As Zhyn's thoughts slowly aligned, fragments of memory stitched themselves together—not memories of this world, but of another. Of long nights hunched over a desk, of chapters rewritten until dawn, of a story she had known more intimately than her own life.
This world.
Hers.
Horror dawned quietly, settling into her chest with chilling clarity. She was not merely reborn into a fantasy realm—she had been reincarnated inside her own novel.
And worse still, she knew exactly who she was now.
A baby destined to be cursed.
In the story, it was a minor event at first—almost forgettable. A child touched by the magic of the main characters, a careless act born of fear and misunderstanding. That curse would fester slowly, twisting fate itself, shaping her into a villain whispered about in later chapters. By the age of twenty-two, she would be hunted down and killed, her death framed as a necessary tragedy to save the world.
Zhyn's world.
Her breath hitched, tiny fingers curling instinctively as the weight of inevitability pressed down on her. She knew every step of that path. Every mistake. Every betrayal. Every moment where things could have gone differently—if only someone had tried.
If only I had tried, she thought.
But fate, she realized, was not yet sealed.
The curse had not happened. The story had not reached that page.
Cradled in the arms of people who clearly cared for her—who looked at her with warmth instead of fear—Zhyn made a quiet, resolute decision. She would not follow the narrative she had written in exhaustion and despair. She would not become a villain crafted by inevitability.
She would survive.
Not to become a hero. Not to rewrite the world in grand strokes. But simply to live—to grow up, to laugh, to learn magic without being consumed by it, and to reach her twenty-third birthday breathing, free, and unbroken.
Magic hummed gently around her, responsive, curious, as though it recognized its creator even now. This world was dangerous, yes—but it was also filled with possibility.
Zhyn closed her eyes, no longer overwhelmed, but focused.
This time, she would write her story differently.
Not with ink and sacrifice—
—but with life.
************
Eleven months passed—not as pages turning, but as moments learned slowly, breath by breath.
I, Zhyn—the author of this very world—now lived within it, reborn into the fragile body of a eleven-month-old child. My days were measured not by chapters or deadlines, but by heartbeats, gentle voices, and the steady arms that carried me through vast halls and sunlit rooms. Learning to hold my head steady had been a victory. Learning to crawl, a triumph. Regaining my footing in this new existence required patience I had never possessed in my previous life.
Yet my mind had awakened far earlier than my body.
Beneath soft blankets and watchful eyes, I began to sense it—the magic. Mana flowed everywhere, like an unseen current woven into the air, the walls, the people around me. It brushed against my skin, warm and responsive, as though it recognized me. At first, it was overwhelming, a tide threatening to sweep me away. But slowly, carefully, I listened.
I did not force it.I remembered what obsession had cost me once.
Instead, I guided the flow gently inward, mimicking the theories I had once written as fiction. Mana answered in subtle ways, gathering within me, tracing unfamiliar pathways through a body still learning its own limits. Each success was small—a faint warmth in my chest, a clearer awareness of the world—but it was progress all the same.
Day by day, breath by breath, I began forming something fragile yet profound.
A core.
It was not yet stable, nor powerful, but it existed—a quiet center where mana settled and rotated, responding to my intent. The effort left me tired, often forcing me into deep, dreamless sleep, but it was a good kind of exhaustion. One born of growth, not destruction.
No one noticed, of course. To them, I was only a baby discovering the world for the first time—grasping fingers, curious eyes, soft laughter. They could not see the silent work happening beneath the surface, the careful steps I took to ensure my survival in a story that once promised my death.
As I lay cradled in safety, feeling the gentle pulse of mana within my forming core, a quiet certainty took root alongside it.
The curse had not touched me yet.The future was still unwritten.
*************
Today was my first birthday.
The estate was alive with motion, as if the very walls were humming with excitement. Servants flitted through the corridors like currents of wind, carrying ribbons, floating enchanted flowers, and trays of crystal fruit. The grand hall gleamed under the light of the chandelier, its countless crystals scattering gold and silver across polished marble floors.
I lay cradled in soft blankets, my silver hair shimmering in the warm light, my gray eyes quietly observing everything. Beside me, my sister—already two years old—watched curiously, her presence calm and protective. Even at her age, she had a grace that made her seem older than she was, and her soft silver hair and familiar gray eyes reflected our family's quiet nobility.
The adults bustled around, but I already knew what was coming. I knew today would mark the first meeting with my rival in love—the one who would shape my story.
And then they arrived.
A small figure, not much taller than I, toddled into the hall with her fiery red hair bouncing with each step and golden eyes that seemed to drink in every glimmer of light. She giggled as she reached for floating decorations, her tiny hands stretching toward them with innocent excitement.
Princess Xelhyn Aranault Cleveski, third princess of the royal family, heir of the Central Plain, and my future rival in love. She was accompanied by her siblings: the first princess, tall and composed even in infancy, and the second, slightly younger, with a mischievous gleam already in her eyes. Their presence radiated the quiet weight of royalty, even in their playful curiosity.
The adults cooed and clapped at the sight, marveling at the "meeting of noble heirs." But I, Zhyn, already understood the gravity hidden beneath their innocence. Every smile, every glance, every stumble forward would echo into the years to come if I did not act wisely.
As Xelhyn's siblings clustered around her, the doors of the hall opened again. This time, the South Crown Prince arrived—Yulex Avez Jorge Mexus—tall, regal, and accompanied by his family. His dark hair and warm eyes contrasted with his careful, polite smile, giving off an aura of gentle authority. The crowd murmured in appreciation as he bowed slightly, the motion formal yet graceful, the weight of the South Crown's expectations pressing subtly in every gesture.
Almost immediately after, a strikingly beautiful procession approached from the west. Princess Scarlet Winter, her hair like freshly fallen crimson snow and eyes the sharp blue of winter skies, walked alongside her family. Even at a young age, her aura was commanding, her gaze perceptive and calculating. Whispers followed her steps, noting how clearly she carried herself even among nobles.
All at once, the hall swelled with presence: cousins, siblings, princes, princesses—a convergence of bloodlines, power, and subtle rivalries. And there I was, cradled quietly, silver-haired and gray-eyed, the one thread in the tapestry that the story had once written for death and despair.
Xelhyn toddled closer, her golden eyes meeting mine for the first time. Her tiny cold face, innocent doesn't fit her, but I felt the thread—the one that would tie our fates in rivalry, jealousy, and love—already taut between us.
I did not cry. I did not reach for her. I merely watched. Her eyes wonder around my face like she new me well.
I rather walked away from this disastrous girl in the future.