faeni

Death by Truck-kun? Too mainstream. I died choking on my own laughter during a late-night comedy rerun. Pathetic? Yes. Fitting for someone who gave up on life halfway through university and became a full-time couch potato? Also yes.

When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t in the afterlife—or if I was, it had a suspicious amount of baby talk and clean diapers. I was reincarnated... as an infant. No powers. No memories of my new name. Just chubby cheeks and existential dread.

But the real horror? I slowly realized I was now living inside one of those cliché romance novels I absolutely despised. You know the type: cold-hearted king meets brave commoner girl, falls in love, political chaos ensues, blah blah gag me with a spoon. I read it. I hated it. And now? I think I’m in it.

And not as the heroine. Or the villain. Or even the funny sidekick. No—I'm just some background baby who probably gets held once, then vanishes from the plot forever.

With no grand destiny, no cheat skills, and no idea what chapter we’re on, I’ve decided to do the only thing I was ever good at—absolutely nothing. But fate has a funny way of dragging the lazy into the spotlight…

They think I’m innocent. I think this whole thing is a joke. Let's see who breaks first.

Reborn as a Background Baby in a Novel I Hate

The following morning, armed with Elias's sketch bundle discreetly under my arm, I strode straight into the royal breakfast room.

Father—the King—was midway through a skyscraper-sized plate of buttered toast, studying maps of some tedious border conflict, when I burst in with all the gravitas my seven-year-old self could muster.

"Father," I announced importantly, making a bewildered squire spill an entire tray of jam pots. "I have discovered something of great significance."

Father let his toast slide down slowly. "Good morning, Charlotte," he said warily. "And what discovery might that be?"

I dumped the sketches onto the table, nearly knocking over his goblet of wine. "These," I declared, spreading them out for maximum dramatic impact, "are the future of this kingdom's literary excellence."

He blinked at the drawings. Then at me. "Are they?"

"Yes," I declared, unabashed. I picked up one proudly: a drawing of a bold thief jumping a stone wall beneath a full moon. "I will write the books, and Elias—the boy who drew these—will illustrate for me. We will create the finest stories this kingdom has ever known."

Not that I particularly cared about disrupting things anymore. If fate didn't like it, fate could file a formal complaint.

Mother had appeared in the doorway, drawn in by the commotion. She took in the tableau: me, arms akimbo; the King, looking trapped; and a scattering of lively sketches overtaking the royal breakfast.

Father massaged his temples. "And this Elias... who is he, exactly?"

"He's the gardener's son," I said breezily, as if it were obvious. "A genius. An artistic prodigy. A vital national asset."

Mother raised an eyebrow. "The gardener's son?"

"Yes. We must secure his services immediately, before another kingdom poaches him," I said, folding my arms. "I insist. For the good of the realm."

Father shared a long, forbearing glance with Mother—the kind grown-ups exchange when deciding how to indulge their brilliant but obstinate child without triggering an international crisis.

Finally, he sighed and pushed aside his toast. "And what exactly are you proposing, Charlotte?"

I smiled sweetly—the kind of smile that had gotten me out of more than one etiquette lesson.

"I will write the stories. Elias will illustrate them. Together, we'll create masterpieces. You will, of course, fund the materials, the printing... and a small pavilion in the gardens where I can compose in peace."

Then Mother, to my everlasting joy, laughed. "A small pavilion, you say?"

"Smallish," I conceded graciously. "And very quaint."

Father snorted under his breath and, at last, waved a hand in defeat. "Very well, Princess Charlotte. You may have your illustrator—and your pavilion, within reason."

"And what shall this first great work be titled?" he asked, humoring me.

I paused, tapping my chin theatrically.

"The Moonlight and Mischief Tales," I declared, with all the solemn drama of a proper writer.

Father nodded gravely. "Then we await your first manuscript, Princess Charlotte."

And so it was decided.Elias would draw. I would write.And together, we would craft tales that might outlast even the grandest wars and treaties.

After all, armies could win wars—But stories?Stories won hearts.

And I was going to win everything.

The Illustrated Proclamation