Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Priscilla said nothing.

She stood there, marble-still beneath the arching terrace, the flame-shaped pendant at her throat catching the lanternlight with every shallow breath. Her posture did not falter. Her blade-sharp voice did not return. Her guards were frozen in a half-drawn motion, still awaiting her command.

But her eyes—those deep, regal crimson eyes—remained fixed on the boy who now stood at the very edge of her silence.

And inside?

Her thoughts were louder than war drums.

Who are you?

It wasn’t the first time someone had spoken boldly before her. She had heard silver-tongued flatterers, poison-laced courtiers, and self-righteous nobles preach to her of loyalty, tradition, and obedience. All of them dripped venom beneath the veil of manners.

But none of them ever looked at her like this.

Not with fear. Not with contempt.

But with knowledge.

As if he saw through the title.

As if the crown at her brow were a thing easily set aside.

As if— he’d met her before.

That… should have been impossible.

And yet, the name he spoke—Imperial Mirasheen—made something within her stir. A memory brushed by shadow. Not quite forgotten. But locked away.

Her breath slowed.

It’s a coincidence, she wanted to believe.

But it didn’t feel like one.

He had looked at her with ease, yes—but more than that, with recognition. And even stranger… his words didn’t carry the weight of ambition, or calculation, or fear of consequence.

They felt like a conversation.

Like something… private.

Even now, with her guards poised to strike, and the fury of Count Crane’s entire house crackling at the edges of the square—

The boy hadn’t moved.

Not even an inch of fear. Not a twitch of retreat.

It wasn’t arrogance.

It was something else entirely.

Something quieter.

More deliberate.

Her eyes narrowed just slightly.

And beneath that frigid surface, her thoughts churned like winter storm tide.

She could feel them again—those other eyes, the ones that mattered less. The nobles. The whisperers. The courtiers who had once looked at her with distaste the moment they learned her blood was diluted by common birth. Not a pure heir. Not a daughter of politics or power. Just a mistake granted a tiara by imperial whim.

She had learned to live beneath those stares. To walk with poise while their scorn crawled beneath her skin. They bowed, yes—but their gazes stripped her all the same.

But not his.

No, he hadn’t even blinked at the sight of her crest. His eyes didn’t dart toward her pendant. He hadn’t even acknowledged the symbols that had once made her life a cage.

He looked at her.

Just… her.

And that unsettled her more than anything else that had happened tonight.

Does he know? No—he can’t. That’s impossible. I’ve never spoken to him. Never seen him at court, or anywhere else.

And yet…

…Why do I feel like I’ve seen him before?

The question gnawed at the edges of her thoughts like slow fire.

Priscilla’s fingers remained still at her side, but she could feel the tension crawling along her spine, curling beneath her collar. Her breath did not betray her—but inwardly, the certainty she wore like armor was showing fractures.

She stared at him harder now, letting her gaze sharpen—not just regal, but piercing.

Still, he didn’t falter. His black eyes held hers with that same calm knowing. Not smug. Not brash. Just… present. Certain in a way no stranger should be.

And that smile…

It wasn’t the smile of a noble vying for favor.

It wasn’t the simpering of some street performer trying to charm his way upward.

It was the kind of smile someone wore when they already knew the ending to a story you hadn’t even begun reading yet.

She forced herself to look away from his face, just for a second, grounding herself in the logic.

Imperial Mirasheen.

He had said it like it was nothing. Like it was a casual comment, a familiar suggestion between acquaintances. But it wasn’t.

That tea—that specific tea—wasn’t listed openly on any café menu in Velis Prominence. It wasn’t ordered in public. Not by her.

She only drank it when she came here in secret, late in the evening, beneath a different name, with her face half-shadowed by her veil and her attendants waiting just far enough not to hear the order.

No one knew. Not even her closest courtiers.

She had never spoken it aloud in court. Never allowed it to be listed under her preferences for the palace kitchen.

So how—

Her eyes snapped back to him.

Still watching her. Still unreadable. Still holding that ghost of a smirk—like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

He couldn’t have known. Not unless…

Not unless he saw me here before.

But she would have remembered someone like him. She would have.

Wouldn’t she?

I’m mistaken, she told herself. It’s a coincidence. An arrogant one, yes, but still just a boy playing dangerous games for attention.

And yet—

Her stomach turned.

Because even if it was coincidence, then how did he know to say all this before she revealed herself?

The words he had used—the royal law, the harmony of the Empire, justice beneath the flame—he had invoked the language of court with such ease. Not as someone pleading to authority… but as someone expecting it to arrive.

As if he’d been waiting.

As if he knew.

He stood in the center of Velis Prominence, made a scene loud enough to shake the district, and said just enough to draw the royal eye without ever once speaking my name.

Her jaw tightened.

He baited me here.

And I walked straight into it.

Her attendants still stood frozen around her, watching, waiting, unsure whether to move unless she gave the order.

But even as she stood beneath the arch, high above the glowing veins of Arcania, above the chattering crowds and fractured factions—

Priscilla Lysandra found herself no longer certain who was observing who.

And that?

That was the part that unsettled her most.

The terrace wind carried the scents of lantern-oil, smoke, and distant spice, yet none of it reached her.

Priscilla Lysandra exhaled slowly.

She did not blink.

Did not move.

And then—wordlessly—she raised one hand.

The imperial guard stepped back. The blade lowered, though not fully sheathed. Her attendants remained still, but she could feel their silent confusion ripple behind her like a tide pressing against a dam.

Still, she said nothing at first.

Instead, she took one measured step forward.

Then another.

And another, until the sharp click of her heels faded into the soft stone beneath the overlook. Until the boy was less than two paces away. Until his black eyes were no longer a thing she had to meet—but a reflection she was already within.

And then, voice low and perfectly controlled, she spoke.

“…Very well.”

She didn’t say his name.

She didn’t ask it either.

She simply nodded—barely—and turned toward the shaded archway behind the promenade.

“To the Ember,” she said to no one in particular. “We will speak there.”

The words cut the plaza like a blade.

A hum of disbelief rose from the nobles gathered at the edges. Whispers. Shocked stares.

But none louder than the voice that followed.

“You can’t be serious.”

The heir of House Crane—pale, trembling, voice taut like a frayed string—stepped forward, barely containing the scowl twisting across his face.

He hadn’t raised his head when the crowd bowed. He hadn’t smiled when she arrived. And now, with the scene slipping beyond his control, he barely hid his rage.

“Your Highness,” he said, voice clipped. Too formal. Too sharp. “You… would grant him an audience?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t want one.

The disdain in his tone made the question rhetorical.

“This boy insulted nobility,” he continued, louder now, turning partially to the crowd. “He threatened an heir. He invoked the name of the royal family for theatrics—and now he’s rewarded with privacy?”

His gaze snapped back to her, and for the first time, it wasn’t simply disbelief she saw.

It was accusation.

A challenge—naked and unfiltered, drawn from the embers of an enmity that had been waiting to ignite.

“Or do you take his side?”

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