No. This is *not* fine.
Sharath attempted to scream again, but what came out wasn't the eloquent "What the hell just happened?" he intended — it was a furious, high-pitched wail. The kind of wail that could curdle milk at twenty paces. A nearby midwife actually flinched and almost dropped him.
"Strong lungs!" someone shouted approvingly. "A fighter already!" another voice called.
I'm not fighting, Sharath thought desperately. I'm panicking. There's a difference.
The sensory input slammed into him all at once. Gone was the steady hum of servers, the quiet clatter of keys, the cold bluish glow of fluorescent lab lights. Instead, firelight flickered across stone walls, casting golden pools of warmth and long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with smells: lavender, smoke, hot iron, and the unmistakable tang of blood.
The ceiling above him was vaulted, ribbed with carved beams, the kind of medieval architecture he'd only ever seen in old documentaries or fantasy games. The voices around him were speaking in a melodic, rhythmic tongue — it reminded him of Sanskrit, but heavier, with an almost Norse lilt to certain syllables.
Okay, quick recap: lab meltdown… blue glow… quantum arc explosion… and now… I'm a newborn? A medieval newborn?
He tried to move his arms. They responded like overcooked noodles with arthritis. He flailed. Someone cooed. He flailed harder. Someone cheered.
"I believe he just cast his first hex," a voice stage-whispered dramatically.
"No," another voice replied in mock solemnity, "that was definitely a poop."
Great. In my previous life, I was a respected cybersecurity researcher. Now I'm the butt of medieval poop jokes.
A woman's voice, warm but weary, cut through the chatter. "Let me hold him." It was tired but still resonant, the kind of voice you could imagine delivering both lullabies and royal decrees.
Sharath felt himself lifted, the hands surprisingly gentle for how strong they were. His tiny body was turned, and he was pressed against the warmth of a woman's chest. Her scent hit him first — a mix of lavender, sweat, and something earthy, maybe sage.
She looked down at him. Her long, dark hair was plastered to her forehead from exertion, her brow glistening in the firelight. She was clearly exhausted, yet her expression was radiant — a strange mix of pride, wonder, and relief.
"My sweet son," she whispered. "You're beautiful."
Son. That meant…
His new mother. Lady Ishvari Darsha.
Her eyes shimmered with tears — joy, not pain — as she traced a trembling fingertip along his cheek. The touch was careful, reverent, like she was afraid he might vanish if she pressed too hard.
"This one's different," one of the older midwives murmured. "He didn't simply cry. He screamed as if… he understood."
Lady, you don't even know the half of it.
A heavier, deeper voice came from the corner. "He'll be a warrior, then. Or a general. We Darshas are bred for strength."
The man stepped forward — tall, broad-shouldered, a beard like steel wool, and eyes the color of cold iron. Lord Varundar Darsha. His father. His *new* father.
If genetics worked the same way here, Sharath thought, please let me inherit at least half of that beard when the time comes.
"Observe his grasp," Lord Varundar said, holding out a thick finger. Sharath, driven by either reflex or curiosity, latched on with all the force his tiny fingers could muster.
"Ha!" Lord Varundar grinned. "Already attempting to disarm his foes!"
"Or attempting to steal your wedding ring," Ishvari said dryly, her lips curving into the faintest smile. "He seems to have good taste in jewelry."
For a moment, Sharath just… observed. His parents — new parents — were affectionate, teasing, and calm. This wasn't the grim, candlelit "summon the priest, the child is cursed" scene he'd half-expected.
No one had screamed "demon spawn" yet. So far, so survivable.
Around them, the room was bustling with quiet, purposeful activity. Servants moved with the efficiency of people who'd done this a hundred times — cleaning away the mess of childbirth, replacing soiled linens, stirring small pots of herbs over low flames.
One young maid passed close to him, casting a glance at the cradle in the corner. "Shall I prepare it?" she asked.
At a nod from Ishvari, they carried Sharath to the bassinet. It was a beautifully carved thing, clearly crafted by master hands. The wood was dark, polished to a rich sheen, and covered in intricate swirling designs.
But when they laid him down, something… happened.
The carvings lit up.
Faint blue-white lines pulsed across the surface, racing along the grain like veins of light. Symbols — runes? sigils? — shifted and shimmered as though alive. Each pulse matched the steady thump of his heartbeat. When he hiccuped, one of the larger runes wobbled and realigned itself.
The room fell silent.
"…He powered up the cradle runes," the head midwife said slowly. "Alone."
A younger maid leaned in and whispered, "My cousin's son didn't light his until he was six weeks old. And even then, it took two shamans and a goat."
Now *that* raised questions. Why a goat? And did the goat consent?
Everyone stared at Sharath as if he'd just belched fire. He blinked innocently, then — because he couldn't resist — let out a smug little coo.
The reactions ranged from awe to thinly veiled superstition. He filed that away. Magic was clearly real here, and if babies lighting up rune-engraved furniture was unusual, he'd better keep his talents on a dimmer switch.
From the corner, Ishvari's voice softened again. "Rest, my son."
Sharath's eyelids felt suddenly heavy, the warmth of the glowing cradle seeping into him. The last thing he saw before drifting into sleep was the shimmer of magic running along the wood like lines of beautiful, living code.