Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 915: Provoked

“Yo.”

Elara stiffened, her boots striking stone half a beat too hard.

“What?” The word slipped before she could smooth it.

When had he fallen into step beside her? She had been watching—she always watched. And yet he was simply there, black eyes glinting as though they had been walking together all along.

’My senses… dulled? Impossible.’

Eveline’s training had carved that weakness out of her. A mage of her caliber was never unaware. Never caught off guard. Yet her skin prickled as if the boy had slipped through seams she hadn’t known existed.

Lucavion raised one brow, head tilting with a mockery of surprise. “You’re here?”

“…” Her silence was blade-thin, but it did nothing to cut through the absurdity of the question.

Elara exhaled once, steadying herself, then gave the barest nod. “Lucavion.” The syllables were clean, measured, not quite a greeting but not a dismissal either.

Her gaze narrowed, violet eyes finding the edges of his face in sharp focus. ’Why here? Why me?’

He caught the shift in her expression and smiled, faint and unhurried. “My place was way back there. But when I saw a familiar face…” His voice thinned into a shrug, all casual amusement. “…why not come up here instead?”

Elara’s eyes lingered on him, violet narrowing to a sharp slit of distrust. She drew in a slow breath, forcing her tone into something even. “Everyone should remain in their place.”

Lucavion blinked once, lashes lowering as if her words were a curiosity to be turned over. “Why?”

“…What?”

“Who said that?” he clarified, tilting his head toward her, the faintest curve tugging his lips.

Her brows pressed together. “…No one needs to say it.”

“Ah.” He stretched the sound into a mock epiphany. “So, nobody did.”

His black eyes glinted, catching faint light as though he enjoyed watching her try to parse him. “Then why am I forced to follow such a nonexistent rule?”

Elara’s jaw tightened. “Because it’s common sense. That’s what keeps a society from collapsing into chaos. Everyone in their place, order maintained. Without it, nothing runs.”

Lucavion’s smirk softened into something more thoughtful—or at least a shadow of it. He lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “Can’t argue against that.” He let the words linger before lowering them like another stone dropped into still water. “…But then again, every society has its exceptions.”

She almost stopped walking at that. ’Exceptions.’ Her hands flexed inside her sleeves, fingers itching against cloth as though for steel she didn’t carry. Exceptions—the word lodged uncomfortably in her chest, dragging with it all the faces, all the titles, all the betrayals that had built the ruins of her life.

Her voice cooled, turned sharper, because anything less would betray too much. “Convenient philosophy for someone who can’t be bothered to follow rules.”

Lucavion chuckled low under his breath, the sound carrying an ease that seemed deliberately crafted to grind against her. “Rules… exceptions… sometimes they’re just two sides of the same coin. Don’t you think?”

Her gaze snapped toward him, hard enough to cut. “No. I don’t.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. If anything, his expression brightened by half a shade, as though her sharpness were a victory in itself. “Mm. That’s fair. But tell me—if exceptions didn’t exist, what would become of the people who don’t fit into all that neat little order you’re so fond of?”

Elara’s steps faltered. Then stopped altogether.

The rest of the group moved on a pace or two before realizing she had broken rhythm, their chatter thinning into the low hush of footsteps against stone. But she didn’t notice them. Her own voice still hung in her ears, sharp, cold, absolute: “They adapt. Or they fall.”

Why had she said that?

Her chest tightened, the breath in her throat catching as if on thorns. She had never been one to cling blindly to rules. Eveline’s lessons had been merciless, yes, but they had also taught her to bend when needed, to carve her own way through structures that sought to bind her. She had always understood—better than most—that boundaries were meant to be tested, shifted, sometimes shattered.

So why now? Why this sudden fixation on “order,” on “society running,” on neat compartments to keep everything in place? That wasn’t her. Not fully. Not anymore.

’Then why did I speak like that?’

Her fingers pressed against her sleeves, restless, betraying the storm beneath her stillness. And slowly—painfully—an answer rose, unwelcome and undeniable.

It wasn’t conviction. It wasn’t principle. It wasn’t even habit.

It was him.

Lucavion.

His presence like a grain of sand under her skin, an irritation that worked deeper the more she tried to ignore it. The words had come sharp and rigid not because she believed them, but because he had provoked them. Because she had let herself be pulled into his current, answering not from herself but from the agitation his smirk, his questions, his careless tone had seeded in her.

’I wasn’t defending order. I was defending myself against him. Against his intrusion.’

A sick twist of realization unfurled in her stomach. She had bent—she, of all people—swayed not by fear or politics, but by the lazy cadence of a boy who treated everything like a game.

Her violet eyes slid sideways, narrowing. Lucavion had stopped as well, but not with the startled air of someone caught off guard. No—he was watching her with that same unreadable poise, head tilted slightly, black eyes steady as if he’d been waiting for this exact pause.

“You…” The word left her quieter than she intended, but edged all the same. “You’re twisting things.”

His brow lifted, slow, deliberate, like the rise of a tide. “Am I?”

Elara held his gaze, though her pulse betrayed her. “You prod. You provoke. And when someone pushes back, you… you act as though their reaction proves your point.”

A grin flickered, small, sly. “Doesn’t it?”

Her breath caught, fury and unease tangling. ’Damn him.’

Because that was the danger, wasn’t it? Every exchange with him left her off-balance, unsure whether she was defending her ground or playing into his. And the worst part—the very worst part—was that he seemed to know it.

Lucavion shifted his weight back onto one heel, as though they weren’t standing in the middle of the Academy’s grand hall but somewhere far less consequential. His grin lingered, a knife just barely sheathed. “Careful, Elowyn—” the false name slid from his lips with teasing precision, “if you glare at me any harder, I might start to think you’re secretly fond of me.”

Her jaw snapped tight. “Fondness isn’t the word you’re looking for.”

“Oh?” His brows rose, feigning innocence. “Then maybe admiration. Respect? A quiet crush you’re trying desperately to hide?”

Her boots struck stone in a harder rhythm as she began walking again. “Or irritation. Don’t confuse the two.”

Lucavion fell easily back into step beside her, hands still buried in his pockets. “Irritation is just attention in disguise. Which means I’m already winning.”

Elara turned her face forward, violet eyes flashing. ’He delights in it. Every second of it.’ The worst part wasn’t his arrogance—it was how effective it was. He tugged at the edges of her control without ever once raising his voice.

“You really believe you’re clever, don’t you?” she muttered.

“I don’t believe it,” he said smoothly. “I know it.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You mistake provoking people for cleverness. They aren’t the same thing.”

“Mm.” He pretended to consider, gaze flicking upward as though measuring her words. “Maybe. But tell me—why does it work so well then? Even you—one of the most composed students I’ve met—can’t help but bite every time I throw out a line.”

Her teeth pressed against the inside of her cheek. He wasn’t wrong, and that only deepened the burn beneath her skin. ’Why do I let him draw it out of me?’

She exhaled, cool and sharp. “Why did you provoke the professors?”

That made him pause, just slightly. The grin dimmed, not vanished, but lowered into something more careful.

“Provoked?” His tone carried an almost mocking disbelief. “You make it sound as if I’m the one who started it.”

“You did.” Her voice cut with sudden steel. “You challenged Marcus, undermined Marisse, and as for the Crown Prince—”

“Ah, ah.” Lucavion wagged a finger lightly in the air. “You say ’provoked,’ I say… tested.”

Elara’s brow furrowed. “Tested?”

“Sure.” His smile returned, faint but deliberate. “People love to put on performances. Professors, princes, nobles—especially on the first day. All their masks are polished, their roles rehearsed. What’s the quickest way to see the truth underneath?”

Her eyes narrowed. “…By goading them.”

“Exactly.” He glanced at her sidelong, black gaze glimmering. “Push just hard enough, and you see what leaks out from the cracks. Some get angry. Some get smug. Some—like your dear Archmage Selenne—show just how precise and unshakable they really are.”

Elara’s steps slowed, her mind catching on his words. ’So it wasn’t carelessness. He chose. He’s measuring them as much as they’re measuring us.’

But aloud she only said, voice low, “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Lucavion’s grin sharpened. “Games are only dangerous when you don’t know the rules. Lucky for me…” He leaned the slightest fraction closer, his voice pitched low, conspiratorial. “…I’ve never cared much for following them.”