Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

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

The boy tilted his head slightly at her words, one brow lifting—not in mockery, but with an almost amused intrigue.

“You speak as if you’re older than me,” he murmured, voice low, smooth. “Black-eyed boy… hm. Is that the attitude of someone so young?”

He let the question hang there, a thin thread of something between jest and study.

“How peculiar.”

The words brushed the air like fingers over glass—too gentle to be insulting, but too familiar to be innocent.

Then came the answer she had demanded.

Or rather—the evasion.

“As for why I did all of this…”

His eyes, bottomless and unblinking, met hers without flinching.

“Who knows?”

The silence that followed was immediate.

Deliberate.

And sharp.

Priscilla’s fingers stilled.

Her shoulders squared.

And her eyes—those deep, regal eyes that had learned to burn cold when words failed—hardened.

She didn’t shout.

Didn’t rise.

She didn’t need to.

Her presence alone shifted the air.

“You mock the throne,” she said coldly, each word honed to an edge. “You sit before me as if you earned the right to play coy. As if the veil of riddles is armor against consequence.”

She rose—slowly.

But her anger was unmistakable now, a coiled thing behind her voice.

“Even if I was born from a commoner’s blood,” she said, stepping closer, her tone low but crackling like a blade drawn through frost, “even if the palace would rather forget my name—do not mistake that for weakness.”

Her crimson gaze bore into his. Unblinking.

“I am a princess of the Arcanis Empire. I hold the right to have you bound in iron, shackled in the palace vaults, and erased from the public eye without a single record of your name ever touching parchment.”

A pause. Her mantle swayed with the soft breeze curling through the Ember.

“So if you’ve come here thinking I’m someone you can trifle with, someone you can prod and taunt and leave guessing—”

Her breath drew in, slow, even.

“I suggest you think again.”

The cat on his shoulder stirred but didn’t move.

And the boy?

Still calm.

Still infuriatingly unreadable.

Then—

“Sure you can do that.”

His voice was soft.

Unbothered.

Almost… admiring.

“And if you did…” he said gently, his fingers brushing the edge of his coat sleeve, “you would silence the one person who came here tonight without a name. Without a house. Without power.”

“…You would just silence someone you’ve yet to understand.”

The boy’s voice remained level, smooth as a reflection cast over still water. Not daring. Not pleading. Simply stating.

“And maybe after that,” he continued, gaze drifting slightly upward as if imagining it aloud, “you’d assign a scribe from the Shadowguard to dig into my background. Have the scribes trace my steps. Look into my blood. My birth. My travel patterns. My teachers. My shoes.”

His hand made a small motion, dismissive, a slow wave in the air as if all of it were routine—mundane.

“And eventually, they’d bring you a report.”

He leaned forward slightly in his seat, just enough for the lanternlight to catch in the soft arc of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw.

“They’d tell you my name. Or one of them. A village. A mother’s name you wouldn’t recognize. A list of unspectacular achievements, tied up in a bow. Simple. Clean. Forgettable.”

He smiled, faintly, but it was not joy.

It was knowing.

“And then the matter would be closed.”

His black eyes slowly turned back to her. No longer brushing. No longer distant.

“Or would it?”

The boy’s voice dipped lower, the air curling with the weight of unspoken implication.

“Would the matter really be closed so neatly, Your Highness?”

He tilted his head again, not mocking, but inquisitive. Like a professor urging a student past the obvious answer.

“You seem like a smart person,” he continued, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. “Sharp eyes. Quiet spine. Not the sort who bows to pressure just because the wind shifts.”

Then—

“Tell me,” he said softly. “Do you not wonder why House Crane was making such a loud scene in the heart of Velis Prominence—under the Empire’s own lanterns, during a festival held in the name of peace—while claiming, all the while, to be neutral?”

The question struck like a stone across glass.

“Is that coincidence as well?”

Priscilla did not move.

But something in her eyes—those regal, unblinking crimson eyes—shifted.

A tremor.

Barely there.

But real.

Her lips parted ever so slightly, though no breath left them.

Because the moment he said it—she saw it.

The timing.

The placement.

Her own steps, heading toward the promenade just moments before the crowd thickened. The Crane heir posturing in a territory he had no business claiming. The forced scuffle. The escalation. The invocation of royal law.

All of it, right where she would be.

Right where she would have to act.

Right where she would have to be seen acting.

Her heart didn’t race. She was trained better than that.

But her thoughts suddenly burned hot behind her still expression.

Because the boy was right.

This didn’t feel like a spontaneous display of Crane pride anymore. This didn’t feel like a random heir lashing out at a stranger with too much tongue and no title.

It felt staged.

And if it was staged…

Why?

Why risk political exposure? Why provoke scandal in the open—under harmony law, no less?

Why now?

Her mind raced. The Crane family had long kept to the middle. Never loud. Never overly ambitious. But never loyal, either. If they were making noise now… there was a reason.

And yet—to provoke her?

Was that the goal?

If it’s him…

The thought struck her like a sudden, silent knife.

She didn’t finish it aloud, didn’t let it touch her face. But inside, the suspicion bloomed sharp and fast, threading through every piece of this carefully crumbling moment.

My brother.

Her jaw tightened ever so slightly.

The Crown Prince. First-born son of the Emperor. Paragon of court etiquette. Glorious heir of pure-blooded lineage. Untouchable.

And the leader of the Elitist Faction—the ones who saw power not as duty, but birthright.

He had never once spoken kindly of her. Not in court, not in private. Every time their paths crossed, it was with veiled contempt.

Not even veiled, if she were honest.

It was not simply that he disliked her.

He despised her.

Her mother’s blood—common. Her status—unwanted. A reminder of weakness in a bloodline obsessed with strength.

And now…

Now they would be attending the academy at the same time.

Not just on the same grounds—but in the same light.

In public.

Before the Empire.

And if this had played out differently…

If the crowd had turned against her.

The boy watched her in silence, his expression unreadable.

And then—

“What if I wasn’t there?”

His voice was soft again. Almost thoughtful. As if he were tracing a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

“Let’s think a little, shall we?”

He didn’t lean forward this time. He didn’t need to. His words reached her clearly—sharp and quiet as a blade drawn in the dark.

“What if I wasn’t there, and no one interrupted?”

His eyes, black as polished ink, held hers without flinching.

“No theatrics. No intervention. Just a noble heir of House Crane… and a low-blooded baron being humiliated in the heart of the Prominence.”

A pause.

“No… not just humiliated. Forced.”

He tilted his head slightly, voice still calm, but now quieter. He was threading the shape of the trap, piece by piece.

“They would have forced that boy and his sister from their seats. Perhaps a few mana strikes thrown in. Maybe a bruised wrist. A bloody nose. Just enough to make a show of it.”

His tone remained light—almost eerily so.

“And then you’d arrive.”

He looked toward the terrace railing, toward the city lights far below. The lanterns flickering like little lies scattered across the veins of Arcania.

“You’d see it. A scene already ended. A noble heir victorious. A common baron discarded like waste.”

Then, he turned back to her.

“And what would you have done, Princess?”

She said nothing.

But she didn’t need to.

Because the answer sat heavy in the silence between them.

“You’d have done what’s expected,” he said. “Overlooked it. Like any other royal walking through the ash of someone else’s fire.”

He didn’t say it with cruelty.

He said it like a truth too old to mourn.

“Because it would be beneath your attention. Because you don’t know him. Because it would have looked… political. Risky.”

He leaned back now, the soft shift of his coat the only sound for a heartbeat.

“After all,” he said, “who would risk their reputation over a baron?”

His fingers traced an idle line across the table.

“Quite smart of them, really.”

Then his voice dipped, just enough to draw her attention back in.

“But… what if,” he said slowly, “that mere baron… turned to you?”

His eyes flicked up, catching hers like a hook.

“What if, right before the crowd, he called out to you? Claimed the previous alliance, and sought your protection?”

He waited a beat.

Then—

“What would you have done then, Priscilla Lysandra?”

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