Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 736: Another Princess

The doors parted with a whisper.

Priscilla stepped into the private chamber of the Sanctum’s northern wing—high ceilings laced with starlight glass, the kind that shimmered subtly in rhythm with ambient mana. A slow, drifting glow pulsed from the wall-etched constellations, bathing the room in calm radiance. No guards. No advisors. Just quiet.

And him.

Lucavion stood at the center.

No throne. No dais. No performative distance. Just a simple low table with two seats placed across from one another. Tea already poured. Still warm.

The tea on the table shimmered faintly—its steam rising in slow, curling trails that hadn’t lost their warmth. Odd.

Priscilla’s gaze lingered on the cups for a beat too long.

They weren’t freshly poured. Not exactly. There was no trace of magic preserving their heat, no visible servant just having stepped out. Yet something about the placement—the precise angle of the saucers, the consistency of the steam—made it feel… recurring.

As if the tea had been poured and repoured for each visitor before her. Reset, reoffered. Not out of courtesy.

Out of ritual.

She didn’t voice the thought.

But it settled in her as she took her step further inside.

And then he looked up.

Lucavion.

He didn’t move to rise. Didn’t extend a hand. He simply watched her enter, silver-flecked eyes catching the light of the starlit glass above. And then—

That smile.

A quiet one. Laced not with arrogance, but with some infuriating calm. A smirk that curled like he’d just won a game she didn’t know they were playing.

“You are here, Miss Princess.”

His voice carried lightly across the chamber, smooth and dry—almost teasing, as though the words themselves had been waiting on his tongue all morning.

She stopped mid-step.

The use of that tone—too familiar. Too informal.

And the smile.

He had expected her.

That was what irked her most.

She narrowed her eyes, the weight of her gaze sharp as ever.

“Lack of respect,” she said flatly. “As usual.”

Lucavion tilted his head, unbothered. “Hmm… was my greeting insufficient?”

“It was,” she replied without pause, every syllable clipped, precise. “You are addressing a princess of the Empire. Not a traveling merchant.”

“Too bad, then.”

Lucavion let his fingers drift lightly along the rim of his teacup, the motion casual, but not thoughtless.

“Forgive this fool, once more,” he said with theatrical solemnity. “Old habits don’t die easily.”

And there it was again—that smirk. Not mocking. Just… amused. A curve of lips that suggested he knew exactly how irritating he was being and had no plans to adjust it.

Then came the shift.

His eyes, still faintly amused, glinted with something quieter beneath.

“…So we meet again,” Lucavion said, his voice softer this time. Almost gentle, if one didn’t listen too closely.

Priscilla said nothing. Not yet.

He leaned back slightly, not reclining—just… existing with that same unbearable confidence.

“See?” he went on, eyes tracing her with quiet amusement. “Didn’t I tell you, little Miss Princess? I don’t lie. And I hold onto my promises.”

Still, she said nothing.

Not because she lacked words—but because she hadn’t decided which ones he deserved.

And then, as if he hadn’t already shifted the ground beneath her, he leaned forward.

“So…” he asked, voice a little lower now, fingers folding together with casual intent. “How was it?”

She blinked. “How was what?”

“I kept my promise, didn’t I?”

Her chest rose faintly. She didn’t sigh—but her stillness took on weight.

Because she remembered.

Look forward to the festival, he had said. You will see a lot of interesting things…

And she had.

The storm beast. The impossible calm. The illusions shattered like glass under foot. The swordplay that carried no noble name—but every ounce of consequence. The sharp refusal of both Selienne and Lucien.

And now?

Now he sat across from her, casual as ever, offering tea as if none of it had meant anything.

“You…”

The word escaped before she shaped it.

But she didn’t get further.

“Answer, Miss Princess,” Lucavion murmured, tilting his head. “Answer first.”

It wasn’t a demand.

It was an invitation.

And yet somehow… still a command.

She lifted her eyes again.

That same silver glint met her own. Mischief in its purest form. But laced with something else. Like a river with no surface current, but a devastating pull beneath.

As if the smirk was only the top layer.

As if underneath, he already knew every question she would ask.

Every doubt.

Every hesitation.

It was a look not of arrogance—but certainty.

And Priscilla Lysandra, born of blood and pride and politics, found herself hesitating—not out of fear, but because…

She didn’t yet know what game she was in.

This strange feeling was intense to her who had been living on edge for a long time.

Priscilla’s lips parted—just slightly. The silence between them stretched, taut and breathless, like the instant before a string snaps.

Then—

“It was fun,” she said, quietly.

Lucavion’s smile widened.

Not arrogantly. Not mockingly.

Just with the pleased satisfaction of someone who had laid a card face-down, and watched as the other finally realized its suit.

“Really?” he said. “Else?”

She drew in a breath, eyes narrowing—but the irritation wasn’t sharp. Just reluctant. Intrigued, and trying not to be.

“…It was interesting,” she said at last. “And peculiar.”

Lucavion gave a soft hum, resting his chin on one hand. “I’m an interesting and a peculiar person,” he replied, “so that much is given.”

She didn’t answer that.

Didn’t have to.

The weight of her gaze said enough.

He gestured lightly toward the opposite seat. “Come. You came all this way. Would be a shame to stand.”

For a moment, she hesitated. That same instinct—the one honed by years in courts filled with venom under silk—screamed at her not to trust anything.

And yet…

He didn’t strike her as careless. Or cruel.

He didn’t strike her as one who needed to poison anyone.

He’d use words, if he wanted to wound.

So, she moved.

Sat down across from him—slowly, carefully—letting the fabric of her mantle settle like a curtain behind her.

Lucavion reached for the teapot, lifting it with the same ease one might lift a pen. No flourish. No pretense.

Just the soft sound of porcelain as he poured the amber liquid into her cup.

“Tea?” he asked, not pushing.

Offering.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it did.

Because normally, she would’ve refused.

A hundred times over.

But today…

She watched him for a second longer.

And then—without a word—she took the cup. Fingers light. Posture poised. And brought it gently to her lips.

Warm.

Fragrant.

Yet expensive.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lucavion said, his voice low, amused. “Of course I didn’t brew it.”

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed immediately, a sharp glare cutting across the rim of her teacup. A glare that didn’t need words—because it already said everything.

’Then why make it seem like you did?’

Lucavion, utterly unbothered, gave a light shrug.

“It’s your own fault,” he said shamelessly. “I never claimed I brewed it. You assumed. Misplaced perception. A classic mistake.”

She exhaled, long and restrained.

Not quite irritation.

More like… exasperation.

This man.

He was infuriating in ways she couldn’t categorize. One moment carrying himself like a ghost with no name, the next sparring with royalty like it was idle banter in a market square.

’Eccentric’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

But no matter how peculiar he acted—no matter how much he danced around formality and convention—he had still drawn every pair of eyes in the empire to him.

And now, she was here.

Which meant it was time.

Time to take the reins of this exchange before he turned it into another performance.

She set the cup down with a quiet click.

Straightened her posture.

Lifted her gaze.

No more reactions.

No more letting him lead.

“Lucavion,” she said, calm and cool as a drawn blade, “do you know why I came?”

His smirk curved faintly again, but this time—he said nothing.

He was waiting.

And that meant—for once—she had control.

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