By the time his first birthday arrived, Sharath no longer hid his gifts. He spoke in phrases, asked questions that startled even scholars, and challenged basic assumptions about arcane cause and effect. His parents, caught between pride and fear, crafted a narrative for the world: that he was a child touched by the stars, rare but not dangerous.
But others were listening.
Far beyond the mountain walls of Vel'Aran, in drowned temples and scorched wastelands, forgotten prophecies stirred. The Oracles of Thal'Ruun dreamt once more. Hooded figures began to whisper the old verse:
"When the soul of flame returns from beyond the veil,House Darsha shall rise—or burn."
Beneath the ocean, great leviathans stirred from magical sleep. In the forests of Eldwyne, the trees whispered the boy's name. The arcane network of Navaleon had felt his spark. Something had re-entered the weave.
And within the tower, seated before a roaring fire, Sharath stared into the embers. His small hands were steady. His thoughts were not of play, but of architecture—of systems, networks, infrastructure.
He had the memory of a dying world and the tools of a living one.
He had knowledge, time, and intent.
But he also felt it now—destiny, thick and watchful. Not a burden. A challenge.
This world had rules. He would learn them.
Then he would rewrite them