The breakthrough came quietly.
At three months, Sharath discovered the semantic layer of this world's magic. It wasn't just about incantation. Spells relied on intent, clarity of emotion, and internal focus—like running a program powered not by syntax, but by will. Magic here wasn't just spoken—it was meant.
So he began to experiment.
He cried—not randomly, but in patterns. Sometimes focusing on sadness, other times on frustration or fear. He tracked how nearby runes pulsed in response. He timed how long it took before candles reacted to his focused gaze. His internal data set grew.
One afternoon, lying alone near a windowsill with a glowing glyph etched into the marble, he reached for it—not with fingers, but with will.
He had studied it for weeks. A symbol for illumination. He focused on it and whispered, not in a baby's babble, but with deliberate clarity: "Light."
The glyph ignited. Just for a moment. Just enough.
The chambermaid screamed. The Magister was summoned. Magister Elandor Veyr, the family's arcane tutor and a man not prone to theatrics, examined the child for hours.
"This isn't talent," the Magister finally said. "He's… decoding magic like a scholar. Not a child."
They began to monitor him. Quietly. Fearfully.
And as Sharath lay wrapped in silk, eyes half-lidded, he felt it—that quiet thrill of the first successful execution in a new system. He was no longer just learning how to live.
He was learning how to bend the world.