Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 731: First Princess (4)

Lucavion’s silence held for a beat longer than comfort would allow.

Then his lips curled—not wide, not mocking, but with a composed mirth that shimmered just beneath the surface of his control. A smile of acknowledgment. Of calculation.

“You’re rather direct,” he said, voice smooth but edged with a note of bemusement. “I didn’t expect that wording.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes not leaving hers.

“But… your words were clear. As I asked.” He gave a small nod, more to himself than to her. “I suppose that is true.”

Selienne remained still, the air around her pulsing with quiet authority. She didn’t answer. Didn’t explain. She simply allowed the moment to breathe—as if her demand required no defense.

But Lucavion wasn’t finished.

He turned his body a fraction, one elbow resting lazily along the armrest while his fingers steepled together before him.

Then he looked into her eyes. Fully. Unflinching.

“Why should I choose to be under you, Your Highness?”

The words fell like a stone into still water.

Not loud. But undeniable.

For a moment, the air in the chamber stilled further—tightened. Like breath held behind velvet.

Selienne didn’t speak.

But her eyes narrowed.

Just slightly.

Not fury. Not insult.

But the slow coiling of tension beneath pride.

She was a Princess of the Empire. A daughter of the Lysandra bloodline. One of the ruling heirs of a realm that had known no defeat on its soil for centuries.

And he had asked her why.

’You’ll either earn her fury or her attention now,’ Lucavion thought, keeping his gaze level. ’Maybe both.’

But he didn’t retreat.

He couldn’t afford to—not now, not with her, and not in a world where everyone bowed before asking.

He needed more than position.

He needed understanding.

The kind that couldn’t be bought with favors or titles.

He needed to know the kind of woman who asked him to become hers without blinking.

Was she a tyrant in waiting?

A tactician bent on legacy?

Or something else entirely?

He had danced in shadows before.

But now he was probing the edge of a throne.

Lucavion’s gaze held, unbroken, as the seconds coiled between them like tension in a drawn bow.

He could feel her eyes weighing him again—fitting him not for a position, but for purpose. And yet he remained, spine straight, expression calm.

“I’ve had many offers,” he said again, the air cooling slightly around the deliberate cadence of his words. “A lot of them that I had yet to even negotiate and talk about.”

Then came the question—delivered not with arrogance, but with clarity.

“What’s in it for me?”

Direct. Honest. Dangerous.

And Selienne did not look away.

She stared into him—not at him. Her posture remained perfect, her fingers laced in her lap like she were seated at a council war table rather than across from a student.

“What is in it for you?” she echoed softly. “That is a rather broad question.”

And then, with a breath that didn’t belong to hesitation but authority, she began listing.

“You can have position—true position. Not the scraps these lesser houses offer to flatter themselves. A seat at my table. My inner circle.”

Her tone remained pristine, but each word carried its own blade.

“Money, of course—unmeasured, unrestricted. More than any adventurer’s purse could sustain. Fame that reaches beyond the broadcasted exams, into halls where names are etched into law.”

She paused briefly, her eyes never leaving his.

“Power. The kind that doesn’t ask permission. Access to the Empire’s restricted archives. Influence over guilds. Command of forces—military or arcane, as you choose.”

Another breath.

“Women,” she added, with all the casual weight of a dagger sliding into velvet. “Or men, if your tastes lean that way. Or neither. You’ll find the throne does not judge—only grants.”

Lucavion’s lips parted just slightly—ready to speak.

But Selienne lifted a hand.

Her index finger hovered—not quite in command, not quite in threat. But enough to silence.

“But none of those,” she said quietly, “are what you want. Are they?”

Lucavion stilled. Eyes sharp. Brows lifted just enough to show interest—and something deeper beneath.

’She reads fast,’ he thought. ’Or she’s been reading longer than I assumed.’

“You’re a rather interesting man,” she continued, her voice softer now, but more cutting. “You already have fame. That title they apparently had been screaming about you before. Sword Demon, wasn’t it?”

A smile tugged at the edge of her lips. This one? Measured. But tinged with something else—genuine amusement. Admiration. Curiosity.

“Quite a fitting name.”

Lucavion said nothing, but the way his fingers drummed once against the table betrayed that he was listening. Closely.

“And not just from the Sanctum’s little trials, either,” she added. “You’re an adventurer. Or were.”

Her head tilted faintly, and for the first time, her voice carried something close to wonder.

“Apparently someone with black hair, an estoc, and a silver tongue once turned the entire Stormhaven skirmish into a private campaign. The records list the name as Luca—but the eyewitness reports mention a white cat on his shoulders.”

She gave a small, quiet laugh.

“And that adventurer also happened to appear right before a battlefield turned into a massacre. I suppose that’s coincidence too?”

Lucavion’s smirk curved, faint but real.

Selienne watched him, then added, almost as an afterthought:

“And according to the financial records—yes, I had them pulled—you’re already one of the wealthiest independent adventurers currently in circulation. Which means…”

Her voice dipped again—this time thoughtful.

“…money isn’t your concern, either.”

She leaned back, fingers resting against the lacquered wood of the chair’s arm.

“So. If you don’t want power, or wealth, or fame, or pleasure…”

Her crimson gaze narrowed with surgical interest.

Then—

“Isn’t I the one who’s supposed to be asking that question?” she said, her tone returning to a familiar sharpness, though now laced with something far more personal.

Her eyes narrowed—not in threat, but in intent.

“What is it that you want, Lucavion?” she asked. “For what reason would someone like you bother with an academy?”

She let the word bother linger just a little too long, just enough to make it clear she didn’t buy the act—not entirely.

And then, Selienne smiled.

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t regal.

It was curious.

“That,” she said softly, “is something I’m trying to find out.”

And then, without warning, she rose from her seat.

Her movement was graceful—deliberate—not fast, but unhesitant, like a ruler rising before a decree. She took three measured steps and came to a halt before Lucavion’s chair.

She stood tall, not to impose—she didn’t need to impose—but to offer perspective. Her shadow fell softly across his legs. Her eyes bore into his, level and poised.

The kind of gaze that didn’t plead or threaten.

It invited.

“I can’t promise you riches,” she said quietly, “because you have them. I can’t offer you glory—because you’ve already tasted it, and seen its emptiness.”

She folded her hands behind her back.

“But I can promise you one thing.”

Her voice lowered, almost a murmur—but it carried the weight of certainty.

“I’m fair.”

Lucavion’s brow twitched—slightly. Not with doubt. But with attention.

“And I treat those with me with care,” she continued. “Not because I need loyalty. But because I believe in those I choose. I don’t use people like tools. I build with them. I elevate them.”

Then her voice sharpened—not in harshness, but resolve.

“So I’ll ask again. Not as a Princess…”

She stepped a fraction closer, until her silhouette eclipsed the edge of his chair.

“…but as Selienne Lysandra, the woman building the next throne.”

Her crimson eyes locked with his.

“Will you stand by my side?”

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