The Darsha estate was alive with music, laughter, and the distinct clanging of a lute string being plucked out of tune by a well-meaning noble bard. Today was no official holiday—just a casual gathering of lesser lords and stewards, hosted in the western courtyard under spring blooms and enchantment-softened wind.
Sharath was nestled on a cushion-lined bench, shaded beneath a spell-bound parasol that adjusted itself to follow the sun. He gnawed on a biscuit and mentally composed a six-point critique of the garden's irrigation layout.
He was three months and two weeks old.
The noble guests smiled at him with varying degrees of affection and polite confusion.
"Oh, look how he stares at you, Lord Thendrin," one lady said. "So attentive!"
Thendrin leaned in and pulled a face.
Sharath raised a single eyebrow.
A few guests chuckled.
Lady Ishvari, watching from the other side of the courtyard, froze.
"Varundar," she whispered, nudging her husband. "Did he just… smirk?"
Lord Varundar raised an eyebrow. "Maybe the boy's developing a sense of humor."
Sharath gurgled innocently, though inside he was thinking, That man's hat looks like a biscuit holder. I'm trying not to laugh at it.
❖ The Incident with the ChairThe first unmistakable display of genius came with the Broken Chair Problem.
A court scribe—young and newly assigned to House Darsha—was offered a seat near the dais. Unfortunately, the chair had a hairline crack along one leg, and as soon as he sat, it creaked dramatically and listed to the left.
The scribe stood awkwardly, trying to avoid insult. "My lord, I'm fine. Just a little unbalanced."
"No trouble," said the steward. "We'll fetch another."
As they began discussing what chair to bring and from where, Sharath—still on his cushion—reached to the side, picked up one of his toy blocks, crawled two paces forward, and wedged it under the cracked leg.
Perfectly level.
Silence.
The scribe looked down.
The steward stared.
Lady Ishvari blinked.
The scribe sat down again, carefully. The chair held steady.
"He… fixed it?" someone whispered.
Lord Varundar rose slowly. "I saw it. That wasn't random play."
The guests murmured among themselves.
"Intentional?"
"He measured the height?"
"A fluke, surely."
Sharath returned to his cushion, picked up a biscuit, and took a slow bite.
I give your chairs balance, and this is the thanks I get.
❖ The Rumor BeginsWithin two days, the incident had rippled through the noble households of the kingdom.
"The Darsha child has engineering intuition!""He sensed a structural imbalance through cloth!""They say he can measure angles with his mind!"
Sharath overheard a chambermaid whispering about it.
"He's going to be one of those prodigies," she said. "Like Lady Velmira, who summoned wind before she could walk."
"But Velmira grew up strange," another replied. "You know what they say. The gifted burn bright—but burn fast."
Sharath chewed on his duck toy and tried not to take offense.
❖ Parental CrisisThat night, Lord Varundar and Lady Ishvari sat in the solar, speaking in hushed voices.
"He's clever, yes," said Ishvari. "But what if it's too much too soon? The court will want to test him. The scholars will want to claim him. There are families who'll try to own him."
Varundar rubbed his beard. "He's still a child."
"No, Varundar. He's… something else."
They both turned toward the nursery, where a soft glow pulsed from beneath Sharath's blanket—the pendant, resonating faintly with his thoughts.
"I just want him to be happy," she said quietly.
"And I want him to be safe," Varundar replied. "Which means… perhaps we wait. Hide his brilliance. Let him grow in peace."
But Sharath, lying just beyond the half-open door, had heard every word.
And while he loved them deeply, he knew—
Waiting is no longer an option.
❖ The Society of ProdigiesThe next day, Magister Antren arrived.
An old friend of the family—and one of the kingdom's high examiners of magical aptitude—he'd come bearing gifts: a painted abacus, a beginner's rune cube, and a sealed scroll bearing the mark of the Arcanum of Prodigies.
"Every decade," he explained, "we monitor children showing early potential. Some are chosen. Some… rise too fast and fall. But a few? A very rare few change everything."
He smiled kindly at Sharath.
"And you, little lord? I believe you're something rare indeed."
Sharath studied the rune cube and, without hesitation, rotated it into a new configuration.
The cube chimed.
Magister Antren looked stunned. "That was the solution to the fifth-level cipher."
Lord Varundar paled.
"I haven't even shown him the first level."
❖ The DecisionThat evening, back in his crib, Sharath stared at the ceiling.
They know. Or they suspect. Either way… the clock just started ticking.
He'd hoped for more time. A few more months of study. Quiet research. Gradual exposure.
But now the world was stirring.
Watching.
Waiting.
And he had to decide: shrink to fit their expectations… or grow into the revolution he'd been dreaming of since he could hold a toy block.
Sharath reached beneath his pillow and pulled out his latest diagram: a new enchantment array built to convert rotational motion into rune activation—one that could fit under a cart wheel, or maybe… a pedal.
He looked out the window.
Stars flickered over the kingdom.
And he whispered, softly, firmly:
"Begin."
End of Part I: FoundationsSharath's early life had been one of observation, quiet resistance, and secret sketches. But now—now the world had caught a glimpse of the fire he carried.
And fire, once seen, cannot be ignored.