Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 761: It is time

The air inside the waiting chamber of the east wing felt too still.

No fanfare. No music. Just the soft rustle of garments and the occasional murmur—like a storm was building beneath the fabric of formal silence.

Jesse stood with the envoy—her posture clean, shoulders held square beneath the weight of her silver-detailed cloak, her gaze forward and unreadable. Around her, the other Lorian nobles adjusted their gloves, flicked invisible dust from their cuffs, or stared into nothing with the simmering quiet of insulted pride.

No one smiled.

Not even the ones who always did.

Because every single one of them had noticed.

“We’re after them,” muttered the Marquis’ son from Aesthwood, barely louder than a breath.

“After the main procession,” said another. “After the native-born nobility. After their lowborn candidates.”

The word lowborn hung in the air like ash.

And at the center of it all—Adrian Lorian stood silent.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t frown. But the stillness of his body was razor-edged. The kind of stillness that only came when movement would give the anger away. His gray eyes stared ahead, fixed on the sealed doors that led to the main hall, but it wasn’t anticipation in his gaze. It was calculation. Burned into the lines of his jaw, the small tension behind his gloves, the ghost of displeasure tightening the corners of his mouth.

He wasn’t a man enraged.

He was a prince measured.

And beside him, Isolde stood as delicate as ever—hands folded, expression serene.

But even she wasn’t smiling.

Jesse’s eyes moved across the group. Most of them were from established families—trained since childhood to speak in soft tones and hide their cuts beneath silk. But right now, the cracks were showing. One of the twin sisters from House Lavellan was whispering furiously to her cousin about protocol violations. The heir of Cindrelon had stopped polishing his badge for the first time all morning.

They knew.

They all knew.

Adrian’s jaw flexed, the barely-contained fury showing in the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“These bas—”

“Dear,” Isolde’s voice was featherlight, a gentle ribbon of silk against the grinding metal of the moment.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t even turn fully toward him—just tilted her head slightly, the curve of her neck exposed like glass beneath moonlight.

But it worked.

Adrian exhaled once, sharply through his nose, and the rest of the nobles around him tensed—then slowly loosened.

Isolde stepped forward, her gown flowing like water behind her, and looked over the group with that same unshakable poise that had made her beloved in courts far beyond Loria’s borders.

“Let’s not forget,” she began, her voice clear, soft but firm, “we are guests here.”

Her lavender eyes swept gently across the envoy, catching the eyes of each noble with practiced precision. “And if our hosts choose to greet us with this… arrangement—” she paused, ever so delicately, “—then we shall receive it as only true nobles can.”

Some of the younger nobles visibly bristled, but none interrupted.

“If disrespect is offered,” she continued, “we will remember. And when the time comes, we will remind them.”

Her voice remained soft. But there was a note beneath it—a glint in her eyes that didn’t shimmer like glass, but cut like diamond.

Not forgiving.

Not forgetful.

Simply patient.

“It is not weakness to enter second,” she said. “Only weakness to walk with your head bowed.”

Adrian didn’t respond. But his shoulders straightened, and the rest of the envoy began adjusting themselves again—more deliberate this time. Less insulted. More prepared.

Jesse watched it unfold.

The rallying. The speeches. The delicate spin of image and pride.

She didn’t feel comforted.

Not because Isolde’s words were empty—they weren’t. She had that rare gift of dressing steel in silk. She had a way of calming the blood without dulling the blade.

But Jesse didn’t care.

Not about Lorian.

Not about the empire’s name, or protocol violations, or the idea of entering “after” anyone else.

Because that wasn’t why she was here.

Her eyes stayed on the double doors at the front of the eastern wing.

Through them was the banquet.

And in that banquet—

He would be there.

Lucavion.

Her hands curled loosely at her sides. Not from anxiety. Not from fear.

*****

The antechamber of the Sanctum shimmered with soft aetherlight, its tall arched mirrors laced in gold filament, casting their reflections in gilded perfection. The five stood side by side, cloaked not in armor or spellcraft—but in the sharp edge of poise and polish. For once, the battlefield was etiquette. The armor was silk. And the weapon… was presence.

Kaleran stood a few paces away, arms crossed, one brow raised in the kind of critical silence that made lesser nobles sweat.

He began with Mireilla.

She wore deep green—forestwoven silk threaded with living goldroot patterns that subtly pulsed with druidic charm. Her shoulders were bare, her neckline elegant, her gloves high and thin. But the flowers twined across her left arm were real—grown that morning and magically affixed, blooming in cadence with her heartbeat. She looked like a sovereign of untamed thrones. And her smirk knew it.

Kaleran gave a small nod. “Commanding. Very you.”

Next, Caeden.

His outfit leaned militaristic—structured. A black coat with crimson piping, high collar, and a breastplate motif worked into the fabric, suggesting strength without weight. His cleaver hung across his back in a harness that gleamed faintly beneath the tailored lines. A knight carved from dusk and command. And calm.

Kaleran paused. “Polished. Controlled. Good.”

Elayne followed, and the room’s temperature seemed to shift.

She wore smoke. Or something like it. A flowing ensemble of layered illusion-silk that shimmered between violet and midnight gray with each step. Her fan was folded neatly in one gloved hand, her hair pinned high with silver strands shaped like crescent blades. No jewels. Just precision. She looked like a specter taught to dance.

Kaleran murmured something too soft to catch—but nodded all the same.

Toven came last before Lucavion, and for once, he looked like someone aware of how many volts were running through his personality.

His suit was sharp-cut indigo with arclight thread that sparked faintly at the edges—sleeves cuffed in rune-sequenced glass, his hair just messy enough to look styled. The rods at his hips had been re-sheathed into elegant holders disguised as ornament. He looked like a storm in formalwear.

Kaleran blinked. “Unexpectedly refined.”

Toven grinned. “I didn’t even set anything on fire.”

“Yet.”

Then…

Lucavion.

Dressed in layered obsidian. No bright thread, no flashy trim—just seamless black, tailored so precisely it blurred the line between cloak and shadow. The voidweave beneath his clothing enhanced every movement with weightless precision, and the pitch-black estoc at his back gleamed with quiet menace.

His hair had been slicked back slightly—sharp at the temples, casually tousled near the crown. A single silver chain circled the high collar of his coat. No house sigil. No rank.

Just presence.

And at his shoulder, as if born to the elegance, slept a cat.

Midnight-furred, paws tucked beneath her chin, tail curled lazily around Lucavion’s neck like a living sash of disdain. She didn’t stir. Not even when Kaleran stepped closer.

Kaleran studied him.

Then, after a long pause, exhaled through his nose.

“…You look like a diplomatic scandal waiting to happen,” he muttered.

Lucavion smirked faintly. “Charming, wasn’t it?”

Kaleran turned to face them all.

“All right,” he said, voice low but clear. “It’s time.”