Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1014: Walls and Rest (2)

“That’s a rather pitiful way to live, don’t you think?”

Priscilla blinked. “What is?”

He turned his head slightly, eyes still on the sky. “Requiring a reason to believe in someone.”

His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it—a trace of something she couldn’t quite name. Not mockery. Not pity either. Perhaps… weariness.

He went on before she could answer. “If you need proof before you trust anyone.”

Priscilla’s brows drew together, her eyes following the last edge of sunlight bleeding into the horizon.

’Requiring a reason to believe…’

Her throat felt tight. A bitter laugh almost rose to the surface, but she swallowed it.

“That’s not pitiful,” she said at last, her voice quieter than before. “That’s how the world works.”

Lucavion didn’t reply, only glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The sky behind him had turned a deep amber, the first hints of indigo pressing through.

She went on, words tumbling softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “You have to seek reasons. Again and again. You don’t just… trust people. You watch them. You learn what they want, what they’ll take. You make sure you’re not the fool who gives them the knife to use against you.”

Her fingers tightened at her sides. “If that’s pitiful, then maybe everyone’s pitiful. Because that’s what life turns people into. The ones who trust too easily—” she hesitated, her voice thinning “—they don’t last long.”

Lucavion studied her in silence, the soft wind tugging faintly at his coat.

“The palace taught you that,” he said.

“The world did.” Her eyes didn’t leave the horizon. “People wear each other down, little by little. Not out of malice, just… habit. The kind ones get tired. The strong ones get cynical. And the rest—” she exhaled softly “—they just learn to stop expecting anything.”

For a heartbeat, only the quiet hum of the terrace wards filled the space between them.

Then Lucavion’s voice came again, low, steady. “And yet,” he said, “even the ones who stop expecting still need somewhere to rest.”

Priscilla turned to look at him. His eyes weren’t sharp now; they had softened, carrying that strange mix of amusement and melancholy that only he seemed capable of.

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” he said. “Building walls, checking for cracks, making sure no one slips through. Sooner or later, you start mistaking the walls for safety.”

He took a step closer, his tone quiet but certain. “But every wall falls eventually. Even yours, Miss Princess.”

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

Lucavion smiled faintly—not the bright, boyish grin from earlier, but something calmer, almost kind. “You don’t need to believe everyone,” he said. “Just… remember that even those who never trust still need to breathe.”

The evening breeze swept past them, carrying the scent of rain and distant earth.

Lucavion looked back toward the horizon, his eyes tracing the fading line of light. “It’s not wrong to be cautious,” he murmured. “It’s just… tiring. And everyone—no matter how careful—needs rest sometimes.”

His gaze flicked toward her once more, a glint of warmth beneath the fading gold.

“Remember that, Miss Princess.”

The last of the sun slipped away, leaving only the soft blue of twilight—and for the first time that evening, Priscilla didn’t know whether the weight in her chest came from exhaustion…

or the quiet realization that he might have been right.

She studied him the way she’d study a sigil—trace by trace, looking for the line that made the whole thing hold.

How he spoke: measured, unhurried, the edges sanded down until every word landed exactly where he wanted. How he stood: never square to anyone, always a half-angle, like a man who knew that being looked at and being seen were different things. How his eyes moved: quick when others talked, slower when he did. Watching. Weighing.

’He doesn’t push with volume,’ she thought. ’He pushes with timing.’

Around people, he behaved like a man born to the center of a room but unwilling to claim it—appearing casual while the air bent toward him anyway. Not loud. Not soft. Present. It was performance, yes, but it wasn’t empty. There was muscle under the poise.

And then there was the file she’d read—the one she hadn’t meant to remember tonight but did.

No family recorded. Rural birth, unnamed parish. Parents lost early. Vanished from local ledgers early; resurfaced years later in Rackenshore, west border, Lorian line….

When he appeared, he was already an Awakened.

’No family,’ she reminded herself. ’And yet he talks like this. Moves like this.’

People learned different languages depending on what the world did to them. The palace had taught her silence and survival. The countryside had given him hunger and invention. Somewhere between vanishing and Rackenshore, he’d learned to turn a room with a sentence.

’Is that why he tests?’ she wondered. ’Because no one caught him when he fell?’

The thought surprised her. It stayed.

She lifted her head. The twilight had thinned to a dusky blue; the lamps along the balustrade hummed softly, beads of light strung through the mist. Lucavion still faced the horizon, as if the last of the day were a conversation only he could hear.

“What about you?” she asked.

He glanced over, one brow tilting. “Me?”

“You said everyone needs somewhere to rest.” Her voice came steady now. “Do you?”

ucavion’s answer came without a blink.

“I’m pretty strong.”

Priscilla stared at him.

“…That’s it?”

He turned his head slightly, feigning thought, as if reconsidering. “Well, I suppose very strong might be more accurate, but—”

She pressed a hand to her face before he could finish. “Unbelievable.”

A quiet laugh slipped from him—short, genuine, annoyingly pleased with itself. The kind of laugh that sounded like it existed just to irritate her further.

She lowered her hand slowly, giving him a look that should have burned through steel. “You just lectured me for five minutes about walls, exhaustion, and needing rest, and that’s

your answer?”

Lucavion grinned faintly, eyes glinting. “I never said I followed my own advice.”

“Of course you don’t,” she muttered, half to herself. “No wonder everyone finds you insufferable.”

“Everyone?” he echoed, mock-offended. “That’s a strong claim.”

She gave him a flat look. “You have a reputation, you know.”

He raised a brow. “Do I?”

“Yes. And it’s not for modesty.”

Lucavion chuckled under his breath, turning back toward the horizon. “Ah. So the princess does her research.”

“I like to know who I’m dealing with,” she said evenly. “Especially when they appear out of nowhere and decide to start giving me life lessons.”

The edge of his smile softened. “And what did your research tell you, then?”

“That you don’t have a family,” she said quietly.

The words landed sharper than she meant them to. The sound of the evening breeze filled the space where a reply should have been.

Lucavion didn’t turn this time. His posture didn’t change either—still casual, one shoulder slightly raised, head tilted toward the fading light. But his silence felt heavier now, like the air between them had thickened.

Priscilla regretted it instantly. She hadn’t meant it as pity, but it sounded like it. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—to soften it, but he spoke first.

“True,” he said simply. “No family.”

The bluntness of it surprised her. No hesitation, no defense. Just fact.

He shifted slightly, resting his arms against the railing, eyes tracing the city below. “People always say it like that,” he continued. “’No family.’ Like it’s a tragedy written in stone.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked softly.

He hummed, a low thoughtful sound. “Depends on what you think family is. Blood doesn’t always mean belonging. Sometimes it’s just… coincidence that kills you slower.”

Priscilla blinked. “That’s a bleak definition.”

“It’s an honest one,” he said, still watching the horizon. “I had family once. Then I didn’t. It wasn’t the end of the world.”

His tone was calm, but there was something in it—something deliberately muted, like a note struck too quietly to echo.

She folded her arms, watching him. “So you just decided to be strong.”

Lucavion smiled faintly, his reflection caught in the glass of the terrace lamp beside him.

“Something like that.”