My name is Juniperus Ruisselet, and I was reincarnated into this world sixteen years ago.
For reasons I still find faintly amusing, life here has been unexpectedly good. That feels like an odd admission, considering how reincarnation stories usually begin and end. I am not cursed, hunted, or burdened by divine instructions whispered into my thoughts. There are no glowing windows when I wake, and no invisible systems tracking my progress.
I simply arrived in this world fully aware, trapped inside a screaming infant's body that could not obey me. That part was horrific, exhausting, and something I never intend to relive in memory.
Fortunately, time continued moving forward whether I approved of it or not. Today, I am sixteen years old, and I have finally reached the age I was when I died before.The realization feels ceremonial in a way I cannot fully explain to myself. Like crossing an invisible threshold that only I am aware exists.
Our estate rests on the outer edges of the kingdom, where land is plentiful and stone is expensive. My parents chose acreage over architecture, believing responsibility mattered more than appearances.
The result is a two-story manor surrounded by farmland, rather than a grand residence meant to impress.From my bedroom window, I can see fields stretching outward beneath the morning fog.
Workers are already awake, moving steadily through routines that keep everyone fed and employed.
It is peaceful here, honest in a way the capital rarely manages to be. My parents believe deeply in the idea that nobility should function as stewardship rather than entitlement.
They are sincere people who care more about crop rotations and village repairs than social appearances. Unfortunately, this philosophy results in an overwhelming amount of paperwork that never seems to diminish.
Most of my childhood conversations with them occurred across desks buried beneath ledgers and reports. Somewhere along the way, my mind began categorizing them as two perpetually exhausted stacks of paper that occasionally spoke.
I suspect they would find that assessment amusing, assuming they ever had time to hear it. I finished dressing quickly, pulling on the academy uniform trousers that had required months of negotiation.
The academy administration had initially expressed genuine confusion over my request for practical riding attire.Their letters questioned why a young noblewoman could not simply ride in skirts or acquire a carriage.
The discussion ended abruptly after my father sent copies of our monthly accounts. No personal details were included, only labor costs, harvest yields, repairs, and tax obligations.After reviewing the numbers, the academy's objections softened considerably.
Fine, they had written, trousers would be permitted under special circumstances.
They sent fabric, measurements, and block patterns, clearly assuming I would need assistance. I adjusted the fit myself, since sewing is a practical skill when one lives outside the capital.
I tied my hair back securely and fastened my cloak over the uniform before heading outside. The morning air smelled of damp earth and wheat, carrying the quiet rhythm of early labor. My horse was already waiting near the gate, reins held by one of our household knights.
Calling him a knight was somewhat generous, though nobody here would argue otherwise.
My parents had taken him in as a child, generously named him François, and he had never truly left. He possessed genuine talent with a sword and an unwavering sense of loyalty that required no ceremony. He looked me over with a familiar, assessing expression that suggested trouble.
"No racing," he said, before I could even greet him properly.
I sighed in exaggerated disappointment, already knowing how this conversation would proceed.
"You have not even said good morning," I replied, adjusting my gloves carefully.
"You always race," he said patiently, as though reciting an established fact.
"And you always arrive looking like you were thrown through a hedge."
"That is an exaggeration," I protested, stepping closer to the saddle.
"You lost a boot last time," he added calmly, refusing to meet my eyes.
"I recovered it, did I not?" I said, lifting myself onto the horse with practiced ease. He stared at me until I smiled, which only encouraged him further.
"We are taking our time," he said firmly, slipping back into formal address.
"You are riding into the capital in trousers, which is already sufficient scandal."
"I could outride you without effort," I remarked, clicking my tongue lightly at the horse.
"You could," he agreed, tightening his grip on the reins, "and you will not." He steadied the horse and bowed his head slightly.
"My lady," he said, with warmth that years of familiarity had softened.
We set off at a measured pace along the road leading toward the capital. The fields gradually gave way to stone markers and broader paths meant for traffic. Somewhere beyond the walls ahead stood the academy, waiting patiently for new students.
This was the year the story I remembered was supposed to begin. The heroine would arrive, the harem would form, and the world would continue without noticing me. For the first time since arriving in this life, I had absolutely no idea how things would unfold. I tightened my grip on the reins and allowed myself a small, slow exhale. Life had been good so far, and I suspected it was about to become complicated.