Lady Ishvari, both terrified and awestruck, began to test him. She retrieved scrolls once sealed away—basic incantations for wind, fire, and water—usually taught to children aged seven or more. She didn't speak them. She merely showed them.
Sharath stared at the glyphs for hours.
Then, under a starlit sky on the marble veranda, something changed.
He extended a finger toward a glyph scratched onto the window glass. A swirl representing heat and movement. He breathed deeply and whispered, "Sohra... Aelun."
No fire was near. No ignition source present.
But the candles lining the terrace flared to life—all at once. Not explosive, but responsive.
Lady Ishvari dropped her wine goblet.
From that night, secret lessons began. Not of words—but of form, cadence, and meaning. She taught him how runes were formed not just by shape but by emotional resonance, how incantations had flow control, and how intent could override syntax in times of desperation.
To Sharath, it was bliss.
This world didn't need keyboards or operating systems—it was the operating system. Magic was programmable reality. Glyphs were function calls. Rituals were subroutines. And Eldora was a strongly-typed, intention-driven scripting language.
In silence, he practiced. In shadows, he refactored spells. Not just learning them.
Optimizing them.