Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

[You went too far,] Vitaliara said, her voice emerging from the shadows like mist slipping through a cracked window. Not harsh. Not condemning. Just… there. [He’ll remember that. His House will remember that.]

Lucavion didn’t turn. His hands were still loose at his sides, the air still tinged faintly with the scent of ozone and scorched brass from the sealing flame. His breath was calm. Even. Controlled.

“I wanted him to remember it.”

He stepped forward, the soft click of his boots against the marble sounding almost out of place in the silence that followed the thunder of that slammed door. The tea sat forgotten. His presence had been challenged. The civility of the space broken.

And yet…

There was no regret in his posture. No tension in his shoulders. No fear rippling through the silence.

Only certainty.

“They entered without courtesy. Spoke without respect. And presumed I would accept it—because of blood. Because of name.” His fingers brushed the edge of the table, light, thoughtful. “They expected me to fold because they believed I was still beneath the table.”

[Still, you didn’t have to provoke him. You could’ve let him walk away without flame. Without that last—sting.]

He let out a breath. Not a sigh. More like an exhale sharpened into shape. “And what would that teach him?”

[A little patience? A little subtlety?]

“No,” Lucavion said simply, “that would’ve taught him that I can be condescended to without consequence. That I’m something they can tame.”

He finally turned, meeting Vitaliara’s gaze now—his black eyes steady, not cold, but measured. Like someone who had weighed the blade before the cut.

“I gave them every chance to walk in with dignity. To treat this as a dialogue between powers. But they brought a whip to my door and expected me to kneel.”

[And instead, you scorched the floor.]

“I didn’t start the fire,” he murmured. “I just reminded them I don’t sit near it without knowing how to command it.”

Vitaliara rolled onto her side on the couch, tail flicking idly across the cushion. [And when they bring the weight of their House down on you? When they frame this as rebellion? Insolence?]

Lucavion’s gaze dropped to the faint glow of the runes set into the floor—soft and shifting, still catching the last flickers of firelight. He watched them settle back into silence.

“They won’t retaliate.”

[You’re sure of that?]

“They can’t.” He turned fully now, walking back to the table with the slow certainty of someone already three moves ahead. “No witnesses. No recorded discourse. Just a noble walking into a sanctioned sponsor meeting and losing his composure.”

He picked up the now-cold teacup, turning it once between his fingers. “If they claim I acted with disrespect, the Academy will ask why their envoy arrived unannounced. Why protocol wasn’t followed. Why an official sponsor tried to assert control without a proposal on the table.”

[So they’ll lie.]

“They’ll hesitate.” His voice was quiet, but razor-edged. “Because any attempt to accuse me forces the Academy to make a decision. Either they admit they allowed a breach in etiquette—which insults the Sanctum’s sanctity—or they defend me… which brands them biased.”

Vitaliara’s tail stilled. [And the headmaster?]

Lucavion’s eyes flicked toward the skylight, where pale gold light still spilled down in regal silence.

“He has maintained neutrality for decades. He’s balanced factions, bent laws without breaking them, and kept the throne’s influence at bay longer than any archmage before him.” His fingers tapped once on the rim of the cup. “He’s not about to risk that image over House Varenth’s bruised pride.”

[So they’ll swallow it.]

“They’ll swallow it,” Lucavion confirmed, a faint, humorless smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “Because that’s what dogs do when they realize the master’s watching—and he doesn’t like barking in the house.”

He poured a fresh stream of tea into the cup without bothering to check the temperature. Still warm. The room was still listening.

Lucavion lifted the cup to his lips again, letting the warmth pool against them before drinking. The taste wasn’t important—he’d forgotten which blend it was. Jasmine, perhaps. Or white emberspice. Either way, it wasn’t the tea that held his thoughts now.

‘He sent them to measure me.’

He didn’t need confirmation.

House Varenth didn’t move without Lucien’s direction. A Marquis house tied so tightly to the Crown Prince’s ambition wouldn’t so much as breathe on someone like Lucavion without a nod from above. And that meant this wasn’t just provocation.

It was assessment.

A probe disguised in entitlement.

A test wrapped in a snare.

“He wanted to see who I am,” Lucavion murmured, eyes distant. “And more importantly… who I answer to.”

[And did you answer?] Vitaliara asked quietly.

“No,” he said, setting the cup down with a quiet clink. “I reminded them I don’t have to.”

He paced slowly now, eyes drifting to the still-sealed door. The runes along its frame had cooled, but the memory of fire clung to the threshold like old smoke.

‘You sent a beast with polished teeth, Lucien. But the leash showed first.’

That was the flaw. The one thing Lucavion had always noted about the Crown Prince’s faction—even when reading about them in the novel, before this world had become flesh and breath.

Arrogance.

Not just personal, but structural. Baked into the bone of the faction itself.

It was the kind of arrogance born from centuries of unchallenged superiority. The idea that noble blood was not merely a privilege, but a truth. That superiority came not from merit, but from inheritance. That those born into banners were divinely aligned with power—and those who weren’t? Should be grateful to even stand beside them.

That was the essence of Lucien’s camp.

Not strength.

Not loyalty.

Pedigree.

And that flaw—Lucavion would carve through it like fire through silk.

He had given them the chance. Even after reading all he had, even after knowing the kind of men Lucien attracted, Lucavion had been willing to test the theory. To see if there was anyone among them who might step forward without assumption. Without condescension.

But no.

Khaedren hadn’t entered as a diplomat. He’d walked in like a warden to a cell that didn’t exist.

And Lucavion would never, never play prisoner.

“I don’t care for crowns,” he said quietly, gaze distant now. “But I’ll never kneel for one borne on the back of inherited arrogance.”

[Then what will you kneel for?] Vitaliara asked, watching him without blinking.

Lucavion didn’t answer immediately.

He let the silence sit.

It wasn’t hesitation.

It was memory.

Of flame.

Of blood.

Of another world.

Of a reason still unspoken.

And when he finally replied, his voice was quieter.

Sharper.

And colder.

“I’ll kneel for no one.”

[Gerald used to say the same thing,] Vitaliara scoffed, her voice dusted with amusement and something quieter beneath—recollection, maybe, or regret.

Lucavion’s laugh came low and without strain. “I’m not Master.”

He turned, a faint curve rising at one corner of his mouth.

“I’ll surpass him.”

[Yeah, yeah,] she muttered, stretching across the lounge like a feline claiming the sunspot. [That’s what you all say until you start quoting him in your sleep.]

“It is just your imagination.” Lucavion replied dryly, walking toward the central display again.

A soft knock interrupted the air—polite, this time. The doors did not open without permission, a welcome change.

Lucavion flicked two fingers.

“Enter.”

The attendant from earlier stepped in, not a thread of emotion on her face, but her gaze briefly flicked to the lingering scent in the air, the faint shimmer where flame had sealed the entrance. Observant, but careful.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” she said with a bow. “I was informed the sponsor meeting had concluded. Earlier than expected.”

Lucavion didn’t blink. “We couldn’t reach an agreement.”

No elaboration. No tone.

The attendant, to her credit, didn’t ask. She merely nodded once, crisp and smooth.

“Understood. Then I am to inform you—Her Highness the Princess will be arriving shortly for her private audience.”

Lucavion’s brow lifted, just slightly. “Alone?”

“She has requested discretion. No guards will enter the room unless ordered otherwise.”

Hearing that Lucavion will just shake his head.

Things were about to get interesting after all.