Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“Tell me—does House Crane consider itself above the royal family’s laws? Or are you simply ignoring them entirely?”

Selphine’s eyes narrowed as she watched the boy finish his speech, standing now beneath the open sky, the soft flicker of festival lanterns casting elongated shadows behind him.

“He… dismantled that entire situation in under two minutes,” she muttered, more impressed than surprised.

Aurelian nodded slowly, his voice low. “And he did it without touching anyone. No mana strike, no spell, no weapon.”

“But what really gets me,” Selphine added, “is how cleanly he invoked the royal family. No hesitation.”

Aurelian glanced sideways at her. “That’s not something most people dare even whisper. Especially not in public. Not unless they’ve got the blood or the gall to back it up.”

“And yet he did.” She folded her arms, frowning slightly. “With perfect timing.”

Meanwhile, in the square, the tide had turned. The murmurs now favored the black-eyed boy. He wasn’t just a passerby anymore. He had become a symbol—however briefly—of someone willing to challenge the entitled, and worse for House Crane, he had done so under the name of the imperial law.

Which meant he hadn’t just insulted the heir.

He’d put them on the verge of insulting the crown itself.

That line—thin, delicate, deadly—had the crowd watching like it was a string soaked in oil, one spark away from becoming a blaze.

The lead Crane attendant, his face pale and sweating beneath the collar, stepped forward again.

“You dare speak like this—? To accuse a noble house of opposing the throne?”

His voice rose, desperately trying to recapture control of the moment.

“This is heresy! We, of course, hold no such intention—how dare you twist this? Who gave you the right to speak on the royal family’s behalf?!”

Before the black-eyed boy could reply, a groan echoed across the plaza.

The count’s heir, still kneeling but now upright, slowly forced himself to his feet.

His face was red—not just from exertion or the aftershock of mana collapse, but humiliation.

Rage clung to him like smoke.

“You little—worm,” he hissed, barely holding himself upright. “You think this changes anything? You’ll crawl back into whatever gutter you came from soon enough. I’ll make sure of it.”

The black-eyed boy turned slowly, his black eyes fixed on him again.

Not with malice.

But with ease.

With confidence.

And something deeper.

He gave a slight shrug, that same faint smile returning—too calm, too deliberate.

“Is that really the case?” he asked softly.

Then he lifted his chin and turned slightly toward the murmuring crowd.

“Then maybe…” he said, voice rising just enough to carry, “someone directly affiliated with the royal family can answer us instead.”

His gaze swept over the gathering.

“Wouldn’t they be the best judge here?”

A ripple passed through the crowd—slowly, heads turned. Whispered names. Questions. Was there someone here with royal ties? A witness? A higher voice?

The silence that followed was fragile—almost sacred.

Then—

A quiet shift in the crowd. A subtle parting. Whispers stilled like breath caught in the throat.

And then… all eyes turned.

Because someone had heard the challenge.

And someone was already standing there.

Not five paces away, watching the scene unfold with a composed stillness that now felt impossible to ignore.

She stood beneath the shade of an arched promenade, untouched by the tension, as if the chaos had never truly reached her. Her long white hair—like strands of starlight—fell in effortless waves down to her waist, each lock seeming to shimmer with soft luminescence beneath the golden lanternlight. A delicate circlet rested upon her brow, understated, but unmistakable.

And her eyes—

They were the color of the royal sigil itself: deep crimson, vibrant and clear like the heart of a ruby kissed by fire. Calm. Assessing.

Undeniable.

Around her, cloaked attendants in royal livery formed a quiet half-circle, their posture tight, hands near weapons but unmoving. One wore the crest of the Imperial Order of Scribes, another that of the Crown’s Shadowguard.

And at her throat—

A pendant gleamed in the fading light: the unmistakable insignia of the Lysandra bloodline—flame-twined wings over an open tome. The crest of the Arcanis royal family.

It needed no announcement.

But the crowd gave it anyway.

Gasps. Murmurs. Knees beginning to buckle.

And then—

As if a single breath were shared by all—

“We greet Her Highness, Princess Priscilla Lysandra.”

The plaza bowed as one, like waves falling to the shore. Even Selphine, poised and proud, dipped her head with the grace befitting her own rank. Aurelian hesitated—then followed suit, his thoughts spinning faster than his body could respond.

The wave of bodies lowering in reverence swept across the plaza—but it wasn’t reverence for her.

It was for the name.

The blood.

The Lysandra line.

The people bowed, yes—but there was tension in the motion. A hesitance. A stiffness that came not from awe, but from politics. From the kind of uncomfortable loyalty that obeyed out of duty, not respect.

Because though the pendant at her throat bore the seal of the Arcanis royal family, and though the crimson in her eyes marked her undeniably as a descendant of Lysandra the First…

Her name—Priscilla Lysandra—carried with it the weight of scandal.

In noble circles, she was whispered of with tight lips and veiled sneers. The product of an affair, they said. Her mother, a commoner from a forgotten province, had been elevated to the Emperor’s concubine not through political strategy or family ties—but by favor. By love, some dared to claim.

To the elitists… that made her blood dirty.

Unclean.

Unworthy.

So the nobles bowed, yes—but they did not smile.

Least of all Count Crane’s entourage, whose scowls thinned into masks of forced respect, and whose heir could barely keep from trembling in rage as he dipped his head stiffly, clearly grinding his teeth all the while.

Selphine’s bow was sharp and clean, but her eyes did not soften.

Aurelian kept his gaze low, but not out of disdain—out of calculation. The kind one makes when everything about the situation has just changed, and no one knows which way the coin will fall.

And among them all—

One man did not bow.

He stood still.

Unafraid.

Unmoved.

The black-eyed boy remained as he was, hands in his coat, white cat purring on his shoulder like a snow-draped crown.

And Priscilla… looked directly at him.

No annoyance.

No smile.

Only those piercing red eyes, steady and unblinking beneath lashes the color of frost, studying him the way one might study a line of ancient text they alone could read.

When she finally spoke, her voice was not loud—but it carried. Clear. Measured. Sharp as frost-glass.

“…You do not bow.”

The words hung like a blade suspended in still air.

Her gaze did not waver. Crimson eyes, colder than flame, fixed upon the boy as though she were staring not at a person—but at a defiance made flesh. The wind shifted, brushing a lock of her silvery-white hair across her cheek, but she did not blink. Not once.

The boy didn’t flinch.

His posture didn’t stiffen, didn’t brace.

He simply remained—still, grounded, as if bowing had never even occurred to him.

The cat on his shoulder lifted its head lazily, blinked once toward the princess, then stretched and tucked itself back in again, perfectly unbothered.

And for a moment, the plaza truly held its breath.

Selphine’s lips pressed into a thin line. Aurelian’s jaw tensed.

Even the murmurs—especially the murmurs—stilled.

Because not bowing wasn’t just unusual.

It was dangerous.

The Princess of the Arcanis Empire stood less than ten paces away. The living heir of the Lysandra line. The embodiment of imperial presence in this city.

To not bow was a statement. A challenge.

And she saw it.

She studied the boy now—not with immediate fury, but with something more cutting. Like a sculptor gazing at a rough, unshaped stone and deciding whether it was worth breaking or carving.

Her attendants did not move. Not yet. But their hands twitched near their blades, and the ambient tension thickened like humidity before a storm.

And still—he said nothing.

Did nothing.

Her eyes narrowed. Only slightly.

The cold crept into her voice.

“Do you not recognize the seal I bear?”

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