At three years old, I shouldn't be this restless. Then again, I'm not really three, am I? My body is small, clumsy, and soft—but my mind remembers another life, one where I wasn't coddled by maids or chased around by knights.
Still, what's the fun of being reincarnated as a prince if I can't stir up a little chaos?
"Your Highness, please slow down!" a maid's voice echoed behind me as I dashed down the hallway, my wooden sword clutched in hand.
Slow down? Not a chance. The palace was too big, too empty if you behaved. Every corridor became an adventure, and today, I had a target—the library.
Specifically, the top shelf. The one filled with the thick, leather-bound tomes my father had told me not to touch. Which, of course, meant they were the most important.
I dragged a chair to the shelf, grunting as I pulled myself up. My tiny legs trembled, but my determination outweighed the wobble. I reached out—
"Adrian."
That voice. Calm, firm, the kind that instantly tightened my chest.
I froze and turned. Father stood at the door, arms crossed, watching me with the kind of patience only kings and parents seemed to have.
"…Papa," I said carefully, trying to look harmless. If I could act cute enough, maybe I could get away with it.
In two strides, he reached me, lifting me down as though I weighed nothing. "How many times must I tell you not to climb chairs like this?"
"I just wanted to read," I muttered, puffing my cheeks like the child I looked to be. Internally, I cursed this small body. If I were taller, this wouldn't even be a problem.
Father crouched down, looking at me eye-to-eye. "You're eager. That's good. But books will still be here when you're ready."
I narrowed my eyes. Ready? My past self had read entire histories and philosophies. But now? Now I couldn't even reach a shelf without nearly falling. Frustrating didn't begin to cover it.
"…Can you teach me, then?" I asked. The words slipped out softer than I intended.
Father blinked, then smiled faintly. He ruffled my hair, his hand warm and steady. "Of course. But no more climbing without permission."
Yeah, sure. I gave him a smile I didn't mean, but he seemed satisfied. We both knew I'd try again anyway.
Later, when Mother tucked me into bed, I whispered, "Mama… when I grow big, I'll read everything. I'll protect you and Papa and the palace."
She laughed softly, kissing my forehead. "You're already trying to protect us, my little one. But for now, just dream. That's enough."
I closed my eyes, gripping my wooden sword beside me.
Dream, huh? Easy for her to say. In my past life, dreams had already burned away. But in this life… maybe, just maybe, I could live them.
Next Morning
The next morning, I woke up to sunlight stabbing my eyes. I groaned and pulled the blanket over my head. You'd think being a prince meant sleeping in peace, but no—maids bustled outside my door, and my nursemaid, Clara, was already chirping,
"Your Highness, it's time to rise and shine!"
I buried my face deeper into the pillow. If I pretend to be asleep, maybe they'll leave me alone.
But the blanket was ripped away.
"Up."
I peeked with one eye. Father stood there, arms folded, looking far too serious for this early in the morning.
"…Papa," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "Why are you here?"
"To make sure you don't run off again." He set my wooden sword—my precious weapon—onto the bed. "Training."
Training. At three years old. I almost laughed. Then again, wasn't this what I wanted? Something beyond nursery rhymes and soft toys.
So, out into the courtyard we went. The sword was far too big for me; the handle nearly slipped from my hands every time I swung. But my father crouched down, correcting my grip, his huge hand steadying mine.
"Strength will come later," he said. "What matters now is form."
Form. Right. I could handle that. I copied him as best I could, though my little arms wobbled like jelly. Sweat stuck my hair to my forehead, but I refused to stop.
I heard Mother's voice from the veranda, worried as always. "You'll exhaust him, dear."
"I won't," Father replied, without taking his eyes off me. "He's stubborn enough to keep going until he drops, anyway."
He wasn't wrong.
But I liked it. For the first time since waking up in this child's body, I didn't feel trapped. I felt… purposeful.
By the time we finished, my arms ached and my legs wobbled. I collapsed onto the grass, panting. Father sat beside me, quiet, his shadow long against the sunlight.
"…Papa," I said, still catching my breath. "When I grow strong… can I protect Mama too?"
His eyes softened in a way I rarely saw. He didn't answer right away, just rested a big hand on my head.
"You will," he said finally. "But for now… let me protect you."
The words sank deep, warmer than the sun on my skin. For a moment, I forgot the frustration of being small.
Maybe being three wasn't so bad after all.