Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1010: Your fight… Your decision (3)

“Princess.”

The word stopped her mid-stride. Not because of who said it, but because of how. Sweetly.

Priscilla turned slowly.

The three from the back row stood there—uniforms immaculate, hair arranged in perfect, identical precision. Each carried that same gleam in their eyes, the kind she had seen since childhood in court corridors: the shine of people who had been told they could do anything, and believed it.

One of them—tall, dark braid pinned over her shoulder—smiled like it was a courtesy. “Leaving so soon? The exam only just ended.”

Priscilla’s expression didn’t change. “I prefer quiet.”

“Do you?” another said, a short blonde with the quick, cutting tone of someone used to being heard. “That’s strange. I thought you preferred standing out.”

The third girl—silent so far—shifted closer, her eyes sweeping the corridor. No teachers. No witnesses. The faint hum of the runes overhead covered small sounds well enough.

Priscilla felt the instinctive curl of unease beneath her ribs. She straightened, drawing her cloak slightly closer. “If this is about the exam, take it up with the magister. I’m not interested in conversation.”

“Oh, but we are,” the braided one said lightly. “You see, some of us just wanted to welcome you properly. It’s not every day we get to share classes with royalty.”

The way she said royalty twisted, half-mocking, half-reverent.

Priscilla’s silence stretched a moment too long, and that was all the invitation they needed.

The blonde leaned in, her perfume sharp and sweet. “You really shouldn’t act so composed. It confuses people. Makes them forget what you are.”

Priscilla’s gaze flicked between them—once, deliberate. “And what am I?”

The smile widened. “A reminder.”

The words landed softly, almost gentle, but the meaning behind them wasn’t.

The braid girl took a small step forward, close enough for her shadow to overlap Priscilla’s. “You made quite an impression, back at the banquet. Speaking against His Highness… standing beside him.”

Lucavion’s name wasn’t said, but it didn’t need to be.

“You must have thought that was brave,” the third girl murmured. “Or maybe you thought it made you look different. Important.”

Priscilla’s jaw tightened. “I thought it was right.”

A brief silence followed, then the blonde’s laugh—low, brittle, edged with disbelief. “Right? That’s a pretty word. But around here, right and wrong depend on who’s watching.”

The braid girl tilted her head. “And they were all watching.”

The corridor was empty now except for them. The runes flickered faintly, catching on the polished floor, their light trembling in rhythm with her heartbeat.

Priscilla exhaled slowly. “Step aside.”

The tall one didn’t move. “You’re in quite a hurry, Princess. What’s the matter? Afraid someone might see you without your crown?”

That drew a small, nervous giggle from the blonde, which she tried to hide behind her hand.

Priscilla could feel it coming now—the shift from mockery to something uglier, more deliberate. The kind of cruelty that didn’t need justification.

She could have turned and walked. Could have let them have their whispers. But the last few weeks had been nothing but silence, and silence had done her no favors.

Her voice, when it came, was steady. “If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, I suggest you move.”

The air between them seemed to still. The braid girl’s smile faltered for a heartbeat before twisting into something sharper. “Fine, if you insist.”

Mana shimmered faintly at her fingertips, a whisper of heat and gold.

And Priscilla realized, with cold certainty, that this wasn’t going to stop at words.

The first spell hit harder than it should have. A clean, narrow streak of gold—meant to sting, not wound. It struck her shoulder and scattered against the wall in a brief flash. The runes above flickered once, startled by the discharge.

Priscilla didn’t move. The ache rippled through her arm, dull and familiar. She’d felt worse.

’Of course,’ she thought. ’They always start like this.’

Another spell followed, a sharp pulse of air that brushed her side and snagged her cloak. Then a third—too close, too fast. It caught the fabric at her sleeve, tearing it open at the seam. The girls laughed.

The sound pulled her backward—through time, through memory.

She saw it as clearly as the corridor around her.

A sunlit courtyard of polished stone. The smell of amber and incense.

A boy with hair like burnished gold, standing where the light hit him just right, his shadow long and cold. His eyes—red like hers, but brighter, crueler—watched her stumble under the pressure of his mana, watched her knees touch the ground.

“Pathetic,” Lucien had said, almost gently. “You can’t even hold a spell steady.”

She remembered the laughter then too—not from him, but from the attendants who mirrored his smile. The way their hands had covered their mouths, the way her own breath had caught on the edge of a sob she refused to make sound.

That was how it had always been. A dance of humiliation dressed as lesson.

And she had learned every step.

Endure it.

Wait for it to end.

Breathe through the pain until it loses interest.

Her ribs burned where one of the girls’ mana strikes had landed. She pressed a palm against the spot, steadying herself. The marble under her boots hummed faintly with the residue of their spells.

’Just endure it,’ she told herself. ’It’ll be over soon. It always ends if you give them nothing.’

Another hit. This one low, catching her across the thigh. Her knee bent, her breath left her chest in a small, involuntary sound. The braid girl’s smile sharpened.

“Still trying to stand?”

The blonde leaned in, her voice dripping satisfaction. “You really don’t learn, do you?”

Priscilla closed her eyes briefly. A flicker—heat in her chest. Not fear. Not shame.

Something hotter.

’What is that?’

It wasn’t the first time she’d felt it, but it was stronger now. It pulsed behind her ribs, coiling upward, setting her jaw tight. Her vision swam for a heartbeat, gold motes prickling at the edges.

And then—unbidden—his voice came back to her.

“If things keep going just as they are now… do you really think you’ll survive in that academy?”

The sound of it in her head made her throat tighten. She could see that moment again—the terrace, the wind catching his coat, the faint half-smile when he’d spoken.

“Forget survival. Let’s say you endure it—somehow. But do you think you’ll achieve anything? Make a mark? Move freely? Pull your own strings?”

Each question had felt like a knife turned slowly, deliberately, and she hadn’t been able to look away.

“Or will you spend your years like you’ve spent your life so far—dodging knives you weren’t supposed to see coming, and bowing just deep enough to be ignored?”

That was the line that had followed her since that night. The one that made her speak in the banquet. The one that made her stand now, even as pain bloomed beneath her skin.

’Do not bow down.’

Her eyes opened. The fire didn’t fade—it steadied.

The next spell came. She turned her body just enough that it skimmed past her shoulder, the heat tracing her jaw but leaving her standing. The girls paused.

The braid girl sneered. “What? Going to glare us to death?”

Priscilla’s lips curved, faintly. “You might be surprised how much that can hurt.”

The remark landed heavier than it should have. Their laughter faltered.

The blonde stepped forward. “Watch your tone, half-blood.”

Priscilla’s voice dropped. “You should watch your aim. The next time you ’misfire,’ make sure it’s worth the effort.”

The quiet that followed was taut. The air seemed to shift around her, pressure bending—not from her mana, but from something colder, tighter.

The braid girl’s hand twitched at her side. “You think words will save you?”

“I don’t need saving,” Priscilla said. “Especially not from you.”

Her eyes—crimson and steady—met theirs one by one. The tremor that had started as pain had turned into something else now. The fire Lucavion had spoken to had found its shape.

’I will not bow,’ she thought.

They stepped closer. The corridor light bent around their movement, golden runes pulsing as mana thickened in the air. Priscilla felt the surge coming again, another strike, heavier this time. She raised her arm, not to shield—but to face it.

And that was when it split apart.

The air cracked, scattering the light like glass. A shockwave of disrupted mana rushed through the hall, tossing dust and fragments of brightness into the air.

The girls stumbled back. Priscilla blinked against the sudden flare, her hair lifting in the current. When her vision cleared, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

Lucavion.

His presence folded through the air, calm and quiet, as if the world itself had drawn a breath and forgotten to exhale.

The braid girl froze mid-step, hand still half-raised.

Lucavion’s gaze swept the corridor once—past them, past the lingering smoke—and landed on her.

He didn’t speak immediately, and he didn’t need to. The sound of the girls’ confidence collapsing filled the silence well enough.

Then his voice, smooth and measured:

“Three against one. Not exactly impressive odds.”

Priscilla exhaled, slow, the fire in her chest cooling into something sharper.

Her eyes stayed on him, unblinking.

’You were right,’ she thought. ’I will not bow.’