You Didn't Hear Anything

Robert woke slowly, his mind clearer this time. The initial shock of his rebirth had faded, replaced by a calm, analytical focus. He took his time, absorbing his surroundings with the precision of a seasoned observer.

He was in a crib, its wooden bars smooth and polished. Above him, the ceiling stretched high, its white surface adorned with intricate gold designs—flowers and vines curling along the edges. The craftsmanship was exquisite, a testament to wealth and artistry.

He turned his head to the right. Sunlight streamed through large glass windows, their panes clear and flawless. The table nearby was carved from dark wood, its surface etched with patterns that spoke of skilled hands and patience. No metal, no glass—nothing that hinted at advanced technology. Not yet, he corrected himself. This was a world still in its infancy, at least by the standards he once knew.

His eyes drifted to the chandelier hanging above. Instead of oil lamps or electric bulbs, it held glowing crystals, their light soft and steady. The bed across the room was massive—a king-sized frame carved with the same meticulous detail as the table. The room itself was a blend of opulence and functionality, the kind of space reserved for nobility.

Robert's mind raced, piecing together the clues. The architecture, the materials, the lack of modern conveniences—it all pointed to a medieval setting. A noble household, to be exact. He'd read enough history books to recognize the signs, though he'd never imagined he'd experience it firsthand.

Reincarnation. The word echoed in his mind. He'd never put much stock in it—never read books on the subject, though he'd seen video clips and skimmed through fiction comics. It was always something abstract, a plot device for stories, not something that happened to real people. And yet, here he was, living it.

He flexed his tiny fingers, marveling at the absurdity of it all. His mind, sharp and calculating, was trapped in the body of an infant. The irony wasn't lost on him. After a lifetime of pulling strings and uncovering secrets, he was now utterly powerless, dependent on others for even the most basic needs.

But Robert wasn't one to wallow in self-pity. If this was his reality, he would adapt. He would observe, learn, and plan. The room around him was a treasure trove of information, and he intended to use it.

His gaze returned to the chandelier, the crystals glowing softly. Magic, or some form of it, seemed to be a part of this world. That was new. In his past life, technology had been the driving force of progress. Here, it appeared that magic filled that role. The implications were staggering.

A sound broke the silence—a faint creak of a door opening. Robert turned his head, his tiny body straining to see who was entering.

Robert's eyes landed on a maid as she entered the room. Her brown hair was neatly braided down her back, and she wore a black uniform with white accents, the fabric crisp and clean. She pushed a silver trolley stacked with folded clothes, her movements efficient but unhurried.

He shifted slightly, feeling the uncomfortable dampness beneath him. Ah, shit. I peed. The realization was embarrassing, even humiliating. An old man, a former spymaster who had once commanded respect and fear, now reduced to this—a helpless infant who couldn't even control his own body. He clenched his tiny fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

"Young Master Taryn!" the maid called out, her voice bright and cheerful as she approached the crib. She leaned over, her face breaking into a warm smile. "Oh, you're awake! Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

Taryn? Robert thought, his mind latching onto the name. So, my name now is Taryn. Not Robert James Cooper anymore. Taryn. He tested the name in his mind, rolling it over like a stone in his hand. Taryn. It had a certain ring to it, he decided. A name fit for a noble, for someone who mattered.

He allowed himself a small smile, though it felt strange on his infant face. Alright, Taryn it is. Time to adapt.

The maid reached into the crib, her hands gentle but firm as she lifted him. "There we go, young master," she cooed, her tone soothing. "Let's get you into something fresh."

Robert—no, Taryn—stayed still, his mind racing even as his body remained passive. He observed the maid closely, noting the way she moved, the way she spoke. She was efficient, clearly experienced in her role, but there was something else—a flicker of something in her eyes when she looked at him. Respect? Affection? Or something more calculated?

He couldn't tell yet, but he filed the observation away. In this new world, every detail mattered.

As the maid laid him on the changing table, Taryn's eyes wandered the room again. The intricate gold designs on the ceiling, the glowing crystals in the chandelier, the finely carved furniture—it all spoke of wealth and power. But it also spoke of a world steeped in tradition, in hierarchy. A world where names and titles carried weight.

Taryn, he thought again. Son of a noble house. But which house? And what does that mean for me?

The maid finished changing him, her hands quick and practiced. "There," she said, lifting him again. "All clean and fresh. You're such a good boy, young master."

Taryn didn't respond, of course. He couldn't. But his mind was already working, piecing together the fragments of his new reality. This world was different—magic instead of technology, nobility instead of democracy. But some things never changed. Power. Secrets. Ambition.

The days blurred together in a haze of routine and frustration. Taryn, once Robert James Cooper, was now trapped in the body of an infant. The maid, her brown hair always neatly braided, came regularly to feed him. His mother, Lady Seraphine, visited often, her presence both comforting and unsettling. She would cuddle him, her touch gentle, and occasionally breastfeed him. Taryn hesitated at first—how could he not? If they knew the mind inside this tiny body belonged to an old man, it would be beyond embarrassing. But he had no choice. Survival came before pride.

He spent his days trying to gain control of his body. His tiny limbs were weak, uncoordinated, but he refused to give up. Every small movement felt like a victory, though a frustratingly slow one. At night, he lay awake, listening to the murmured conversations between his parents. Their voices carried through the dimly lit room, sharp and low.

"The eastern lords are pushing for more land," his father, Count Aldric von Harrow, said one evening. His tone was calm, but Taryn could hear the edge beneath it. "They think because of the drought, they can strongarm us into concessions."

"They'll regret underestimating House von Harrow," his mother replied, her voice colder. "Let them push. We'll see who breaks first."

Politics. The same old game, just in a different world. Taryn filed the information away, his mind already working. House von Harrow. His house. His father, a count, a man of power and ambition. His mother, sharp and calculating. They were players in this world's game, and now, so was he.

Visitors came often—nobles from other houses, their voices dripping with false warmth as they cooed over him. Taryn endured it, his expression carefully blank. He couldn't afford to draw attention, not yet. But one visitor stood out: Gisela of House Lichtwald, his sister by blood—now his aunt. She brought her daughter, a seven-year-old girl with bright eyes and too much energy.

"This is your cousin, Taryn," Gisela said, her voice cheerful as she set the girl down beside his crib. "Be nice to him, Lina."

Lina, of course, was anything but nice. She poked and prodded him, her giggles grating on his nerves. Taryn refused to play along. He wasn't a child, no matter what his body said. But Lina didn't care. She chased him around the crib, her laughter echoing in the room as Taryn's frustration grew.

"Stop it," he wanted to snap, but all that came out was a gurgle. Lina laughed harder, her hands reaching for him again.

Taryn's jaw clenched. This was his life now—a noble infant, surrounded by politics and power, yet utterly powerless himself. But he wouldn't stay this way. He couldn't. Every day, he worked to strengthen his body, to understand this world. Every conversation, every visitor, every detail was a piece of the puzzle.

And Taryn von Harrow would solve it. No matter how long it took.

Taryn spent his days listening to the same old song and dance—politics. It was exhausting. The United Solar Federation, his former government, had played the same game, just on a cosmic scale. Territories, resources, alliances, betrayals. It was all the same, only the names had changed. Here, it was the eastern lords pushing for land, the western barons demanding trade concessions, and House von Harrow caught in the middle.

He lay in his crib, his tiny hands clenched into fists as his parents discussed the latest developments. His father's voice was calm, measured, but Taryn could hear the steel beneath it. His mother's tone was sharper, colder, her words cutting through the air like a blade. They were good at this game, he had to admit. But that didn't make it any less tiresome.

At night, it was worse. The politics gave way to... other activities. Taryn's face twisted in discomfort as the sounds began. His mother's voice, usually so composed, rose in pitch, her cries echoing through the room. His father's low murmurs followed, the bed creaking in rhythm.

Can't they do it silently? Taryn thought, his frustration boiling over. He turned his head, staring at the ceiling as if it could offer some escape. For fuck's sake.

But there was no escape. He was trapped in this tiny body, forced to endure the indignities of infancy and the awkwardness of his parents'... enthusiasm. It was maddening. He couldn't even cover his ears—his arms were too weak, too uncoordinated. All he could do was lie there and wait for it to end.

When the noises finally subsided, Taryn let out a mental sigh of relief. Silence returned, broken only by the soft rustling of sheets and the occasional murmur of conversation. He closed his eyes, trying to block it all out, but his mind refused to rest.

This was his life now. Days filled with politics, nights filled with... distractions. It was a far cry from the life he'd once known, the life he'd built. But Taryn von Harrow wasn't one to wallow in self-pity. He'd adapt. He'd survive. And when the time was right, he'd make his move.

Until then, he'd endure. He had no other choice.