Would you look at that. I was a baby again.
Oh, the joy. The marvel. The absolute thrill of reincarnating as a one year old, complete with drool, digestive issues, and being surrounded by the very people who would one day betray me. Truly, what a treat. It was less a second chance and more a cosmic joke, a cruel twist of fate that landed me right back where the misery began. My tiny hands, still soft and unblemished, clenched into miniature fists of indignation.
Urk.
There it was again. That peculiar nausea, a familiar, unwelcome churn in my minuscule stomach.
Why was it always babies? Out of all the myriad forms and states the universe could have chosen to deposit my consciousness into, why was it consistently the most helpless, most vulnerable, most inherently messy stage of human existence? Couldn't I receive a nice adult reboot, perhaps with a pre-existing credit score, functioning knee joints, and the ability to articulate thoughts beyond gurgles and wails? The injustice of it all was truly astounding.
And as if my current predicament could not possibly worsen, it was not just any life. It was this life. My first one. The worst one. The origin of all my bitterness, the crucible of my deepest resentments. It was the life that had taught me the harsh lessons of betrayal and abandonment, and here I was, an unwilling participant in its dreaded rerun.
"Oh my, our little princess seems to be learning how to talk... how adorable!"
Anna cooed beside my cradle, her hands clasped to her chest in a performance of utter delight. My lip, still barely formed, curled instinctively at the sight of her. She had always been quick with a smile, her eyes sparkling with feigned warmth, but quicker still to plunge a knife into someone's back when the opportunity arose. I knew her type, had seen it in various iterations across two lifetimes.
You little two faced witch. You sided with Vanessa, didn't you? You championed her fabricated innocence even as she shamelessly pursued Archer. And I knew damn well you would do it again once she made her grand, disruptive entrance. You, and every other simpering, conniving traitor festering within the walls of this godforsaken house.
Gods. I was surrounded by smiling enemies, their saccharine expressions a thinly veiled mask for the malice that would one day erupt. The air in the nursery, supposedly sweet with the scent of baby powder, felt thick with unspoken treachery.
But no. I was not that same powerless, naive child anymore. The body might be that of an infant, fragile and dependent, but mentally? I had lived two full, complex lives. Technically, I was an old soul, burdened with the wisdom of past mistakes and the scars of past hurts. A grumpy old hag, if truth be told, with a short fuse and zero patience for anyone's bullshit.
The universe might have forced me back into this tiny form, but it could not strip me of my accumulated experiences, my hard won cynicism.
By all accounts, I should have transformed into a proper villainess after all I endured. And perhaps, in a twisted sort of way, I had. But hell if I would just roll over and passively allow fate to repeat its cruel, predictable pattern. This time, I would be the architect of my own destiny, or at the very least, a chaotic disruptor of theirs.
I would ensure it.
Let us see who truly wins this time. The stage was set, the players assembled, but the script? That was yet to be fully written.
**
He had been visiting every single morning. Without fail.
Archer Debelvoir. My father. The very man who had cast me aside like yesterday's stale bread in my previous existence was now standing beside my crib, staring at me with an intensity that suggested I was made of the most fragile, precious glass. His imposing figure, usually radiating an aura of stern authority, seemed softened, almost hesitant.
This... this was new. Utterly, bewilderingly new.
What in the hell had transpired, Archer? Why were you hovering like some newly converted, worried saint? And why, for the love of all that was decent, were you—ugh, staring like that? It was weird. It was creepy. It was so completely unlike the distant, preoccupied man I remembered that it made my stomach lurch. Barf.
Oh no. Not again. The familiar, sickening surge.
"Maids! Get Doctor Morty. Now!" Archer's voice, usually a controlled rumble, thundered through the nursery, laced with a raw edge of panic, as I promptly projectile vomited, splattering the front of his very expensive, impeccably tailored shirt. The acrid scent of regurgitated formula filled the air.
The maids, previously arranged in their placid, attentive poses, scattered like startled pigeons, their movements a flurry of flustered terror and panicked efficiency.
Thirty minutes later, Doctor Morty arrived, a portly man whose perpetually worried gestures were matched only by his penchant for overcomplicated, almost theatrical explanations. He wrung his hands, adjusted his spectacles, and peered at me with an intensity usually reserved for complex magical ailments.
"It seems to be a food allergy, Your Grace," he explained cautiously, his voice a low, melodious drone. "Likely something in the solids she was recently introduced to. The symptoms are entirely consistent with an adverse reaction, Your Grace, a most unfortunate gastrointestinal distress."
A food allergy? I never had one before. Not in my first life, where my system was robust, nor in my second, where I consumed all manner of processed foods without issue. I would have remembered such a significant, recurring affliction. My memories were sharp, especially concerning my own body.
Archer's formidable brows pulled together into a deep, thunderous scowl, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Explain in terms a normal person can understand, Doctor."
I tried to listen, truly I did. I attempted to piece together what biological or environmental change could have instigated such a profound shift in my delicate infant system. But my head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton, my thoughts sluggish and indistinct, and my stomach churned relentlessly like a tempestuous sea. I let out a soft, congested cough, then another, and another, each one racking my tiny frame. The light filtering into the room from the windows, usually a soft, inviting glow, began to spin in dizzying circles, blurring the edges of my vision.
Great. I was nauseous, my skin felt strangely itchy, my stomach was uncomfortably bloated, and now every sound in the room seemed amplified to deafening proportions. The worried murmurs of the new nursemaid, the rustle of Doctor Morty's robes, the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the corner—each was a grating assault on my hypersensitive ears.
Could everyone just shut up for five seconds? A moment of blessed silence was all I craved.
Archer, for once in your overly dramatic life, stop yelling. Your booming voice was reverberating directly inside my throbbing skull.
**
When I woke the next morning, the room was strikingly unfamiliar.
It was impossibly spacious, far grander and more sparsely furnished than the cozy, if somewhat chaotic, nursery. The light was dim, the tall, heavy curtains drawn tight against the morning sun, casting the chamber in a perpetual twilight. The air, too, was different; instead of the faint, sweet scent of baby formula and talcum powder, there was the crisp, clean aroma of starched linen, the aged fragrance of old parchment, and the subtle, lingering traces of a masculine cologne, musky and commanding. I blinked my still blurry eyes, my infant brain struggling to process the visual information.
This was not the nursery. Not even close.
Was this... Archer's personal chambers? His sanctum?
WHAT?
The very idea was absurd. Unimaginable. Archer, the duke renowned for his meticulous order and privacy, the man who had barely acknowledged my existence in my first go around, now sharing his inner sanctum with a squalling infant? It was a plot twist so outlandish it bordered on the fantastical, even for this world of magic and mythical beasts.
**
The sheer absurdity did not end there; in fact, it escalated with each passing hour.
He kept me in his room. For three whole days. Not a nanny in sight except for brief, supervised feeding times, and even those were conducted with an air of paranoid secrecy, as though I were some delicate, highly classified Duchess of State Secrets, rather than a mere infant prone to spitting up. It was baffling, disorienting, and frankly, a little creepy.
Each morning, without fail, he would sit at his massive, ornate desk, its surface perpetually burdened with towering piles of official papers. He would sign documents with swift, decisive strokes, his quill scratching rhythmically, and issue complex orders to his aides, his voice firm and unwavering. All the while, I lay in a beautifully carved cradle positioned directly beside him, a decorative pillow that, annoyingly, breathed, wriggled, and occasionally farted. It was an arrangement that defied all logic, yet it was undeniably my reality.
On the third morning, a soft but distinct knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
Hugo, Archer's ever serious, impeccably groomed aide, stepped inside. My eyes narrowed, focusing on him with an intensity that would have been unsettling had he noticed it. This was the same Hugo who, in my past life, had allowed corruption to fester under his very nose like noxious mushrooms in a dark, damp rot. He was the embodiment of silent complicity, of turning a blind eye to the suffering within these very walls.
So, you were still alive. Pity. My inner monologue dripped with venom.
"Your Grace," Hugo began, his voice a low, respectful murmur, pausing as his eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, to my small form in the cradle. "The little lady is awake."
"Call the new nanny," Archer ordered without even bothering to look up from the document he was reviewing, his attention entirely consumed by the official script before him.
New nanny? The words registered, sparking a flicker of alarm.
"Yes, Your Grace." Hugo bowed stiffly and retreated.
What did he mean new nanny? The phrase echoed in my mind, a tiny, unsettling tremor.
**
Turns out—plot twist—Archer had not merely replaced a few key figures. He had fired every single servant in the entire manor. All of them. The obsequious butler, the rigidly traditional Head Maid, the bustling scullery staff, the skilled kitchen workers, the disciplined footmen, the eager in-house maids, even the perpetually grumpy chimney sweeper I remember from my first life who laughed at my misery being locked up in the attic. They were all gone. Vanished. Replaced, seemingly effortlessly, within the span of three dizzying days.
Well, damn. So much for exacting my carefully planned revenge on the specific individuals who had tormented me so thoroughly in my first life. How in the hell was I supposed to poison their tea now, or orchestrate their downfall, if they were all completely new, unknown faces? My meticulously crafted schemes, refined over two lifetimes, had just been rendered utterly obsolete by one man's inexplicable, decisive action.
The entire estate was now under tighter security than the imperial treasury itself. Guards, clad in the distinctive armor of the Debelvoir private knights, rotated in precise five hour shifts, their movements disciplined and unwavering. Patrols circled the manor's perimeter with the relentless precision of clockwork, their vigilant eyes scanning for any sign of disturbance. It was clear, even to my infant comprehension, that Archer suspected foul play, that he had somehow discerned the subtle rot within his own household.
Back in my first life, I had learned through years of casual observation and overheard conversations that House Debelvoir commanded over three thousand private knights, a formidable personal army. A hundred and twenty house guards maintained internal security. Two hundred and fifty workers, excluding those stationed in our capital townhouse, ran the intricate machinery of the ducal household. The sheer scale of his resources was immense, and now, it seemed, Archer had finally decided to wield that vast power properly, effectively.
Still, I couldn't quite figure it out. The pieces of this new puzzle refused to fit.
Why the sudden, drastic change? What had prompted this unprecedented overhaul, this ruthless purging of his staff?
Why now? Why had he only chosen to act this time? It was a question that gnawed at me, a mystery that defied my accumulated wisdom.
"What's her condition?" he asked one afternoon, his voice still low, eyes still glued to his paperwork, a picture of focused dedication.
"The critical phase has passed, Your Grace," the new nanny answered softly, her voice respectful and soothing, as she gently rocked me in her arms. She was a kindly looking woman, with warm, compassionate eyes, a stark contrast to the stern, detached nurses of my past. "She is stable, but still recovering her strength, Your Grace."
"I'll hold her."
Wait. WHAT?
Before I could even formulate a protest, before my tiny vocal cords could emit anything beyond a surprised gurgle, I was unceremoniously handed over like a sack of potatoes. But to my utter horror, Archer did not drop me. He held me. Gently. One large, calloused hand cradled my back with surprising tenderness, the other carefully supported my still wobbly head.
His body was warm, radiating a comforting heat. His touch was careful, almost reverent, utterly devoid of the stiff awkwardness I might have expected. The faint scent of his cologne, previously a mere atmospheric element, now surrounded me, warm and protective.
...This wasn't fair. It simply wasn't.
Don't you dare lull me into a false sense of security with your newfound parental affection now, Archer. You didn't get to earn forgiveness, not for years of neglect and emotional abuse, just because you had suddenly figured out how to pat a baby's back or change a diaper. The sheer audacity of it.
Still... it felt undeniably nice. Too nice. The warmth, the secure embrace, the steady rhythm of his breathing. My tiny eyelids began to droop, the struggle to stay awake becoming an uphill battle.
Maybe I would just close my eyes for a minute. Just one tiny minute. But that didn't mean I was letting him off the hook. Not even close.
Yawn.
Just a minute... The world softened, blurring at the edges, pulling me into a reluctant slumber.
IMPERIAL PALACE, EMPRESS HALL – LATER THAT NIGHT
"IMPOSSIBLE!"
The sharp, brittle crash of porcelain shattered the opulent silence of the Empress's private hall. Teacups, delicate and intricately painted. Vases, tall and elegantly sculpted. Anything within the Empress's furious reach met the unforgiving marble floor with a sickening splinter.
The Empress stood at the center of the sudden chaos, her usually composed features twisted into a mask of wild disbelief, her eyes blazing with an unholy fire. Her breath came in ragged, furious gasps.
"Y-Your Majesty—" her handmaiden, Macy Heinnel, a woman whose loyalty was as unwavering as her fear, reached out a tentative hand only to flinch back sharply as a heavy wine glass exploded against the wall near her shoulder, shards raining down like deadly confetti.
"You told me the staff were secure!" the Empress shrieked, her voice rising to a raw, unhinged crescendo. "I embedded them years ago. Not one should have been able to leave unnoticed! Not a single one of my operatives!"
"I apologize profoundly, Your Majesty," Macy said, her voice trembling but resolute, ignoring the thin line of blood that began to trickle down her arm where a shard had grazed her. "All but the maid who reported the incident have vanished without a trace. I... I have taken care of her." Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, a chilling undertone confirming the maid's grim fate.
"The butler? The head maid? Gone, all of them?" The Empress's voice was a dangerous whisper, a prelude to further destruction.
Macy bowed her head, her gaze fixed on the shattered porcelain. "Yes, Your Majesty. It appears so."
The Empress then trembled, not with fear, but with a barely contained fury that vibrated through the very air. Her perfectly manicured nails, tipped with a dangerous crimson, clawed frantically into the ornate velvet armrest of her fallen throne, tearing the fabric. "Archer. You bastard. You found out, didn't you? You saw through it. You saw through my perfect, impenetrable scheme."
She began to pace the room like a magnificent, yet savagely caged lioness, her heavy silk robes swirling around her. Each step was charged with frustrated power.
He was never supposed to act. Never supposed to care. Not about the child, not about anyone but his own rigid duty and ambition. He was a pawn, a tool, to be manipulated and controlled.
But he did. He cared. And he acted. Swiftly. Decisively. Like the powerful, unpredictable force he truly was.
No. No, she would not allow this. This insubordination, this defiance of her will, would not stand.
"You belong to me," she whispered through gritted teeth, her voice a venomous hiss. "No matter how far you run. No matter what you do. I'll take everything from you until you remember that you are nothing but my pawn, my subject, and my property."
Her voice rose, gaining in strength and chilling resolve.
"Summon the Informant Guild Master. Now. I have a new target for his network."
BACK AT THE DUCHY, DEBELVOIR ESTATE
So that was it then.
I had been officially moved into Archer's personal chambers. Permanently. The elaborate nursery, with its frilly lace and pastel colors, was now a distant memory. My new home was dominated by dark wood, rich tapestries, and the imposing presence of my father's desk.
It looked like I was truly stuck with him. Day in, day out. In sickness. In health. In barf and in poop. My mental groan was louder than any wail my tiny lungs could produce.
Hated. This. Every fiber of my being rebelled against the forced intimacy.
Pfffft.
A small, satisfying expulsion of gas escaped me.
He reeled back, his impressive features contorting into a comical grimace. A faint, unpleasant odor permeated the air.
"When did you learn to gas me like that?" he muttered, half to himself, half to me, a note of bewildered exasperation in his voice.
Since I decided you were a garbage dad and deserved every single whiff of my digestive vengeance, Archer. Consider it a subtle act of war. A biological weapon in my arsenal of annoyance.
He sighed, a deep, weary sound, and then, with a surprising amount of fortitude, lifted me slightly, his movements practiced now. "Let's see if you need a change, little one."
Oh no. Absolutely not. YOU were not qualified to change my diaper. Not after everything. The indignity of it all!
Don't you dare. Don't you dare—ACK. He was doing it. His large fingers, surprisingly dexterous, fumbled with the fastenings of my diaper. The shame was almost unbearable.
Wiggling. Screaming. Thrashing. Kicking with all the strength my tiny limbs could muster. This was war, Archer. A silent, pungent, and utterly undignified war.
You may have changed the staff, purged the household, and tightened security like a paranoid emperor, but you would never change the fundamental fact that I would make your life as inconvenient and thoroughly unpleasant as humanly, or rather, infantly possible.
One stinky fart at a time. The battle lines were drawn.