Morning came to House Darsha with the solemnity of a hymn and the chaos of a livestock stampede.
Outside, the castle's upper towers echoed with the gentle clang of temple bells and the guttural growls of griffon hawks arguing with chimney crows. Inside, a goat was rampaging down the hall in a velvet sash, pursued by a red-faced steward yelling, "It stole the ambassador's fruit platter again!"
Sharath lay in his cradle, watching the scene through the nursery's arched window with all the stoicism of a tiny philosopher.
It's official. I've reincarnated into a fantasy world where breakfast can be stolen by a goat in formalwear.
The goat turned its head mid-sprint and gave Sharath a wink.
Oh no. It's sentient.
As servants scurried about preparing for that evening's diplomatic gathering—an informal noble court where alliances were whispered between wine cups—Sharath was being dressed by three maids and a hovering rune-globe that sang notes when an outfit was "fashionably aligned."
The floating orb let out a joyful chiming sound as a pale blue tunic embroidered with sunburst runes was fastened around him.
"He's going to charm them all," said Rani, brushing a curl of his hair. "I mean, just look at those eyes. So full of mystery."
"He probably doesn't even know his own name yet," another said cheerfully, pinching his cheek.
Correction: I know my name, my serial number, and three ways to brute-force your closet's enchantment locks if you keep pinching me.
As if in protest, the rune-globe let out a dissonant honk and changed his socks mid-hover.
The gathering was held in the House Darsha reception hall—a marvel of ancient architecture. Colonnades carved with floating light-glyphs shimmered in response to noble titles. Runes of hospitality danced along the ceiling. Sharath watched them like a baby with a personal interest in source code.
He was seated in a special ceremonial cradle at the head of the hall, nestled between Lord Varundar and Lady Ishvari—each dressed to intimidate. His father wore battle-black robes lined with gold stitching, and his mother shimmered in royal sapphire silk embroidered with the Darsha lion crest.
All around, noble families arrived in droves. The House Aldamar delegation swept in with dramatic cloaks and peacock-feathered staves. House Vellion, known for its scholarly lineage, brought its entire library staff and an owl that had its own seat.
And then there was Uncle Aldric.
"Oh no," Sharath thought. "Politics has entered the chat."
Aldric strode in wearing a dark green cloak, beard freshly oiled and glinting with vanity gems. His eyes immediately found Sharath, narrowed like he was studying an enemy commander disguised as an infant.
"A sharp grip for one so young," Aldric said after kneeling beside the cradle. "But perhaps too quiet for a Darsha."
Lady Ishvari smiled politely. "He observes."
"Yes. That's what worries me."
He walked off before anyone could respond.
Sharath slowly raised a chubby fist in Aldric's direction and curled two fingers inward.
Rani gasped. "Did he just curse the old man?"
Lord Varundar snorted into his goblet.
The feast that followed was elaborate—roasted cloud-deer, golden pomegranate stew, honeyed bread that sang when broken open. Sharath wasn't allowed solids, but a kindly steward offered him a taste of "infant-friendly enchanted fruit purée" that smelled suspiciously like banana and nutmeg.
He accepted a spoonful.
It vibrated in his mouth and then fizzled with magic.
This tastes like a smoothie made by a potion brewer with ADHD.
He coughed.
Everyone clapped.
"Look how expressive he is," someone said.
"He'll be a poet," another whispered.
If poetry means rewriting your reality with hex-coding and gesture syntax, then sure.
As the nobles feasted, conversation ebbed and flowed around Sharath. His ears perked up as two nearby mages began discussing the most recent development on the southern border.
"More tremors near the Karthic Fault," one said. "Third magical disruption this month."
"Could be natural," the other offered. "Or…"
They both turned toward the boy in the cradle and lowered their voices.
"…Or something awakening?"
Sharath resisted the urge to blink too deliberately.
You're not blaming me for this, are you? I've been busy learning how to sit upright.
Meanwhile, Lady Ishvari was introducing Sharath to the visiting ambassador from House Celarien, a plump man with magical monocles and a reputation for gossip.
"What a bright-eyed child!" the man declared.
Sharath blinked.
"I dare say he looks like he understands every word!"
Sharath coughed and turned his head.
"I shall record this moment in my journals," the ambassador declared proudly. "'Day One: The Darsha Child Exhibits Preverbal Diplomacy.'"
And now I've been turned into a political footnote. Brilliant.
After the feast came the Gifting Ritual—a local custom where visiting nobles left symbolic presents for the heir. Sharath braced for the worst.
House Vellion gifted a magically etched scroll that hummed when held.
House Aldamar left a sword hilt made of dragonbone. "He'll grow into it," someone muttered.
House Celarien gave a stuffed unicorn that cast minor calming auras.
This… is getting out of hand.
When Lord Varundar raised a jeweled goblet and proclaimed, "My son shall grow in strength and wisdom, and his legacy shall be carved in stone and sky alike," the nobles applauded.
Sharath sat quietly, expression unreadable.
A soft glow pulsed in his cradle.
The unicorn plush giggled.
That night, as the feast wound down, Ishvari carried her son back to the nursery.
"You were perfect," she whispered, kissing his forehead.
Sharath, overwhelmed by magical food, ancient suspicion, and two suspiciously powerful baby toys, could only muster a tired coo.
In the cradle, the pendant around his neck pulsed gently.
The runes on the walls flickered as if syncing with his slowing breath.
And somewhere deep beneath the estate—beneath stone, memory, and the bones of old houses—a whisper stirred in response.