Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“Then tell me. Why did you dare to speak in the name of Royal Family?”

The cold steel lingered at his throat, but the boy’s expression didn’t shift.

He met the princess’s gaze—not with defiance, not with submission—but with something calmer. Deeper.

Still.

“I did not speak in the royal family’s name,” he said softly. “I spoke my own thoughts.”

The words were quiet, but they carried.

“I do not dare to speak for royalty.”

His black eyes, deep as ever, reflected the flicker of crimson in hers.

“I only asked some questions. Nothing more.”

His head tilted slightly—not in mockery, but with the faintest trace of thoughtfulness, almost like a student admitting a small mistake.

“Is that not allowed?” he asked gently. “To wonder aloud beneath the sky of the Empire?”

The cat yawned.

And then—

A breath of quiet humor touched the boy’s lips, as if only just remembering his station.

“If it is not,” he said with a soft shrug, “then please excuse this country bumpkin just once.”

A pause.

“I’ve only just arrived in the capital. I’ve yet to learn its… delicate rules.”

That last word—delivered with a hint of shade—landed as cleanly as a slap disguised as a compliment.

The crowd stirred again. Someone coughed. A noble woman in the back muttered, “Arrogant little…” but didn’t finish.

And then—

“Enough!”

The voice did not belong to the princess.

It came from behind her—sharp and laced with barely controlled outrage.

One of the Crane attendants stepped forward now, fury trembling in every syllable.

“This peasant insulted our house,” he spat. “He humiliated our heir in front of the people, he invoked the royal law to make a spectacle, and now he dares joke before Her Highness?”

The heir himself, his face still pale and lips pressed tight, finally managed a weak echo: “This is a disgrace to the nobility. He should be detained immediately.”

Priscilla did not move.

Her expression didn’t even flicker.

But the weight of her stillness was louder than their shouting.

The boy exhaled slowly, then glanced toward the Crane entourage.

“Insulted?” he murmured. “Ah. Then forgive me again.”

He pressed a hand to his chest and dipped his head—not mockingly, but with the exaggerated humility of someone who knew exactly how much it would irritate them.

“I hadn’t realized stating facts was considered insulting. I’ll write that down. Somewhere between ‘breathe softly’ and ‘don’t bleed on the silk.'”

More than one person in the crowd snorted.

Selphine nearly choked.

Aurelian covered his mouth.

The heir of House Crane, red-faced and shaking now with equal parts rage and wounded pride, stepped forward.

“I was assaulted,” he barked, voice cracking from the strain. “Unprovoked! This… this vagrant appeared from nowhere and struck me down!”

A few gasps rang out from the crowd—more from disbelief at his audacity than sympathy.

Selphine scoffed. “Unprovoked, my foot,” she muttered.

The black-eyed boy didn’t even turn to look at the heir.

He simply spoke—calmly, clearly.

“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding slowly as if recalling something faintly amusing. “I remember now.”

He turned slightly, his gaze gliding over the gathered onlookers before returning, pointedly, to the Crane heir.

“I bumped into a bandit wearing fashionable clothes.”

A beat of silence.

Then—laughter. Suppressed, strangled, but unmistakably present.

A woman behind Aurelian stifled a giggle behind her fan. Somewhere to the left, someone snorted loud enough to draw a glare from the Crane entourage.

The boy didn’t smile. But his cat, now curled smugly on his shoulder, blinked contentedly.

The heir’s face twisted with fury. “You dare—!”

He took a step forward.

“I am the heir of Count Crane, one of the empire’s oldest houses! I will not be mocked by some nameless dog in rags!”

But Priscilla’s eyes narrowed.

Just slightly.

And the crowd noticed.

The boy did too.

He turned back to her, shifting his tone again—cool and conversational, as if the entire moment had merely been an unfortunate misunderstanding at a dinner party.

“I see,” he said, gently brushing an invisible fleck from his sleeve. “Then allow me to explain, Your Highness. I came here because I heard the terrace view was pleasant.”

He gestured to the overlook beyond them, the capital sprawling in lights below like constellations trapped on stone.

“And that the tea was decent.”

Another pause.

“I simply wanted a cup before the festival began. I didn’t expect to find a noble heir trying to wrestle a chair out from under two guests like a drunk peddler at a village auction.”

More laughter now—barely masked. The air rippled with it.

The Crane heir’s mouth opened—but no sound came.

The boy stepped forward, not toward the heir, but toward the edge of the terrace, looking out over the capital. His voice was soft, thoughtful.

“Truly… what a welcome.”

Then, without turning, he added—with a touch more edge.

“Though I suppose I should not be surprised. I’ve heard whispers of certain… elitist factions. Those who believe their blood makes them more than others. Untouchable. Even above imperial law.”

Now he turned, slowly.

Meeting the heir’s gaze.

“And yet,” he said quietly, “when challenged, they bleed like everyone else.”

The laughter stopped.

Not because it wasn’t funny.

But because it hit too close.

Because it wasn’t just a joke anymore.

The air had grown too still.

The boy’s words clung in the air like a curse spoken in daylight—bold, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. No one laughed anymore. Not even Selphine. Not even the baron’s sister, who sat with her hand clenched around her teacup, forgotten and cold.

Because what he said struck too near the bone.

The succession war.

Everyone knew. Even if they didn’t speak of it openly.

The imperial court was fractured—lines drawn not just by blood, but by ambition. The Crown Prince, eldest of the Emperor’s legitimate children, backed by the oldest noble bloodlines, commanded a growing faction known for their rigid elitism and disdain for nontraditional blood.

And yet—House Crane had always walked a line. Conservative. Noble. But neutral.

Or so it had been believed.

Now? After this? After watching their heir attempt to assert power with brute arrogance, in the open, during the festival under harmony law?

People began to wonder.

And in that silence—

Princess Priscilla finally spoke.

Her voice was softer than before.

Not cold.

Not sharp.

Just… curious.

“…You,” she said, red eyes locked fully onto him now, voice low, almost unreadable. “How do you know me?”

The words didn’t make sense to the crowd.

Not at first.

A few nobles exchanged uncertain glances. Some leaned forward slightly. Even Aurelian blinked in confusion, lips parting in a quiet, “What…?”

But the black-eyed boy only smiled.

Not wide. Not mocking.

Just a slow, thoughtful curl at the edge of his lips. Something deeper.

Familiar.

“I know a great many things, Your Highness,” he said quietly, “but I believe this one would best be shared over tea.”

And then, just as casually as if they were speaking at a private estate garden, he added:

“Perhaps… Imperial Mirasheen.”

Her pupils tightened just slightly. A flicker passed through her expression—but only a flicker.

The rest of her was still marble.

But inside?

A question now burned.

The crowd, however, didn’t get to dwell on the moment.

Because one of the imperial guards, already trembling with restrained fury, stepped forward with his blade raised high.

“Insolent cur!” he shouted, his voice breaking the fragile veil. “You dare to speak so familiarly to Her Highness?! A commoner offering tea?! This is an insult to the very blood of the Empire!”

Gasps again. Some of them real.

Others—rehearsed.

But Priscilla didn’t move.

Not yet.

Her eyes didn’t leave his.

And neither did his leave hers.

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