The sun rose over the rooftops of House Darsha, casting long golden beams across the inner courtyard, where mist clung to ivy-covered stone like secrets too shy to speak. Bells tolled in the temple towers beyond the estate walls, their sonorous voices echoing through the valley as if announcing to the heavens that another day of magic and mischief had begun.
Sharath Virayan Darsha, heir to one of Navaleon's most powerful noble houses, was draped in a silk swaddle embroidered with protective runes and a sleeping lion that snored when rubbed the wrong way. He lay in his rune-cradle, quietly plotting the magical world's future—or, more immediately, how to avoid another enchanted bath bucket to the face.
His nursery was a marvel of medieval magic engineering: hovering chandeliers enchanted to dim at a baby's yawn, cleaning brooms that swept in rhythm with lullabies, and enchanted windows that only allowed in light that met some arcane standard for "gentle sunshine."
Everything in this world is powered by intention, he'd realized during yesterday's feeding. It's not just magic. It's magical infrastructure.
There were glow-glyphs on the walls that pulsed softly when someone entered the room. Shelves refilled themselves with folded linens. Even the baby powder tin levitated when someone shouted "soothe!"
These people don't think of magic as mysticism, he thought, as a servant chanted "Wash and bless" to sterilize a feeding bottle. They treat it like plumbing. Or Wi-Fi.
Today, however, something new was brewing.
Quite literally.
A bath ritual.
"Is the water blessed?" the nursemaid asked, peering into a floating bronze basin filled with softly steaming water.
"The fire-rune's stable," replied another, tapping the underside of the basin with a wand carved from birch and inlaid with amethyst. "See the steam? That's holy warmth."
"And the bubbles?"
"They sing."
At this, Sharath's face scrunched. Last time the bubbles sang, they had harmonized a lullaby in minor key—and then started quoting proverbs in two languages.
"The baby is already watching us," said the midwife in charge. "Like he knows."
Because I do know, Sharath thought. Last time you tried to bless my skin, the soap turned into a sermon and tried to cleanse me of "sins from past lives."
A maid approached with a sponge shaped like a bear. It blinked.
And that thing is definitely cursed.
They began the bath with chants: "Pure water, cleanse the vessel of the child, let no stain linger, let no spirit cling."
The basin glowed faintly. A fish-shaped charm swam through the water and, without warning, squirted Sharath in the face.
"PFTTTK!" he spat instinctively, then froze. Too articulate.
"Did he just—?"
"He's just energetic!" said the head nurse, quickly. "A blessed sign!"
No it's not, Sharath thought, blinking water out of his eyes. It's a sign I'm considering launching the bath sponge into orbit.
One of the younger maids, a freckled girl named Rani, whispered, "This one's going to be a rune-smith, mark my words. He doesn't just react—he evaluates. Like he's judging our spellwork."
Sharath gave her a long, solemn stare.
She nearly dropped the enchanted towel.
Later, dried and draped in a new robe laced with protective threads (which itched terribly, by the way), Sharath found himself carried into the main courtyard for "airing."
This was a noble tradition that involved wheeling babies into sunlight while gossiping under umbrellas shaped like dragon wings. Today, several ladies from neighboring houses had gathered with their own babies—forming a highly political baby showcase.
"Ah, Lady Ishvari," sang one of the women, "how radiant your little one looks today! Just the right shade of divine."
"His eyes are so expressive," said another. "Almost... adult."
Lady Ishvari beamed. "He's been alert from the moment he opened his eyes."
"He hummed along to my cousin's harp performance," said Rani from the sidelines. "In tune."
Sharath instantly began to chew on his own hand.
Be normal, Sharath. Be soft. Be gooey. Be as intellectually threatening as a lukewarm dumpling.
In a neighboring cradle, another noble baby let out a high-pitched squeal that sent a gust of wind through the canopy overhead. One of the noblewomen paled.
"Oh stars," she whispered. "Little Darnel manifested again. That's the third time this week."
Sharath's eyes narrowed. Did that baby just cast a wind spell?
Lady Ishvari laughed nervously. "They do say magical inheritance sometimes kicks in early."
A bard passed by, playing a lyre that was also apparently a weather predictor. It beeped at Sharath and changed color.
"…what does that beep mean?" asked one of the nobles.
The bard frowned at his lyre. "It usually only does that before thunderstorms… or revolutions."
Everyone went silent.
You're not helping, Sharath thought.
That night, Sharath lay awake in his cradle, mentally composing his first magical research notes.
✦ Mage Baby Log — Day 11Observations:
Magic in this world operates via structured runes + vocal command.
Proximity-based enchantments common in architecture.
Emotional state seems to influence magical systems (see: bath-bubble singing incident).
Cradle and pendant are both tied to protective magical monitoring—almost like parental A.I. alert systems.
Conclusions:
Magic here is predictable, programmable, and possibly codable.
Need to learn the local grammar of glyphs to design with it.
I may need an enchanted chalkboard or, failing that, a wall I can scribble runes on in porridge.
The door creaked open. Lord Varundar stepped in quietly and approached the cradle.
He knelt beside it and stared at Sharath with a mixture of awe and confusion.
"I don't know what you are, little one," he whispered. "But your eyes… they're not the eyes of someone just born."
He reached out and touched Sharath's forehead. His hand was warm, rough with calluses from training and war.
"But whatever you are… you're mine. And I'll protect you, strange soul and all."
Sharath blinked.
For once, he didn't have a sarcastic thought ready.
Just a quiet warmth spreading through him like a resonance he didn't expect. Lord Varundar was intense, a bit terrifying, and also... good.
Not a clueless noble. Not an arrogant warrior.
Just a father. Trying his best.
The following morning, Sharath's crib was visited by the court's rune tutor—a hunched old man with a beard so long it had its own hairpin.
"This is the baby, is it?" he asked.
Lady Ishvari nodded. "We'd like you to test his response to visual runes. Not for complexity. Just… see if he reacts."
Sharath did his best to appear like a sentient potato.
The tutor drew a basic glyph in the air—a floating symbol for "Warmth."
Sharath blinked once.
Then sneezed.
The glyph popped like a soap bubble.
Everyone gasped.
"Well, that's new," said the tutor. "Did he just negate a rune?"
Sharath coughed adorably and resumed drooling.
"I must write this down," the man muttered. "If he can disrupt active sigils passively, we may be looking at a prodigy unlike any born this century."
Please don't write it down. Please let this be the century of ignorance and record loss.
✦ Mage Baby Log — AddendumNew Goal: Learn runes. Disrupt magical detection. Invent baby-sized notebook.Also: avoid exploding again.
That evening, just as the sun dipped behind the sapphire hills and lanterns lit themselves along the parapets, Sharath felt a strange energy ripple through the estate.
Something ancient. Watching.
He turned toward the nursery window.
The forest beyond the estate shimmered faintly. A pair of golden eyes blinked once in the darkness, then vanished.
His pendant glowed softly against his chest.
The rune on the window flared briefly and whispered a single word in his mind.
"Soon."