Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“Or do you take his side?”

The question split the moment open like a cracked gem.

The crowd stirred.

Even Selphine blinked.

Aurelian tensed, his hands half-raised at his sides like he was bracing for a blast that hadn’t yet come.

The boy—

This time, he said nothing.

No smirk. No clever retort. He merely watched.

And Priscilla…

Her eyes slid toward the heir.

Not cold.

Not cruel.

But exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from the hour—but from years.

She had known this was coming.

That their cordial ties, thin and political as they were, would fray eventually. The Cranes had always resented her standing. Her mother’s blood. Her refusal to be paraded like a lesser pawn. Her silence in court that never yielded loyalty.

He, especially—this boy who had once offered her a rose at a summit for appearance’s sake, then boasted later that the flower was “charity.”

Their falling out was inevitable.

This night had merely chosen to light the fuse.

So she looked him in the eye.

And then—

“Is that what you think?” she asked, voice still light. Unshaken. “That a princess offering an audience to a stranger implies loyalty?”

The heir flinched—just slightly.

But her voice didn’t stop.

“Then you mistake diplomacy for favoritism. And pride for purpose.”

She turned, her mantle sweeping lightly behind her.

“Should you find yourself troubled by the people I choose to hear… perhaps consider whether your voice would stand beside theirs if you were not born into a title.”

The silence that followed was deeper than any command.

The heir’s jaw clenched. But he didn’t answer.

Because there was no safe answer to give.

And she didn’t wait for one.

Instead, she gave the faintest nod to her guard captain, who stepped aside wordlessly, then gestured for the boy to follow.

And just like that—

The walk was silent.

No guards followed—not into the inner tier of the Ember.

They passed under silver-lit archways and over soft bridges of glowing stone, away from the eyes of nobles, and into a quieter place where the lanterns no longer flickered for spectacle, but for warmth.

The Ember, as it was casually called, wasn’t truly a garden.

Its full name was The Embered Veranda of Lysandra’s Flame—a secluded terrace tucked behind the third level of the Prominence District, just beneath the imperial observatory. Built generations ago by one of Priscilla’s ancestors, it had been designed as a private meeting space for quiet diplomacy.

But people rarely used its full name. “The Ember” had stuck over the years, passed down in murmured corners of court and through hushed slips of noble tongues.

And for Priscilla… it had become something else entirely.

A place to breathe.

Tonight, the marble tiles underfoot carried the faint warmth of residual sunfire enchantments. Wind rustled the low-blooming embergrass that lined the rails, and in the far corner, a kettle of soft crimson tea leaves was already steaming—left by her handmaidens in preparation, as always.

She stepped forward without a word, and the boy followed behind her.

His white cat, still draped across his shoulders like living snow, flicked its tail but made no noise.

When they reached the terrace’s edge, Priscilla’s handmaid, a slight woman named Idena, stepped forward from the shadows with a hesitant incline of her head.

“Your Highness,” Idena said quietly, just above a whisper. “Forgive the intrusion, but this… this may not be wise.”

Priscilla didn’t turn.

“He is a stranger,” the attendant added, eyes flickering briefly toward the boy. “And House Crane—while not powerful—was neutral. If you lose their support, your position weakens further. The other branches will circle.”

“I know.”

“You’ve already earned enough enemies, Priscilla. Taking a public stance against a noble heir—”

“I know,” she said again, this time firmer. Her tone didn’t rise. It never did. But the weight behind it ended the sentence before it could finish.

She lifted her hand—not in dismissal, but in finality—and Idena bowed away, melting silently into the terrace shadows.

Then, finally, she turned and seated herself.

Her chair was plain by court standards—redwood and gold, curved and designed more for solitude than audience. She settled into it with practiced grace, her mantle pooling around her feet like stilled flame.

And after a beat—he sat as well.

Across from her.

The boy didn’t bow. Didn’t speak. But neither did he sprawl or smirk. He simply folded into the seat like he belonged there, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair, his posture composed, calm.

Balanced.

Priscilla watched him with eyes like blooded glass.

Still, he revealed nothing.

It bothered her.

She had spent her whole life parsing through lies wrapped in silken speech, deceit hidden behind jeweled smiles. And yet this boy—this nameless stranger with midnight eyes—sat across from her like he had nothing to hide and everything he wanted to say already tucked neatly behind his silence.

Too calm. Too deliberate.

She hated guessing.

But now, she was already dancing blind.

And so—

“You knew I would come,” she said finally, her voice no longer sharp but steady. Measured. Regal not by volume, but by clarity.

Her fingers rested atop the armrest, unmoving.

The boy’s lips curled—slowly.

Not wide. Not mockery. But something smaller. Subtler. A trace of quiet amusement, like a ripple in still water. His gaze remained steady, those black eyes reflecting the flickering lanternlight behind her like mirrors without depth.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Come now,” he said lightly, voice smooth as woven dusk. “What makes you think I knew you would come?”

His tone held no mockery—just a question. A genuine curiosity, as if her certainty was more fascinating than her title.

He leaned back slightly, the white cat on his shoulder shifting with a soft chuff of breath before curling back into its silken nap. “Perhaps I was simply stirring trouble for its own sake. Perhaps I speak in riddles to see who listens.”

The smirk deepened, just a fraction.

“Or perhaps… it was coincidence, and you stepped into the tale at the perfect time.”

But she wasn’t interested in games.

Priscilla’s gaze remained unmoved.

“There is no such thing as coincidence.”

Her words cut clean through the space between them—clear, sharp, final.

Priscilla did not lean back. She did not lift her chin. She simply watched him, crimson eyes locked onto his as if to peel the skin from his thoughts.

“I don’t believe in happenstance,” she said. “Especially not when someone creates a scene loud enough to ripple through the capital, invokes the royal family’s name without flinching, and then—just so precisely—presents me as the impartial witness.”

She tilted her head, only slightly, the gesture deliberate.

“You didn’t even look surprised to see me,” she said quietly. “Not a blink. Not a breath out of place.”

Then—

“If I can’t see that much,” she continued, her tone now lined with frost, “then I should be ashamed for having eyes.”

She let the silence rest there—let it weigh on the moment like snow just before it breaks a branch.

“Quite clever,” she murmured.

Then, after a pause, she shook her head faintly. “Not very. But clever enough.”

Her fingers tapped once on the armrest—just once. A signal more than a habit.

“What I want to know now,” she said, eyes narrowing, “is why.”

Her voice lowered.

“You crafted all of this. You played your piece across the board and waited for the crown to tilt. So tell me…”

She leaned in—not much, not enough to betray poise, but enough that her gaze landed heavier, her presence more direct.

“…What is it you want, black-eyed boy?”

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