Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The name burned into her vision, into her very breath.

Lucavion.

‘No. No, no, no—’

The air around Elara seemed to thin, folding in on itself, as the world blurred at the edges. She barely heard Selphine’s sharp intake of breath, Aurelian’s startled murmur. Their voices became static against the roar growing inside her skull.

She was fifteen again.

Standing beneath a canopy of chandeliers and silk banners, dressed in her house’s finest silver-and-ice gown. Her hair woven into a coronet of starlight threads. Tonight was supposed to be her moment—her debut—the moment she would stand before the world as Elara Valoria, heir to the Grand Duchy, the living proof of her family’s might and future.

The music had swelled. The crowd had gathered.

She had walked forward, every step practiced, every movement laden with expectation.

And then—

The scream.

The rupture of decorum so violent it tore the melody in half.

Whispers rising like a tide, choking the hall.

And there she was—dragged into the center of it all, dragged from a hidden chamber where the scene had already been staged. The horror frozen into her bones even before she saw it clearly: her own body, stripped, vulnerable, sprawled beside a boy she barely even knew—

Lucavion.

And he, groggy-eyed, reaching toward her with a touch that even now made her want to retch.

The accusations had fallen like blades.

Defiled. Disgraced. Whore.

No questions asked. No justice sought.

Only judgment.

Only exile.

‘I tried to speak.’

‘I tried to scream the truth.’

‘But they didn’t want truth. They wanted a villain.’

Her fists clenched so tightly now that she felt the half-moons of her nails cutting into her skin, grounding her in the present—but barely.

‘Father. Alexander Valoria. The man whose hand once lifted me into the sky as a child… he looked at me that night like I was filth.’

‘And Isolde.’

‘My sister.’

‘Smiling with that careful, angelic curve of her lips as she twisted the knife deeper.’

Elara’s chest ached, but the pain was familiar. Fuel. Weapon.

For years—years—she had endured the sneers. The betrayal. The world that spat her out and demanded she crawl or die.

And she had survived.

‘I promised myself.’

‘I swore upon the broken ruins of my life: I would make them regret it.’

The Academy. Her magic. Her cold, careful training under Eveline’s brutal hand. Every humiliation swallowed. Every weakness burned out of her body until only steel remained.

All for vengeance.

All to make them kneel.

And yet—

And yet, even after all that, when she thought she had hardened her heart into something unbreakable, when Eveline had scooped her from the gutter of exile and sharpened her into a blade of vengeance—

He had appeared.

Luca.

Not Lucavion.

Just Luca.

The boy who had slipped through the cracks of her armor with an infuriating grin and a stubborn, reckless kindness she hadn’t known how to refuse.

He wasn’t supposed to exist.

She remembered it too clearly—how she had first seen him in Stormhaven, where Eveline had sent her on her first true trial.

And there he had been.

Bickering with vendors, charming his way past guards, moving like the city owed him nothing—and he owed nothing back. A boy with scuffed boots, sharp eyes, and a reckless kind of courage that made her grind her teeth in frustration.

‘Why do you keep smiling at me like that?’ she had snapped once, after he caught her from slipping off a collapsing scaffold with a hand calloused from real work, real battles.

He had only shrugged, as if it were obvious.

“Because someone ought to.”

She hadn’t known what to do with that.

With him.

Because Luca didn’t flinch at her sharpness. He didn’t bow to her pedigree. He laughed when she was cold, grinned wider when she was furious, and—infuriatingly—stood beside her even when she pushed him away.

And when the monsters of the old city had come for them, when she had fallen, mana drained and body broken—

He had thrown himself between her and death without a second thought.

Bleeding, battered, smiling.

“Told you,” he had gasped, teasing even then, “someone’s gotta keep you outta trouble.”

She remembered that night. How she had clutched his hand with bloodstained fingers, how the trembling in her chest hadn’t been fear, but something far, far worse.

Hope.

‘Luca.’

The name had settled into her bones like a whispered promise.

A new beginning.

A way forward that didn’t have to be built on hate alone.

But now—

Now that cursed name burned in the air.

Lucavion.

‘Why?’

‘Why do you have that name?’

Her throat tightened as she fought to breathe past the hurricane inside her chest. The memories of Stormhaven, of laughter against cold stars, of battles fought shoulder-to-shoulder—it all tangled with the horror she had tried so hard to bury.

The hall dissolved into a hollow ringing, drowning out Selphine’s voice, Aurelian’s touch on her shoulder.

All Elara could see—

All she could feel—

Were those eyes.

Not Luca’s laughing, reckless defiance.

No.

The heavy-lidded, half-lost gaze of the boy who had ruined her.

Lucavion.

Pinned beneath him—

Bare—

Powerless—

The searing shame etched into her skin like a brand she would carry until the end of her days.

‘No…no, please, no—’

Her mind flailed, recoiling from the memory, but it was too late.

It unspooled inside her like a blade dragged through her very core.

The heavy press of his body, too much against her.

The sticky, unfamiliar warmth of skin against skin.

The freezing cold of the air, the way it wrapped around her nakedness like a jeering crowd.

The helpless, primal terror in her chest when she realized her voice—

Her voice—

Would not save her.

She remembered the sickening clatter of the doors thrown open.

The nobles gasping, recoiling, their faces twisted with a satisfaction that fed on her ruin.

She remembered how the sheets tangled around her thighs when she scrambled to cover herself.

How the scream tore out of her before she even knew she had screamed.

She remembered—

The way Lucavion had turned toward her then, his face slack with confusion, his hand reaching for her like a grotesque echo of affection.

And the worst part—

The very worst part—

Was the betrayal inside her own heart.

That tiny, shivering fragment that had whispered:

‘Maybe he didn’t mean it.’

The same part that had once whispered that Isolde still loved her.

Elara staggered backward now, out of the present, back into the depths of her own mind.

Her fingers clawed at her own arms, at the suffocating weight of the memory, but it wouldn’t leave her.

The nausea rose, thick and choking, a bile that no training, no magic could banish.

Her knees threatened to buckle.

She didn’t even realize she was trembling until she felt Selphine’s hand steadying her—but it was like being touched through water, distant and numb.

Lucavion.

Luca.

The boy she had started to trust.

The boy she had thought—no, knew—she could have built something different with.

It was him.

It had always been him.

The world tilted around her.

The light burned too bright.

The air tasted of ash.

Her vision blurred again, and in the blur she could almost see him—

That crooked grin, that outstretched hand—

Morphing, shifting, bleeding into the Lucavion of that night.

The boy whose presence had stolen everything from her.

The bile climbed higher.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it was no use.

– SPILL.

The retching came violently, staining the polished floor with the sick twist of memory and betrayal.

She doubled over, one hand braced against the ground, the other gripping her own ribs so tightly it felt like she might break herself apart.

Whispers began.

Muted gasps.

The hall reacting, recoiling—like then, like always.

Elara’s teeth ground together, the copper taste of blood rising as she bit the inside of her cheek.

‘Not here.’

‘Not now.’

‘You will not fall here.’

But the storm inside her did not heed her will.

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