Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 777: Socialize ?

The speech ended, but the silence it left behind lingered like aftershocks from a slow-falling tower.

Then—motion returned. Nobles whispered, cutlery resumed its delicate dance against porcelain, and the low hum of politics disguised as conversation filled the grand banquet hall once more.

But at one table, set apart like an afterthought dressed in velvet, five figures remained still.

Lucavion leaned against the back of his chair, goblet turning absently between his fingers. Elayne sat poised, posture flawless, but her eyes were distant, observing everything and nothing at once. Toven tapped the edge of his glass with a spoon—not loud enough to be disruptive, just enough to keep his hands busy. Caeden sat like a pillar carved from caution, and Mireilla…

Mireilla was watching everyone.

Then she sighed.

“Well,” she said, “that was… inspiring.”

Lucavion arched an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re trying not to gag.”

“I’m trying not to start a riot,” she muttered, voice low. “Give me credit.”

Toven leaned in slightly, his usual grin dulled by the weight of the room. “So, uh… do we talk to them? Or do they talk to us? Or are we all just pretending each other doesn’t exist?”

“No one’s pretending,” Caeden said quietly. “They’re watching.”

And they were.

Not overtly. Not directly. But glances passed over their table like drafts through a cracked window. Some curious. Some skeptical. Most dismissive.

“They won’t come to us,” Elayne said. “Not yet.”

Lucavion chuckled, low and sharp. “Of course not. That would imply equality.”

Toven made a show of looking around. “So… what now? Sit here and look mysterious?”

“Sit here,” Mireilla corrected, “and not ruin the political balance of three empires in one night.”

Lucavion lifted his goblet lazily, letting the light catch the wine as if it might hold answers better than nobles.

“Three empires, Mireilla?” he said, tone mock-thoughtful. “I can understand Arcanis. Lorian too, I suppose. But where’s the third one? Is this about Toven’s hair again?”

Toven gasped with mock offense, running a hand through the admittedly rebellious mess atop his head. “I’ll have you know this mane has diplomatic immunity.”

Mireilla didn’t even blink. “It’s an idiom, you stupid man.”

Lucavion blinked, then tilted his head. “Ah… I see. Idiom. Yes. Clearly, I’m the fool here.”

“You are,” Mireilla confirmed, deadpan.

“Glad we established that,” Caeden muttered, dry as ash.

Toven leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “So, what now? I mean… the banquet’s barely started and it already feels like we’re the leftovers of a feast no one wanted.”

“It’s strange,” Elayne said, her tone not bitter, just distant. “All this preparation. The Academy. The lectures. The ceremony. And yet now—here—we’re just… waiting.”

Mireilla nodded. “They’re watching to see if we’ll stumble. Or beg. Or offend. Some of them are probably waiting for us to make the first move so they can act like they’re being gracious by responding.”

Lucavion glanced toward a trio of nobles to their left, their posture open but unmoving. “Calculated courtesy. Wonderful.”

“We were warned,” Caeden reminded them. “The etiquette instructors said this might happen. That some gatherings would be a test. A game. And sometimes… the best move is not to play.”

Mireilla tapped a finger against the stem of her glass. “It’s a trap of perception. If we approach first, we’re seen as trying too hard. If we wait too long, we’re aloof. But if we wait just enough…”

“…they come to us,” Elayne finished.

Lucavion swirled the last of his wine with all the drama of a man half-invested in the world, half-nudging it for reaction.

“You all really sat through those lectures, huh?” he asked, tone dry and lazy, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was impressed or just disappointed.

Mireilla gave him a side glance sharp enough to peel paint. “Some of us were listening while you were asleep with your eyes open.”

Lucavion smirked. “I wasn’t asleep. I was meditating on the hypocrisy of noble etiquette being taught like gospel by men with their mouths full of bribes.”

Toven held back a laugh, mostly by stuffing a biscuit in his mouth.

Elayne leaned slightly forward, eyes still cool. “You could’ve at least stayed conscious during the one on dining customs. You stabbed a spoon into that cream custard like it owed you money.”

“It did,” Lucavion replied without missing a beat. “Its texture was an insult to dessert.”

Caeden shook his head with a half-sigh that suggested this was far from the worst thing he’d witnessed from Lucavion.

The laughter—soft, private, and shared—was a breath of warmth in the cold pool of judgment that surrounded them.

And that’s when it happened.

The approaching footsteps weren’t loud, but they were deliberate—just enough sound to make their presence known, not enough to seem entitled.

Lucavion’s eyes flicked sideways, then forward again.

Four figures.

Not draped in the ancestral silks of ducal houses, but still dressed with care. Not the kind of extravagance that shouted wealth, but the kind that suggested meticulous upbringing. Their movements were confident, not cocky. Nobility—yes—but not the sort who forgot how to walk among people.

A boy with dusty gold hair and an elegant maroon vest stepped forward first. His smile was polite but not forced.

“Evening,” he said, voice smooth, practiced, but not condescending. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”

Mireilla sat straighter, casting a glance at the others—quietly checking if she should rise. Elayne offered a nod, and Caeden’s hand left the edge of his plate in a gesture of subtle readiness.

“Of course not.”

The to speak was Mireilla.

“We are glad then.”

Lucavion didn’t move. Just raised an eyebrow and gestured lazily to the empty seats near them.

“You are pretty late.”

The boy blinked.

Lucavion’s smile appeared, faint but precise. “To introduce yourselves, I mean.”

The boy chuckled softly, then bowed his head. “Fair enough. I’m Aldric Velhart. House Velhart of Silvermoor.”

His companions followed suit.

A girl with olive-toned skin and raven-black hair twisted into intricate knots dipped her head. “Seraphina Korran. House Korran of the East Highlands. Baroness.”

A broader-shouldered boy with the easy stance of someone who’d fought more than studied nodded once. “Marius Zimane, from the Viscounty of Zimane.”

The last of the four stepped forward with an easy smile—confident but without edge. Her gown was a soft sea-glass green, subtly embroidered at the cuffs with the crest of her house. She wore her blond hair pinned back, not in a showy coil, but in the practical elegance of someone who knew how to speak both in salons and strategy halls.

“Baroness Liora Edevane,” she said, voice clear and pleasant. “House Edevane of the Western Reach. And don’t worry—we’re not here to posture. We just figured it was better to speak than to stare.”

That line earned a small grin from Toven, who leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Well,” Mireilla said smoothly, “then it’s only fair we return the courtesy.”

She gave a nod to Elayne, who inclined her head first, composed and precise.

“Elayne Cors,” she said.

She gave a nod to Elayne, who inclined her head first, composed and precise.

“Elayne Cors,” she said.

A flicker of recognition passed through Seraphina’s expression—not of friendship, but of memory.

The name had passed through noble circles before, though the details were blurred.

As they had run a background check on each candidate after all, and apparently House Cors wasn’t a house steeped in power or scandal, but it had surfaced often enough in academic records and assessments of arcane proficiency.

Before.

Since they apparently were a fallen family.

Elayne didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. The silence behind her name spoke of choice, not absence.

But many understood her talks.

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