Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 728: First Princess

Lucavion’s fingers drummed once on the edge of the table, slow and thoughtful, as the silence of the suite resumed its hold.

Selienne Vermielle Lysandra.

First Princess of the Empire.

Older than the Crown Prince by four years, and yet the difference between them was far greater than that modest number suggested. While Lucien was still clawing his way through succession politics, she had already carved her place in the world and stepped beyond the academy’s shadow. Graduated. Decorated. Established. Not just a noble with a title—but a tactician, a diplomat, and a wielder of influence shaped with terrifying precision.

In the fractured strands of memory he still held from Shattered Innocence, her presence had always been… thin.

And the reason for that was simple. Obvious, even.

Shattered Innocence wasn’t her story.

It was Elara’s.

A tale carved in revenge, loss, and rebirth. A journey rooted in academy grounds, mentor relationships, and conspiracies crawling through the cracks of noble legacy. And Selienne—being four years older, already graduated, already wielding her own circle of power—had no reason to linger in that narrative. She wasn’t a mentor. She wasn’t an enemy. She wasn’t even an obstacle.

She was peripheral.

Not because she lacked presence, but because the story simply had no room for her.

And yet, Lucavion remembered the fragments that were there. Brief notes. A passing scene. A single quote attributed to her in the war council before the Third Border Crisis:

“Victory secured through compromise is still victory. The grave does not care who knelt first.”

Efficient. Strategic. Unsparing.

No flourish. No speeches. Just outcomes.

Selienne Vermielle Lysandra had been, by every metric, a remarkable tactician. She ascended through the diplomatic ranks faster than any of her siblings, built an extensive intelligence network under her own banner, and was one of the few imperials to earn negotiation rights with the elder councils of the Sealed Territories.

One of the main reasons where she could still match with the Crown Prince even now.

That much Lucavion knew.

And yet…

She was falling behind.

Why?

Because the throne did not belong to the brilliant.

It belonged to the beloved.

And Lucien—his half-brother, born of the Empress, shaped in the fire of visible victory—was beloved. The people loved his flair. His presence. His dramatic reforms. His loud promises and louder victories. He made them feel seen. Heard. Led.

Selienne made them feel… controlled.

And the nobles? The older ones? The entrenched ones? They backed her—yes. But even they were beginning to shift. Lucien was easier to predict. Easier to flatter. Easier to shape, in theory.

Selienne did not bend.

She measured.

Calculated.

And like Lucien, she was power-hungry. That much was clear even in her limited profile. But unlike Lucien, she didn’t gild her ambition in idealism or rhetoric.

She wanted the throne because she believed it should be hers.

Because of her preparation.

’At least that was how it has explained by the writer.’

These were not words whispered by characters in tension-drenched rooms. Not rumors passed through taverns or stitched into footnotes of imperial history.

No.

These were the words of the author.

The narrator of Shattered Innocence had described Selienne with clinical precision. Measured admiration. Detached authority. Like even the story itself knew it couldn’t afford to give her more than that—because more would demand attention. And Selienne was not the kind of presence that stayed quietly in the wings once acknowledged.

’She was dangerous in silence,’ Lucavion thought, narrowing his eyes. ’And because the writer gave her so little space… I have no choice but to see the rest for myself.’

He didn’t know what her voice sounded like. Didn’t know the way she walked. Didn’t know if she wielded charm like a scalpel or if her diplomacy was just another sword in her sheath.

What he did know was that she didn’t come here on a whim

She came here with intent.

And that—above all—made this meeting dangerous.

A crisp knock at the door.

Not forceful. Not impatient. Just… exact.

The kind of knock that didn’t ask for permission. It announced readiness.

Lucavion’s head turned slightly. A pause. And then:

“Enter.”

The door opened—silently this time. No flame. No dramatics. Just the soft glide of hinges maintained with meticulous care.

The attendant stood in the frame, and Lucavion didn’t need to read her aura to understand what had changed.

Her spine was straighter. Her tone was hushed—but reverent. Eyes downcast. Posture perfect.

“Her Highness,” the attendant said, with careful articulation, “has arrived.”

Not Lady Selienne. Not the guest from the First Court. No qualifications. No elaborations.

Just Her Highness.

And the difference from the last visitor was unmistakable.

There had been no such announcement for House Varenth. No bowed head. No ceremonial diction.

Lucavion’s lips curved faintly—not a smile. Just the acknowledgment of a shift in the air.

’Even the room knows who it’s bowing to.’

He rose from his seat, casual but deliberate, brushing a hand once along the hem of his coat. His tea remained behind. His smirk—faint, restrained—did not.

“Well then,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Let’s meet our older sister, shall we?”

[You should know your place,] Vitaliara muttered, voice low, but not joking. [That woman will be able to have your head lopped off before your tea goes cold.]

Lucavion adjusted his collar with idle precision. “She could,” he admitted, nonchalant. “But then she’d have to admit I made her flinch.”

[Your head is not worth the punchline.]

He let out a quiet breath that may have passed for a laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

Another knock—this one not like the first.

It wasn’t announcing readiness. It was requesting entrance. Formal. Respectful. The kind of knock that didn’t force its way in—it waited for the world to align around it.

Lucavion glanced once toward the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened again.

And this time, it wasn’t an attendant who entered.

It was her.

She didn’t sweep in like a noble seeking attention, nor glide like one trained to seduce a room. She simply stepped inside—with control. With presence. With the quiet finality of someone who belonged wherever she stood.

Her posture was impeccable. Shoulders back, chin poised, each step measured with the kind of grace that didn’t beg to be noticed—it demanded it by existing.

Her hair, a cascade of ocean-blue silk, fell just past her shoulders—neatly trimmed, subtly layered, catching light with each movement like still water rippling under moonlight. The robe she wore wasn’t lavish, but its cut and weave were unmistakable—imperial tailoring, high-thread ceremonial silk. Black with accents of wine-gold, the colors of direct royal standing. A brooch at her collar shimmered in the shape of an eclipsed star.

But it was her skin—smooth as porcelain, unmarred by the weight of battles most nobles only read about—and her body, athletic beneath the drape of dignity, that whispered of discipline rather than decoration.

And her eyes—

Ah, her eyes.

That red.

Not crimson like fury, nor scarlet like passion. It was deeper. Older.

The red of blood bound, not spilled. A color that marked only one line in the empire.

The Lysandra Line.

The royal blood.

She stopped exactly six paces from Lucavion—far enough for decorum, close enough for dominance. And when she inclined her head, it was neither a bow nor a condescension.

It was a statement.

Recognition. Not of his rank.

But of his presence.

Lucavion didn’t speak first.

He met her gaze—unflinching, unbowed—and waited.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!