Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 783: Choice

The corridors leading to the banquet hall were too polished. The kind of pristine that didn’t invite presence—it erased it. Every step Priscilla took echoed not with grace, but with warning. Her heels tapped out a rhythm that wasn’t hers. Not tonight.

The hem of her gown whispered across the marble like a reluctant breath. Silver thread, muted navy silk. Regal. Restrained. As always. She had dressed as they expected—not to please, but to avoid notice. Blending into the seams of the empire, like she always had.

But fate, as it often did, had other plans.

She rounded the final bend toward the upper wing—and stopped.

She rounded the final bend toward the upper wing—and stopped.

Selienne stood alone beneath the arch of moon-crystal glass, her figure outlined in the soft gold of lanternlight. Regal, poised—flawless in the way statues are flawless. Her gown shimmered with restrained opulence, every thread humming of imperial expectation. But it was her eyes—sharp, discerning, too aware—that caught Priscilla first.

They met her like a mirror she hadn’t asked to look into.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Selienne smiled.

Not warm. Not cruel.

Just perfect.

“Priscilla,” she said, her voice silk over steel. “You look… appropriate.”

There was a pause—barely the width of a breath—before she added, “Congratulations. On your admittance.”

Priscilla inclined her head, spine taut, mouth neutral. “Thank you.”

Selienne’s gaze lingered—not on the dress, not on the poise, but on her eyes. Searching. Weighing.

And then the smile returned, just a shade sharper.

“Enjoy tonight,” she said. “It’s rare for the curtains to open on your kind of story.”

She turned with the grace of someone who never needed to rush—and walked away, leaving only the faintest echo of perfume and politics in her wake.

Priscilla didn’t watch her go.

She didn’t need to.

The cold left behind was telling enough.

She took one breath—

—and froze again.

Because Lucien was already there.

She hadn’t heard him approach.

He stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect. A portrait of princely restraint.

His eyes—those chilling, intelligent eyes—ran over her once. Not assessing. Not curious.

Just confirming.

That she was still beneath him.

“I see Selienne was playing the part,” he said smoothly. “That makes sense. She’s always been more charitable with the less… essential.”

Priscilla said nothing.

Lucien stepped closer. Not enough to invade. Just enough to remind.

“You do understand, I hope,” he said, voice low and calm, “that your presence tonight is a formality. Not an opportunity.”

Priscilla’s fingers clenched at her side.

Lucien’s lips tilted—not quite a smirk.

“If you’re wise,” he continued, “you’ll do what you’ve always done best. Stay silent. Stay still. And let your betters work.”

His voice dropped another note, like cold steel against the back of her neck.

“If you embarrass yourself… if you so much as glance in a direction I disapprove of—”

He leaned slightly forward.

“—I will make your time at this academy a memory you will spend your life trying to forget.”

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

Because the truth in it was absolute.

He stepped past her with the same air he might pass a shadow on the floor.

And Priscilla…

She stood there.

Alone again.

Not trembling.

Not broken.

Just still.

But inside—beneath the silk, beneath the silver—something coiled tighter than ever.

The doors ahead opened with choreographed ease.

Not for her.

For him.

Lucien stepped forward, and she followed—because that was what one did when walking beside a sun. They did not shine. They did not speak. They simply survived the heat.

The steward’s voice rang out into the banquet hall with all the ceremonial weight the empire could wrap in syllables.

“Announcing—His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Lucien Lysandra.”

And that was it.

Just him.

Not them.

Not even her title. Not even her name.

As though she hadn’t walked the same corridor, bled the same blood. As though she didn’t exist at all.

She kept her face still.

Still.

The moment they stepped into the banquet, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The low hum of conversation dipped, like a tide bowing to gravity. All eyes turned.

Not toward her.

Only toward him.

Heads lowered with reverence. Some hands went to hearts. Courtiers and nobles arranged themselves like dancers waiting for their cue, every smile curated, every breath measured. The air thickened with awe.

Lucien didn’t acknowledge them.

He didn’t need to.

His presence was already doing the work.

And Priscilla?

She walked half a step behind, as tradition dictated.

She could feel the eyes flick over her—quick, indifferent. Some curious. Most calculating. But none respectful.

Not really.

To them, she wasn’t a Princess.

She was a shadow trailing behind a coronet.

A name without weight. A legacy without favor.

And she hated that she knew it would be this way.

Hated more that it still stung.

Her gown, which had taken hours to prepare, was barely glanced at. Her posture—flawless—ignored. The nobles didn’t approach her with questions. They didn’t angle to stand closer. If anything, they turned slightly away, as if avoiding a seat too cold to warm.

Lucien moved through the hall like a blade gliding through silk—smooth, clean, inevitable.

She trailed him like embroidery no one had asked for.

But even still—

Her gaze flicked through the crowd, sharp and discerning.

Her gaze drifted through the banquet like a blade in its sheath—quiet, patient, but never dull.

The nobles lined the hall in elegant formations, golds and silks blooming like poisonous flowers. Sons of dukes, heirs of marquises, daughters of ministries—all of them adorned with old pride and newer ambition. Their eyes met hers.

And slid away.

Or worse—lingered.

Not in admiration. Not in recognition.

In appraisal.

The boys looked at her like she was a misplaced ornament. Pretty, perhaps, but unsanctioned. Their gazes didn’t ask her name. They measured her worth against a dowry, a name, a usefulness. Not one of them bowed.

And the girls—some smiled. But not kindly.

Theirs were the smiles that said, “I know what you are. I know you don’t belong.”

And they weren’t wrong. Not in the Empire’s eyes. Not here.

The edge of her breath caught as another group passed—older daughters of Counts, arm-linked with cousins of minor royals. They bowed to Lucien, voices light, words dipped in reverence.

Then, their eyes flicked to her.

And the bow never came.

One girl gave a half-tilt of her head—barely movement at all. More acknowledgment than respect. Another allowed her lips to part in an almost-smirk. Like she was witnessing an inside joke.

’You’re nothing.’

That’s what their expressions said.

That’s what they’d always said.

Priscilla had worn this indifference like a second skin for years. She had grown under it, folded into its cold silence, molded herself sharp enough not to bleed when it scratched.

So why?

Why did it feel different now?

Why did her skin feel too tight?

Why did her chest feel like it was caught between breath and blade?

The ballroom hadn’t changed.

She hadn’t changed.

And yet, as the nobles passed—each look dripping with superiority, each voice just a shade too loud when dismissing her presence—it was harder to breathe than it used to be.

As if their dismissal was crawling up her arms, under her collar, making a home in her lungs.

It should not have mattered.

It never used to.

But maybe…

That maybe was a curse, in fact….

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!