Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 784: Choice (2)

Maybe it was the fact that someone had looked at her differently. Recently.

Not like she was invisible.

Not like she was pitiable.

Lucavion.

The storm-touched boy who didn’t bow, who didn’t flatter, who didn’t even use her title properly—and yet, in that maddening irreverence, there had been something sharp. Something seeing.

He had insulted her, teased her, challenged her.

But never once… dismissed her.

And then—she saw him.

Not at the center of the hall where titles danced and toasts flowed, but in the corner, near the high-arched window where moonlight gathered like a quiet audience. He was alone, of course. Lucavion never needed a court. He made solitude look intentional.

He wasn’t watching the nobles. Not truly.

His gaze—dark, pitch-black—was locked on Lucien.

Sharp. Unflinching.

Challenging.

No bow. No softening. No veil of awe like the others wore when faced with the Crown Prince. Lucavion’s eyes didn’t yield.

They refused.

There was something cold in that refusal, but not cruel. Calculated. Measured. Like someone marking a fault line and waiting—not to strike, but to let it break on its own.

And for a moment—barely a breath—Priscilla could see it.

The truth of what he had said to her.

“Look forward to the festival.”

“You’ll see a lot of interesting things.”

Really?

She hadn’t believed him. Not fully.

But now, watching him like this—still, calm, and yet somehow the most volatile thing in the room—she wondered.

Their eyes met.

Only for a second.

But it was enough.

Lucavion’s lips curved—slowly, deliberately—into a smirk. The same smirk he wore when baiting her, needling her, pulling at threads she didn’t know she’d exposed.

But this time, it didn’t feel mischievous.

It felt… ominous.

Like the prelude to something. A flicker of a plan already moving beneath the floorboards.

And just as quickly, he looked away.

As if nothing had passed between them at all.

Priscilla’s heart gave a strange, uneven beat.

What was that?

A warning? A signal? Or just his usual chaos wrapped in too much silence?

She clenched her hand beneath the folds of her gown and forced the thought away.

No. Just my mistake.

Just his face.

Just that smile.

But it didn’t sit right.

And then the lights dimmed, just slightly—enough to draw attention, enough to gather the room’s breath into one unified silence.

The Headmaster stepped forward. Cloaked in ceremonial silver, voice calm and measured, bearing the weight of the academy’s creed as if it were gospel carved into marble.

He spoke of tradition.

Of legacy.

Of growth and harmony between noble and common-born.

And then he said it—the words that always came, always meant to tie ribbon around rotted fruit:

“Within the bounds of this academy, all students are equal.”

Priscilla nearly laughed.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

Just a soft, breathless sound buried in the back of her throat. It didn’t make it past her lips—but it burned there, bitter and cold.

Equal?

Is that what this was?

She glanced around—at the sea of bodies angled toward Lucien like flowers turned toward the sun. Nobles and professors and delegates, all orbiting his presence like he was the one gravity answered to.

And her?

She stood beneath the same roof. Walked the same corridors. Wore the same crest now.

But no one approached.

No one offered a toast in her name.

No one met her gaze unless it was to measure her silence, her status, her position beside—not within—the Empire’s light.

Was she equal to Lucien?

Was she equal to Selienne?

Was she equal to the sneering girl who’d barely tilted her head in acknowledgment before walking off with a Marquis’ heir on her arm?

No.

And she knew it.

Because this world didn’t end at the edge of the academy.

When they graduated, when the banners came down and the corridors emptied—they would return to thrones and councils and armies.

And what would she return to?

A wing of the palace no one visited.

The laughter in the hall had risen again, light and polished, every sound sculpted to impress and charm. It moved like wine—sweet, superficial, meant to blur the truth beneath its surface.

Priscilla stood at the edge of it all, a silent outline carved into the corner of empire’s grandeur. The music swelled, and the nobles moved as if choreographed—not by practice, but by blood. Like it was something they’d inherited rather than learned.

She didn’t join them.

But she listened.

“Oh, I heard his father’s estate invested directly in the northern trade lines—he’ll be untouchable next season.”

“I know, and did you see how gracious the Crown Prince was to the chancellor’s daughter? So tactful, so refined.”

“Truly—he’s the image of the Empire’s future. He makes everyone else fade, doesn’t he?”

They spoke of politics the way poets spoke of love. Like it mattered. Like it was beautiful.

But beneath it all, she could hear the daggers—too small for steel, but sharp enough for skin.

“Is she really here? I thought it was a rumor.”

“I heard they had to allow her. You know… for appearances.”

“She looks… decent. But that’s all. Barely passable.”

“And that gown? I mean… does she think navy still impresses anyone?”

A soft ripple of laughter followed.

And Priscilla said nothing.

Her face didn’t move. Her hands didn’t shake. She’d trained too long for that. The court taught silence like it was a weapon, and she had mastered it.

But inside?

Inside, the silence was heavier than steel.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t confront. Because if she did—if she met those smiles, those words, that tone—she might not be able to stop herself. And they wanted her to. That was the game. That was always the game.

That was how it always was.

The sneers behind silk fans. The polished insults dressed in etiquette. The way the air shifted not when she entered—but when they realized she wasn’t leaving.

Priscilla exhaled, slow and quiet. A single breath to keep the mask in place.

Her plate lay before her, untouched. The feast was extravagant—roasted quail in honey-glaze, marinated fruits soaked in summerwine, silver-laced goblets brimming with wine older than most of the academy’s new inductees.

She picked up her fork, turned a sliver of fig over once, and placed it back down.

There was no hunger.

No interest.

No reason to play along except the one that ruled her entire life: survival.

She reached for the wine instead. It tasted like silence.

And then—

A voice cut through the hum of polite conversation.

Sharp. Loud. Indignant.

“You dare? Is this your way of disregarding House Crane?”

Priscilla’s gaze snapped toward the sound, her fork stilling in mid-air.

There was a sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere—not dramatic, not chaotic, but focused. Like a hundred tiny strings had all pulled toward a single knot in the far corner.

People turned, eyes narrowing, voices dropping to whispers. Nobility didn’t shout. Which meant someone had made someone very angry.

And as she leaned slightly to see past the decorative pillar—

She saw him.

Lucavion.

And he was smiling the same.

’What is this feeling?’

A bad premotion arose from her heart…

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