There are several rules in noble society.
Rule One: Never insult a duchess's hat. Rule Two: Never touch the centerpiece. Rule Three: Under absolutely no circumstance should you accept floral gifts from Belladonna Lysandre.
Guess which one I broke?
---
It all began with what should have been a peaceful morning stroll through the West Garden. I say "should have been" the same way a man says, "I should have been safe from spontaneous combustion."
Inner Me: Famous last thoughts.
The West Garden was a place of illusion. Roses trimmed into spirals. Singing fountains that harmonized with the wind. A rare breed of hummingbird that refused to hum unless spoken to politely.
It was a diplomatic garden. A place for nobles to pretend they liked each other. That morning, a tea gathering was scheduled. Which meant one thing:
I had to wear trousers with gold-thread embroidery and pretend to enjoy conversations about weather, economy, and the ethics of goose-breeding.
---
Belladonna was already there when I arrived.
"Kael!" she chirped, throwing her hands in the air like a mad conductor. "I brought you a flower."
Inner Me: A flower. Singular. This bodes poorly.
She handed me a rose.
It shimmered. It hummed. It... growled?
"It's perfectly safe," she said with a grin that made my blood pressure rise.
"Define 'safe.'"
"Non-lethal in seventy-three percent of field tests."
I stared at it. The petals sparkled with a faint violet glow, like they'd been kissed by moonlight—or irradiated by moonlight with unresolved issues.
Inner Me: I'm not dying over a flower. Again.
I handed it back. Or tried to.
The rose leapt from my hand, twirled in the air, and embedded itself into the hedgerow. It began to vibrate.
"Oh no," Belladonna whispered. "It's pollinating."
"Pollinating what?"
She didn't answer. She just shouted, "DUCK!"
I hit the ground.
The rose exploded in a burst of glitter, perfume, and what I sincerely hope was not liquefied bees.
---
Ten minutes later, I stood beside the fountain, soaked in petal shrapnel and bad decisions. The tea guests were still screaming.
One dowager had fainted into a hedge. Another was demanding a duel with the nearest gardener.
And Belladonna?
Belladonna was clapping.
"It worked!"
"What worked?!"
"The delayed-reactive romantic flora charm! It simulates love's chaos in botanical form."
Inner Me: I am in botanical hell.
---
Enter: Seraphina.
Sword drawn. Hair perfect. Expression: somewhere between eternal disdain and "I will stab you now."
"You," she said flatly to Belladonna. "Did this."
"Technically, the rose did it," Belladonna replied. "But I appreciate the credit."
Seraphina turned to me.
"Why are you sparkling?"
"Long story. Short version: I almost married a grenade."
Seraphina sighed. That regal, defeated sigh only nobility and disappointed fencing instructors can truly master.
---
At that moment, the Duchess of Rumwell approached.
Her hat was taller than most trees. Her monocle glinted with the fury of three failed marriages and a lifetime of powdered wigs.
"Young Master Reinhardt," she hissed. "I was told this would be a display of noble etiquette. Instead, I was assaulted by flora."
"Yes, Your Grace. That was... not in the itinerary."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You will make restitution."
"Restitution?"
"A public apology. Tonight. At the ballroom banquet. With roses."
Inner Me: I've never hated roses so much in my life.
---
Hours later, I stood at the grand hall entrance.
My suit: fresh-pressed. My expression: dead inside.
The ballroom sparkled with gold chandeliers and diamond-studded cynicism. Nobles milled about, sipping wine, exchanging gossip, and pretending they weren't terrified of each other.
Belladonna was by the punch bowl, casually adding something that fizzed.
Seraphina was at the balcony, sharpening a butter knife with deliberate menace.
And I?
I carried a bouquet of roses. Regular ones. Verified. Inspected. Blessed by three priests and dunked in holy water for safety.
Inner Me: If these explode, I'm changing continents.
---
"Ladies and gentlemen," the herald called, "House Reinhardt's youngest son, Kael, will now offer a formal apology for the West Garden incident."
I stepped forward.
"Good evening," I said, projecting the voice of someone who had survived seventeen duels with cutlery. "As many of you witnessed—or fled from—I had an unfortunate botanical encounter earlier today."
Some polite chuckles. A few coughs. A man in the back whispered, "He lived?"
"On behalf of House Reinhardt, I'd like to express our deepest regrets that your morning tea was transformed into a tactical floral exercise."
Seraphina sipped her drink without blinking. Belladonna gave me a thumbs up. The punch behind her bubbled.
I continued.
"To demonstrate our ongoing commitment to proper etiquette and floral responsibility, I offer these non-lethal roses to Her Grace, the Duchess of Rumwell."
She accepted the bouquet with a sniff. The monocle gleamed.
"These better not hum," she said.
"They've been legally and magically sterilized."
There was a long pause. Then… applause.
A slow, reluctant, sarcastic clap from nobles who'd seen worse.
Inner Me: Success. Somehow.
---
Later that evening, I made my escape to the balcony.
The moon was out. The city glowed beneath. My dignity remained in the hedgerow, buried under rose ash.
Seraphina joined me. She leaned on the railing.
"You recovered well," she said.
"I was one sneeze away from disaster."
"And yet you bowed. That takes skill."
"Or resignation. Possibly both."
A beat passed.
She looked over at me. "You know, I'm starting to believe you might survive this."
"The harem pact? The system failure? The floral warfare?"
"All of it."
Inner Me: Wait. Was that… a compliment?
She handed me a single rose. Red. Unenchanted. Probably.
"Here," she said. "You dropped this."
I blinked.
"You picked this up after the explosion?"
"It landed in my lap. I assumed it meant something."
Inner Me: Great. Now I'm receiving divine omens from flammable flowers.
Still… I took it. Carefully.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't get used to it," she replied, already walking away.
Belladonna popped out of nowhere.
"Was that flirting? I smell awkward romantic tension. Also, burnt ozone."
"I'm going to bed."
"Wait! I made you a new perfume. It's called Scandal! With an exclamation mark."
"Does it explode?"
"Only socially."
Inner Me: I'm never getting out of this alive.
---
And so ended my seventh official incident as a member of House Reinhardt.
Exploding roses.
A spy scandal. A scone interrogation. And an unexpected meeting with someone who might be my cousin.
Inner Me: Can I get reincarnated again? Preferably as a rock.
Next Time on: "Siblings, Spies, and Sinister Scones" — trust no pastry.
---
[Bonus Scene – The Interrogation of Lord Mustache]
I was sipping tea that tasted suspiciously like betrayal when Duke Mustachington (his real name is Lord Cavendish, but I refuse to acknowledge that) leaned in, swirling his goblet like he was about to drop a life-changing secret.
"So," he said, voice low and dramatic, "how do you feel about... strategic hand-holding?"
I choked on my tea.
"Strategic what now?"
"Young love," he explained, as if he were reading from an ancient scroll. "In my day, we held hands and caused international incidents. That's how real nobles flirted."
(Inner Me: Is he... is he reminiscing about hand-holding like it's a war crime?)
I looked at Seraphina. She stared at her fork like it had just insulted her lineage.
I looked back at Mustachington.
"I'll consider it," I lied.
He winked.
Seraphina blinked.
The chandelier above us creaked ominously.
I have never felt more endangered by furniture.
---
[Next Time on "Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That."]
Hi. It's me. Again. Still alive. Somehow.
Next time?
Well, imagine this:
My younger sibling suddenly speaks in ancient prophecy.
Someone bakes a scone so dense it's classified as a blunt weapon.
A spy is discovered in our kitchen.
And Belladonna tries to summon emotional intimacy using something called "liquid courage potion."
(Inner Me: I think I preferred the foam rod duel.)
So stick around for Chapter 8: "Siblings, Spies, and Sinister Scones."
Where secrets are spilled, pastries are weaponized, and I continue my noble descent into dignified madness.
---
Hey you — yes, you with the scrolling finger.
If you laughed, winced, or considered throwing a teacup on my behalf, drop a comment below.
Seriously. Humor needs witnesses.
And validation. Mostly validation.
Also, tell me:
What's the most ridiculous noble tradition you'd invent?
Winner gets a personalized eye-roll from me and a slice of aggressively average cake.
(Inner Me: I cannot believe I'm bribing the internet with sass and pastries. This is my life now.)
See you in Chapter 8. Probably bruised. Definitely caffeinated.
— Kael