Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 785: Choice (3)

She watched as Reynard Crane stepped forward, posture composed, voice threaded with a wounded sort of elegance, speaking as though truth had personally betrayed him.

He denied everything.

Of course he did.

Priscilla’s jaw clenched—just barely. Just enough that the muscles behind her ears began to ache. She kept her posture impeccable, her chin slightly lifted, her shoulders steady. But inside—

Inside, the anger was already stirring.

She had seen it.

She had been there.

The terrace. The bench. The arrogant tilt of Lyon Halcrest’s chin. The smug amusement in Davien’s half-lidded stare as he loomed too close to a girl who couldn’t have been more than thirteen. And Reynard—

Reynard, with his honeyed words and cruel smile, watching it all with the satisfaction of a man stepping on something he considered filth.

Lucavion hadn’t exaggerated. If anything, he had softened it.

She remembered the coin. The pressure. The silence of the bystanders. How no one stepped forward—not even the server who trembled behind the counter. Because House Crane’s name carried weight. Enough to bend the room.

And now? They dared?

They dared stand in this hall—beneath a roof woven with ceremonial ideals—and speak as though they’d been slandered?

Priscilla’s fingers tightened around her goblet. Her eyes never left Reynard. Not even as Lord Elric spoke, not even as Lady Brienna followed, their words smooth, calculated, dripping with the same controlled outrage that masked cowardice as order.

It was all a farce.

A beautiful, gilded lie. The kind the Empire thrived on.

She should have been used to it. And she was.

She was.

This wasn’t new. She had heard worse. Endured more. She had learned, long ago, what it meant to bear a truth no one wanted to hear.

But still…

Still, the rage coiled in her like a serpent. Because this wasn’t just cruelty—it was shamelessness.

And because—this time—it wasn’t her being silenced.

It was someone else.

Someone who, for once, hadn’t turned his eyes away from injustice just because it was inconvenient.

Lucavion had stood. Spoken. Challenged.

And now the empire’s whispers wanted to strip him down like they always did. Like they always tried to do to her.

And here she stood, hidden by silk and ivy, as they began building the pyre around him.

’No…’

Her breath was sharp. Quiet. Her heart loud.

’This is not right.’

And then—

He turned.

Called her name without saying it.

“Isn’t that right, Princess?”

Every head turned. Every gaze cut through the distance between them.

The moment hung—suspended in breath and gold and silence.

Every gaze in the banquet hall turned, carving a path of expectation directly to her.

Priscilla stood still.

Too still.

Like a statue cast in frost.

Lucavion’s words still lingered in the air, ringing like the aftershock of a bell that had struck something deeper than bone.

And now?

Now they all waited.

Eyes from every corner—nobles, students, officials, and worse—Lucien himself.

Her lungs struggled to draw in a full breath. She didn’t show it. Not outwardly. But her chest felt tight. Like something was pressing from the inside.

She hadn’t expected this.

She hadn’t expected to be seen.

And she hadn’t expected Lucavion—to pull her in like that. To throw her into the center.

Not with a command. Not even with a plea.

Just a statement.

“You were there.”

He hadn’t asked.

He had trusted.

Or worse—he had gambled.

And now the weight of that gamble was suffocating her.

What was she supposed to do?

Speak?

And what then?

If she confirmed it—if she said, yes, she was there, yes, she saw everything—then she would be standing beside Lucavion.

And against House Crane.

Against the nobles rising now in polished formation.

Against the tide.

But more than that…

She would be standing against Lucien.

Her brother.

The Crown Prince.

And in that moment—her breath hitched.

Because she remembered it.

The words Lucien had whispered to her before the banquet, quiet and cold and precise.

“If you so much as glance in a direction I disapprove of…”

She remembered the look in his eyes.

Not rage.

Worse.

Promise.

“If you embarrass yourself… I will make your time at this academy a memory you will spend your life trying to forget.”

Her hand trembled—just once—beneath the fold of her sleeve.

She was not stupid.

She knew what it would mean to speak now.

Lucien wouldn’t just retaliate.

He would erase her.

Quietly. Thoroughly. And without a single mark on his pristine record.

Because that was what the Empire taught.

Power wasn’t about being loud.

It was about being undeniable.

And Lucien—

Lucien was the crown’s will wrapped in velvet and fire.

And yet…

Lucavion had looked at her.

Not with reverence.

Not with pity.

Just… truth.

And he had given her a choice.

A soundless tremor threaded its way through her chest.

Lucavion’s voice still hung in the air.

“You watched it all.”

And every face now looked to her—not in welcome, not in belief, but in hunger. For decision. For spectacle.

Her heartbeat wasn’t fast. It was slow. Too slow. Like it had dropped into some deeper rhythm, pulled down by the weight of everything she wasn’t allowed to be.

Her fingers had gone cold. Her lips parted, just slightly—enough to breathe, not enough to speak.

What do I do?

She didn’t know. Truly didn’t. This wasn’t just about Lucavion’s words. Or House Crane. Or even Lucien’s threat.

It was the question beneath all of it.

Who am I standing with?

Because she remembered.

The Sanctum. The chessboard.

That pawn, moved into a space it shouldn’t have reached.

And the queen—placed beside it, not above.

She remembered Lucavion’s words. So calmly spoken. So… different from the Empire’s. He hadn’t asked her to betray anyone. Hadn’t begged for allegiance.

He had simply… offered.

“Not to command… but to be a part of.”

That rogue move still sat in her mind—silent and defiant.

You’ll have a chance, he had said.

Was this it?

This awful, suffocating moment?

This silence with all eyes on her?

Was this the chance?

Her lips moved. Barely.

No words yet.

But her thoughts were unraveling, one strand at a time.

Lucien’s voice rang again in her ears:

“If you embarrass yourself…”

His eyes had promised ruin. Quiet, irreversible ruin.

And yet—

Lucavion hadn’t spoken with menace. Not even expectation.

Just… inevitability.

She could still lie. Still look away. Still pretend she hadn’t seen anything at all.

It would be safe.

It would be survival.

But it would not be a choice.

It would be surrender.

And that, she realized now… was what Lucavion had offered her that day.

Not defiance.

But the right to choose what she became.

Not just another pawn.

Not just a leftover princess.

But something else.

Her breath trembled.

And her eyes—slowly, steadily—lifted.

She didn’t need to say anything yet. Not to the crowd. Not even to Lucavion.

But inside her chest, something had already moved. Quietly. Irrevocably.

This was the chance.

Not glory. Not power. But choice.

That impossible, dangerous luxury.

Lucien had always spoken in commands. Even his silence carried consequences. His gaze had made her walk narrow paths in shoes that never quite fit.

Lucavion… had never told her what to do.

He had simply moved the board.

You will see a lot of fun things in the future…

That’s what he’d said.

But this—this wasn’t fun.

This was terrifying.

And thrilling.

And true.

Because she saw it now—clearly.

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