I woke up to the sound of a bell. Not my phone. Not my coffee maker. A bell—clear, metallic, and entirely out of place.
My head throbbed like I'd pulled an all-nighter powered by vending machine coffee. I tried to sit up—and failed. My arms flopped to the sides like overcooked noodles. No strength, no coordination, just limp limbs and mild panic.
Great. I was paralyzed. Or dreaming. Or dead.
Pick one, universe. I don't have the bandwidth for all three.
I blinked up at the ceiling, expecting to see my apartment's familiar water-stained plaster and the spider I named Gary who hung out in the corner.
Nope.
Instead, I got a chandelier. A chandelier made of crystal teardrops, glowing softly like fairy lights—and hanging from a vaulted ceiling painted with stars. Actual stars. I turned my head slightly (okay, I wobbled it like a confused potato) and saw silk drapes, gilded crib rails, and a floating mobile made of glowing orbs and tiny winged horses.
What kind of fantasy Pinterest board did I just get dropped into?
I opened my mouth to speak. "What the fu—"
Except it came out as a squeak. A full-on, no-deniability baby noise. High-pitched. Wobbly. Weak.
Pause. Rewind.
Why… am I in a cradle?
I kicked. My legs did a flail.
I slapped the mattress. Tiny hand. Chubby fingers.
"No," I mouthed. "No no no no no—"
Let's rewind, dear reader. A few hours ago (or was it eons?), I was Lee Ra—age twenty-eight, professional syllabus-drafter, ramen enthusiast, and victim of a very average life. My most rebellious act that week had been saying "no" to overtime.
That night, I remember lying in bed, mumbling to the ceiling something like:
"I wish I could just wake up rich, powerful, beautiful… or dead. Surprise me."
Well. Surprise. I should've been more specific.
A soft knock, then the door creaked open.
In walked a maid. An actual maid—uniform, apron, the whole polite-curtsy package. She moved like she was trained by royalty themselves and gasped when she saw me wiggling in the crib.
"She's awake," she whispered, eyes wide.
Cool. I've been awake for two minutes and I'm already being stared at like a miracle.
Not the vibe I was going for.
More footsteps. Two more people swept in—tall, elegant, glowing like they lived inside a perfume commercial. The woman was all satin and silver, her eyes watering as she leaned over me.
"Thank the Lightkeeper," she said, brushing a thumb against my cheek. "My little Lysara."
Lysara?!
Wait. WAIT. That name. Lysara Aetheria?
My brain pinged.
That's the name of the tragic side character in The Lightkeeper's Heir, a fluffy fantasy novel I devoured last week. The noble girl who dies in Chapter 3 to emotionally scar her brother.
No. Freaking. Way.
------
I did what any rational adult reincarnated into a doomed baby would do.
I screamed.
Or, okay, I tried to. What came out was less "existential horror" and more "hungry duckling."
High-pitched. Embarrassing.
The maid jumped like I'd thrown something. (Lady, if I had full motor control, I would be throwing something.)
The woman—my new maybe-mother—laughed softly like I was the cutest thing ever and not currently having a full-blown identity crisis in a baby's body.
"She's strong," she said to the tall man beside her. "See how alert she is already?"
Alert?
Lady, I am on the verge of a breakdown. Please fetch me a bottle and a licensed therapist.
The man—the Duke, apparently—leaned closer. He had strong cheekbones, warm eyes, and the kind of hair that screamed conditioned daily with dragon oil. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but there was this weird sparkle in his eyes like he knew something I didn't.
"Her eyes are the same as yours," he said gently. "Our daughter is perfect."
Daughter.
Perfect.
MY LIFE IS A LIE.
Let me explain something. In the novel The Lightkeeper's Heir, Lysara Aetheria was a sweet, tragic side character. Not the heroine. Not the love interest. Just the little sister of the chosen one. Her job was to be adorable, then die at age ten in a totally avoidable "oops" accident that broke everyone's hearts.
I remember yelling at my phone when I got to that part. "SHE DESERVED BETTER!"
Welp.
Now I am her.
And I'd really, really prefer not to die before hitting double digits.
The maid rushed forward again, placing something warm and milky against my mouth. A bottle. Oh no. I wanted answers, not warm dairy in a crystal bottle. But my stomach growled and my body, traitor that it is, decided we were drinking this mystery milk.
So now here I was: sipping a stranger's breast milk (probably) while making intense eye contact with my new parents and mentally planning an escape route.
Welcome to Day One of Reincarnation.
Step 1: Don't die.
Step 2: Avoid becoming a plot device.
Step 3: Try not to drool in front of important people.
Easy, right?
The silver-robed lady—Mom? I guess?—leaned over again and whispered, "My precious Lysara, Lightkeeper bless you."
She kissed my forehead.
I should've wished for a time machine instead.
----
So here I was: freshly reincarnated, sipping suspiciously fancy milk, and staring up at my new "parents" like I wasn't internally screaming.
And then it hit me.
Like—really hit me.
Lysara Aetheria.
The baby who drowns in a "tragic boating accident" before she even gets her first crush. A narrative casualty so the actual heroine—her older sister—could unlock a tragic backstory and gain plot armor.
If I'm Lysara… then I've got about ten years to cheat death, rewrite this story, and live long enough to eat cake on my eleventh birthday.
Okay.
New plan.
Step 1: Stay alive.
Step 2: Avoid boats.
Step 3: Pretend I don't know I'm doomed.
Also: smile sweetly, cry on command, and maybe figure out how to do baby magic before I'm old enough to spell "magic."
I yawned—genuinely, not for dramatic effect—and the maid gasped like I'd solved world hunger.
"She's sleepy again," she whispered.
No, I'm plotting.
The curtains shimmered as golden light filled the room. Birds chirped outside the window like this was a Disney intro and not the opening scene of an existential horror-comedy.
The woman—they called her Lady Thalia, if I caught that right—gently tucked a plush blanket around me. It was embroidered with glowing vines that moved ever so slightly, like they were alive.
Enchanted baby blankets. Check.
Honestly? This was a weird upgrade from my tiny studio apartment. The food was better. The lighting was better. The walls weren't cracked. And nobody was yelling about rent.
But still.
Still.
I glanced (read: flailed) toward the corner of the nursery. A huge painting hung there—three children in royal garb. One of them… looked just like me. Or at least what I'd look like at five.
I squinted at the title.
"Princess Lysara, Age 5."
My stomach dropped. Again.
Why is there already a portrait of me looking older?
What kind of foreshadowing nightmare was this?!
The door creaked shut behind the adults. I was alone now, swaddled in magic, luxury, and a healthy dose of "what the hell is going on."
And then—just to make everything worse—I heard a voice.
Not aloud. Not like a ghost.
More like… inside my head.
"You've been reborn, child of light. Let's see what you do with this second chance."
OH GREAT. A MYSTERIOUS OMNISCIENT VOICE.
That's exactly what I needed.
I stared at the mobile spinning above me, one tiny unicorn bobbing smugly in place.
This better not be one of those stories where the unicorn's the final boss.
End of Chapter 1.