Being a baby is weird.
Being a reincarnated baby is even weirder.
You know exactly what's happening.
You just can't talk, walk, or poop without help.
Peak humiliation.
So here I was.
A literal baby.
In a nursery bigger than my old apartment, surrounded by floating mobiles that sang lullabies in four languages, and walls that changed color depending on my "mood." (Apparently, fuchsia meant "mild emotional distress." I saw it a lot.)
My name was now Lysara Aetheria.
And I had a full set of adult memories, zero teeth, and a nanny who insisted I wear bonnets with magical cooling runes. For fashion.
Someone help me.
To be fair, I was kind of spoiled.
My crib had more enchantments than a palace gate.
My milk was always perfectly warmed by fire sprites.
I had at least three enchanted stuffed animals that refilled their own fluff.
And my blankets adjusted for optimal nap coziness.
But it was still weird.
I was used to paying bills.
Now people cheered when I burped.
Worse than being a baby?
Being watched as a baby.
"She's strong," one of the mages whispered, casting diagnostic spells around my crib.
"Are you saying the baby broke the mana stone?"
Oops?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Look, I didn't mean to overcharge their precious crystal.
I was just curious. And gassy.
Sorry about that.
Let's talk about my family.
My mother, Lady Thalia Aetheria, was the sort of woman whose presence could silence a room—or a council full of bickering nobles.
She was beautiful in that "goddess descended from moonlight" kind of way.
An elegance incarnate who always smelled like lavender and old spellbooks.
She held me like I was spun glass, then cast high-level protection charms over my crib like someone was out to assassinate me with a pacifier.
She hummed in ancient tongues. Her presence soothed magic itself. And when I fussed, she'd whisper things like:
"You're not what I expected," she said once.
"But you'll do just fine."
Whatever that meant.
Then there was Duke Lorien Aetheria, my father.
If Thalia was moonlight, he was a thunderstorm in formalwear.
Tall. Sharp-eyed. Quiet.
He had the aura of a man who could bankrupt you with a single nod.
He rarely spoke around me, but when he did?
The room shut up.
He carried the weight of the duchy, a sword, and my baby bag. (Which, by the way, probably cost more than my old laptop.)
He wasn't cold—just... restrained. Like a dragon wearing a dinner jacket.
But I caught him smiling once when I gnawed on a spell scroll.
Just a little.
Then there was Theo.
My older brother.
He was five when I was born. Already smarter than most adults. Already walking around like he had tax documents to file.
The first time he saw me, he tilted his head and stared like I was a problem he couldn't solve.
"Why is it making that noise?" he asked Mother, completely serious.
"That's crying, dear," she replied with a patient smile. "Babies do that."
"Can we return it?"
He was so serious, I almost respected it.
He didn't warm up immediately. Not even close.
He treated me like a suspicious parcel someone left on his doorstep.
He wouldn't touch me. He spoke around me, not to me.
But I caught him peeking through the nursery door.
Once, he even shuffled in while thinking no one was watching, placed a stuffed animal near my crib, and sprinted out like he was smuggling state secrets.
He was trying.
In his own grumpy little way.
As the months passed, I started noticing… oddities.
At around ten months old, the whispers started to bother me.
Not from people. From magic.
Sometimes, I could feel things humming in the air—like the mana in the walls knew I didn't quite belong.
Strange glyphs carved into the pillars of our home.
Books that whispered warnings when I touched them.
Conversations between nobles during court visits—mentioning "divine blood," "spirit heirs," and a prophecy buried in silver fire.
I pretended to nap through most of it.
But inside?
I was building a corkboard of red string in my baby brain.
----
By my first birthday, I managed to cast my first spell on purpose: a small, harmless breeze.
It made the curtains flutter and scattered petals over Mother's tea table.
"Oh?" she said, eyes gleaming.
She didn't scold me.
She just looked at me with an expression that said she already knew who I was going to become.
And smiled.
"You'll need to keep that hidden," she said softly.
"Not yet, my flower. Not yet."
I didn't know what she meant—but I nodded anyway.
Well. My head flopped sideways, but the intent was there.
----
As the seasons changed, rumors started to spread in the household:
That the duchy's daughter was weak. Sickly. Mute.
Let them believe that.
The fewer people who noticed me, the better.
Because if my memories were true—if I really was living inside a story that I faintly remember—
Then destiny wasn't a suggestion, it was a deadline.
And I intended to rewrite it.
[End of Chapter 1]