Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The moment Selphine broke the seal on Eveline’s letter, a quiet ripple of mana pulsed outward, nearly imperceptible—like the hush before a summer storm.

Aurelian instinctively leaned closer, eyebrows rising. “That’s not normal parchment,” he muttered.

“No,” Selphine agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. “She enchanted it.”

And not lightly.

The parchment shimmered faintly in the moonlight as she unfolded it, ink already glowing in shifting strokes of cerulean and gold. Runes pulsed in the margins, like musical notations that responded to their presence—listening, waiting.

Lyria, still standing by the door, took a cautious step forward. “Should I summon a scribe-mage?”

“No need,” Selphine replied. “This is personal.”

Aurelian tilted his head, squinting at the text. “Are those… riddles?”

“Ciphered patterns,” Selphine said. “I’ve seen her use this technique before. The letter will unlock only if we activate it with the correct sequence.”

“So… a game,” Aurelian grinned. “Very Eveline.”

But the mirth faded as the lines of mana grew sharper, denser. The enchantments were complex—woven like threads in a tapestry. Each wrong attempt would likely cause the letter to reseal… or worse.

Selphine reached for the teapot.

Not to pour.

To redirect.

The silver base of the pot shimmered with her mana, becoming a focus point. Aurelian blinked as the enchantments on the letter reacted, lines of glyphs twisting into clarity.

“Right. She wants resonance,” Selphine murmured. “We have to align our signatures.”

Aurelian sat upright, clearing his throat. “I’m guessing my usual ‘charming rogue’ aura won’t cut it.”

“Not unless you can convert charm into pure mana.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Selphine inhaled, lifting her hand, then slowly guided a stream of her magic into the letter. It danced over the paper, seeking, testing. The runes shifted, some glowing brighter, others fading—until three symbols remained, hovering above the page like pressed constellations.

Aurelian peered at them.

“A feather. A sun. And… is that a snail?”

Selphine sighed. “It’s a reference. Remember the lesson she gave on tempo control using animal-based metaphors?”

Aurelian snapped his fingers. “Yes! Feather for lightness, sun for amplification, snail for pacing.”

“She’s testing our memory.”

“And probably laughing wherever she is,” he added.

Selphine aligned her mana flow with the sequence—light, then amplified, then slowly drawn out. The moment the final resonance hit, the glyphs on the page unraveled like threads, dissolving into legible script.

The letter revealed itself in full.

And Eveline’s voice came not as written words, but as faint, melodic whispers—an echo of her presence, like memory translated into sound.

“To my dearest stormborns—

Selphine of the sharpened gaze, and Aurelian of the laugh that hides too much.”

Aurelian blinked. “That’s oddly accurate.”

Eveline’s whisper-ink continued to hum softly, curling around the edges of the page like smoke on the verge of laughter.

“If this letter finds you, then the fireflies have begun to stir again. You remember them, I hope. You always did shine brighter when you chased after impossible lights.”

Aurelian let out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Oh no,” he groaned. “She’s doing it again.”

Selphine’s lips twitched. “She always does.”

“Doesn’t mean she should,” Aurelian muttered. “Chased after impossible lights? Stars preserve us.”

“She thinks she’s a bard trapped in an archmage’s robes,” Selphine said, shaking her head as she scanned the next few lines.

“The sky speaks, and I listen. The roots whisper, and I follow. The tides roll backward when old souls cross paths, and I am reminded of two children who turned time into ash and laughter.”

Aurelian gave her a sideways look. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“She once rhymed ‘scepter’ with ‘specter’, remember?”

“Gods,” Aurelian whispered, feigning a shudder. “That one kept me up at night.”

Still, they read on. Because buried beneath Eveline’s extravagant metaphors and lyrical misfires, there was always truth. Always a message.

And soon, it came.

“I’ve missed you, both of you. More than my scattered musings can express. But I cannot return to the capital—not yet. My path winds elsewhere for now.”

Selphine’s gaze softened, her fingers brushing over the words.

“She’s watching,” she murmured. “Still keeping track of us.”

Aurelian gave a small, wistful smile. “Typical Eveline. Always vanishing without warning… but never really gone.”

They continued.

“But I’ve heard of your progress—your clever tongues and your sharp blades. I know you’ve both taken your places at the academy. Good. That place needs shaking.”

Selphine chuckled. “She would say that.”

“She did say we were ‘stormborns,'” Aurelian added with a grin.

Then the tone of the letter shifted—subtly, but unmistakably.

“You won’t be alone much longer. I’ve sent someone. A girl. She will be arriving soon to attend the academy—under a different name, of course. A little disguise to keep things… simple.”

Aurelian leaned forward, interest piqued. “Someone she trained?”

Selphine’s eyes narrowed. “A disciple.”

The letter continued, Eveline’s unmistakable tone now drifting into something closer to warmth—less cryptic, more personal. Like the closing notes of an old melody, remembered fondly.

“She will arrive under the guise of a newly ennobled heir, traveling from the Barony of Caerlin, due to arrive in the capital just around the turn of the moon. I’ve made arrangements for her to stay at the Laurelshade Pavilion—quiet, unassuming, and just removed enough from the academy’s bustle that she might breathe a little.”

Selphine’s brow furrowed. “Laurelshade… That’s only a few districts from here.”

“And the moon turned three nights ago,” Aurelian added, glancing toward the window where stars twinkled above the city’s glow. “Which means…”

“She’s already arrived.” Selphine looked down at the date marked beneath Eveline’s flowing signature. Confirmed.

Stamped seven days prior.

“Eveline timed this,” Selphine said, voice low, as realization settled in her chest. “The moment the letter reached us…”

“…was the moment the girl stepped into Arcania,” Aurelian finished. He let out a quiet whistle. “Subtle as always.”

They both went still for a moment, absorbing that truth.

“She didn’t do this with us,” Selphine said at last. Her voice wasn’t bitter, just curious. Thoughtful. “We were apprentices. Not disciples.”

“True,” Aurelian mused, stretching slightly. “Which makes this girl special, doesn’t it?”

“She chose her.”

“And now she’s ours to meet.”

Their eyes met, a rare stillness in both their expressions. Because Eveline didn’t name disciples lightly. If this Elowyn Caerlin had earned that title, then she had to be remarkable—no matter how “unassuming” her barony might seem on paper.

Aurelian leaned back on the divan, arms crossed behind his head again, his expression drifting toward a grin. “Do you think she’s like Eveline?”

Selphine tilted her head, considering. “You mean chaotic, poetic, and five seconds away from enchanting the chandeliers?”

“Yes.”

“I hope not,” she deadpanned.

Aurelian chuckled. “Fair. But still… she is the Archmage of Frost’s disciple. Do you think the girl uses frost too?”

Selphine’s fingers tapped lightly on the folded letter, mind drifting. “Probably. At least in part. Eveline wouldn’t choose someone without affinity.”

A pause.

Then, more quietly: “But it’s not just about affinity, is it?”

“No,” Aurelian murmured. “It never was.”

He sat upright again, eyes gleaming now with anticipation. “I’m curious, Sel. I really want to meet this girl. What kind of person catches Eveline’s eye after all these years?”

Selphine nodded slowly, her posture slipping from noble stiffness to something more… invested.

“So do I.”

They both turned, almost in unison, toward the gently swaying drapes that framed the moonlit city—toward the streets beyond, where a girl named Elowyn Caerlin, born of frost and secrets, had just stepped into the story Eveline had once started.

And tomorrow?

They would begin to find her.

———-A/N———–

I have another exam and I feel sick now.

I might be cooked.

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