The seventh bell of the evening tolled across House Darsha's upper spires, and with it came the hush of moonfall. Candles lowered themselves politely. Corridor torches dimmed to a warm amber. Rune-stamped slippers padded through the stone halls as nurses whispered lullabies to children and old servants tucked drapes around enchanted windows that hated drafts.
In the nursery, Sharath Virayan Darsha was pretending to be asleep.
In reality, he was wide awake, his tiny body wrapped in a fleece blanket charmed to smell faintly of jasmine and cinnamon—but his eyes, large and dark, flickered with intent. Above him, the ceiling's soft night runes spun slow constellations—designed to soothe infants into slumber. But Sharath had grown used to them, and more importantly, he'd found a way to time his "sleeps" just right.
Because at precisely fifteen minutes after moonrise… the glowquill moved.
There it was. A soft whir—barely perceptible—and the floating quill above the steward's desk shifted a fraction to the left as it unlatched from its resting perch.
Sharath waited until the nursery attendant had left—off to boil more calming tea—and then he wiggled.
Very carefully.
Very precisely.
Onto his stomach.
Mission: Midnight Learning. Phase One: Begin.
The steward's desk was barely two feet from the cradle. It housed all manner of fascinating objects: scrolls inscribed with sparkling glyphs, magical measurement charts, a calibration ring that buzzed when near enchanted metal, and—most valuable of all—a small folio of beginner-level rune symbols used by nursemaids and housekeepers.
The first time Sharath had spotted it, it had taken all his willpower not to squeal.
They've been leaving a copy of the magical alphabet six feet from a reincarnated quantum engineer this entire time.
He had since memorized it.
All of it.
By moonlight.
Night after night.
The rune for Light looked like a candle merged with an eye. Warmth was shaped like two embracing arms. Lock was three jagged lines connected at the center. Each one held logic, rhythm, intention.
They weren't just glyphs.
They were syntax.
They're programmable.
Over the next few weeks, Sharath's routine changed dramatically—at least internally.
By day, he cooed and gurgled on command, sat with grace in noble laps, and humbly accepted the praises of bards who swore they could "see destiny in his lashes."
By night, he studied.
At first it was passive observation. Then it became rehearsal. Silently forming syllables in his throat. Mimicking pitch patterns.
By the end of his sixth week of life, Sharath was comprehending full conversations and silently translating between the local dialect and a mental Sanskrit-derived reference table he was building from scratch.
And then… he whispered his first word.
Not in front of anyone, of course. He wasn't that foolish.
But alone, late one night, tucked between dreamlight runes and the sleepy sighs of a servant in the next room, Sharath rolled onto his side, stared into the dark, and softly whispered:
"Runatha."
It meant "to know by seeing".
A verb used only by trained mages, scholars, and watchful kings.
He blinked into the quiet.
And for a moment, his pendant glowed.
Soon, even the staff began to notice.
"Milady, he reacts to tone," one maid said, frowning. "I swear he turns toward words like he knows."
"Watch this," said Rani, holding up a charm ring. "Darling baby, would you like to see the shiny brilneth?"
Sharath turned and looked at the object immediately.
Ishvari gasped. "He's… recognizing words?"
"Or reading lips," muttered the steward, then paled. "I—I mean he's just gifted!"
Lord Varundar only chuckled, scooping the baby into his arms.
"Say your name, then, little lion," he said proudly.
Sharath drooled.
It's too soon. Can't break cover yet.
But his eyes twinkled. And the pendant glowed again.
During his daily strolls, Sharath began to mentally catalog every magical object he encountered.
The chandelier in the dining hall responded to claps and temperature.
The serving trays floated behind kitchen workers and swerved around obstacles using a simple pattern-recognition rune.
The door hinges in the eastern wing responded to whisper-tone thresholds and unlocked only for verified staff.
All of them—every single enchantment—used the same foundation: symbolic arrays combined with vocalized intention.
They've built a civilization on programmable emotion. They chant logic. They hum intent. This entire world is made of code disguised as ritual.
He was determined to master it.
But he had to be careful.
Because someone else was watching.
One night, while pretending to sleep, Sharath heard something unusual: a shift in the hum of the runes around his cradle.
Not just the usual comfort spell activating—but an entirely new rhythm. Curious, almost probing.
He peeked open one eye.
Standing in the doorway was the old Magister—the one from the naming ceremony.
He stood silent, fingers clasped behind his back, staring at the child.
"The stars never speak plainly," the old man murmured. "But they are rarely wrong."
He raised one hand.
A glyph flickered briefly in his palm.
Sharath froze.
Is he about to probe my aura again? No! I JUST figured out the passive shielding rune this morning!
But instead, the Magister lowered his hand and whispered, "I wonder what you'll do with all this brilliance, little one. Will you build? Or destroy?"
Sharath said nothing.
But the pendant around his neck pulsed once.
The old man turned and left.
And Sharath exhaled.
✦ Hidden Notebook No. 1: Behind the PillowsBy week nine, Sharath had made a book.
Well—technically, it was a napkin scroll tied with ribbon and hidden behind a stack of enchanted pillows. But inside it were his first hand-drawn magical logic diagrams.
Energy Flow Modifiers: Arrows denoting how runes changed based on emotional input.
Priority Chains: Experiments on which runes overrode others.
Proposed Enhancements: Hypothetical "input conditions" for spells that didn't rely on spoken incantation.
He'd invented—on paper—a proto-magical equivalent of conditional logic statements.
If rune = warmth, and object = baby, and time = moonrise, THEN enchant cradle for comfort.
He called them "If-Whispers."
Someday, he'd test them.
Someday, he'd write them in stone.
But for now, he was content scribbling them behind pillows using leftover bath chalk and a stolen ribbon quill.
One evening, as Lady Ishvari rocked him gently, singing a lullaby about the stars listening to the dreams of children, Sharath nestled into her arms and closed his eyes.
He wasn't thinking about code or enchantments.
He was thinking about her voice.
Warm. Safe.
Home.
There's power in that, too, he thought.
Not magic. Not logic. Just… love.
And that, more than any spell or rune, might be the strongest language in the world.