A shriek might attract parental notice. A jolt might send the noble child tumbling. But before he could act—
"Enough."
Lady Ishvari spoke across the garden, sharp and blade-edged. All faces turned. The noble child's face disintegrated in a moment, his eyes replaced by the fright of a person caught in the middle of a felony.
"I didn't mean—"
"My son," Ishvari replied, voice low and husky with the authority of command, "will be instructed that compassion trumps lineage. Nobles lead by justice, not terror."
[🐧ETHICAL STATEMENT ANALYSIS ????: Your mom just laid down a moral truth bomb in the form of relaxed parenting. Cool and subversive.]
Sharath looked at her, his eyes wide in measured amazement. She looked down, her face relaxing just far enough for a discreet smile.
"You see, don't you?" she breathed.
[🐧CONFIRMATION REQUEST ????: She's testing for value congruence. Very influential moment for future moral direction.]
Indeed, he saw. And at that moment, he made up his mind that his future revolution would be not merely technological — it would be ethical. Systems would be remade, but so would minds.
[🐧STRATEGY UPDATE ????: Scope of the revolution broadened. Mission parameters: social, economic, ethical transformation.]
The noble boy scurried off, muttering something about being late for lessons. The servant child remained still, pitcher hugged to his chest, eyes fixed on the gravel. Even after Ishvari's intervention, the boy's posture didn't change. He still flinched whenever a shadow moved near him.
[🐧TRAUMA ASSESSMENT ????: Persistent defensive body language. This kid's nervous system is running a permanent "duck and cover" protocol.]
Sharath made a choice. If he couldn't dismantle inequality yet, he could at least test how deep this boy's conditioning went.
He wriggled in Ishvari's arms, reaching one pudgy hand toward the servant boy. The motion was slow, deliberate — giving him time to register it as harmless. Still, the boy's eyes flicked to the hand and then back to the ground, as though even looking directly was a risk.
Sharath patted the boy's sleeve once, then left his hand there. The servant went rigid, gasping shallow.
[🐧DATA POINT ????: Physical touch endured but causes micro-tremor in right hand. Trust baseline: close to zero.]
It was little enough. But it was the beginning of a dossier in Sharath's mental file. This boy could be an ally someday — but he'd take time, protection, and assurance that not all power was brutality.
Later in the evening, when the garden had slipped into darkness, Sharath caught the sounds of conversation coming from the open veranda. The acoustics of the marble halls made the words carry clearly enough for him to decipher each one.
"The boy's father owes three months' rent," Varundar was saying. "Ever since the mine collapse truncated his leg, they've been living on day wages and handouts from the temple."
"And Kellen knows this," Ishvari answered. Her voice was strung tight, controlled — that kind of control covering hot anger. "He's learned debt degrades a man. That suffering is a fault."
"Because the system teaches him so," Varundar spoke heavily. "When worth is in coin, when birth determines your limit… how can children learn empathy?"
[🐧SYSTEMIC DIAGNOSIS ????: Firmware update of culture necessary. Default settings: 'Elites default to callous.']
"They're both victims," Ishvari whispered. "The servant loses dignity; the noble loses compassion. Different cages, same prison."
That phrase stuck in Sharath's head like a hook. Different cages. Same prison.
[🐧PHILOSOPHICAL LOG ENTRY ????: Oppressor-oppressed dynamic is equally dehumanizing. Possible rallying cry for future revolution.]
From his crib that evening, Sharath schemed the event into a larger strategy. He couldn't blow the Stone Ceiling out of the previous chapter in one single motion. But perhaps he could whittle away at the bars of these prisons — one encounter, one shift in perception at a time.
For the moment, the first step was modest: recall the face of the servant boy.
The second step: recall that of Lord Kellen's.
Because both, in their own manner, would require saving.
[🐧TACTICAL OUTLOOK ????: Constructing a revolution, mind by mind. Babies are tolerant. Empires… not so much.]