Days passed in hushed wonder. Sharath, still less than a year old, began muttering syllables that weren't babble but methodical permutations. He repeated sound clusters—"aelu," "vyr," "shan"—testing how they resonated, how objects reacted. He combined them like linguistic algorithms.
Lady Ishvari noticed it first. "He's not mimicking. He's debugging."
She started recording his utterances in spellbooks, comparing them to ancient Eldora incantations. The overlaps were terrifyingly accurate. His earliest experiments paired emotion with intent. "Flame" spoken while angry caused a spark. "Barrier" murmured with fear created a faint shimmer in the air.
To Sharath, this wasn't mysticism—it was syntax design. Eldora, the language of magic, wasn't a loose tongue of chants. It was a structured, recursive, intent-typed language, capable of executing commands with logic-like precision. Magic required not just correct words but emotional input and logical alignment.
He treated it like parsing code—breaking sentences into lexical units, tagging verbs as operators, adjectives as modifiers, nouns as objects or subjects. He was learning not to speak magic.
He was learning to compile it.