Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 942: Why should I explain it to you (2)

’I should’ve known better.’

Her thoughts spun, brittle and burning, each one a sharper retort she should’ve thrown at him. Should’ve, but didn’t.

Because it wasn’t worth it. Because she’d already lived through this before.

Lucavion didn’t owe her anything?

Fine.

Then she’d stop expecting anything at all.

But then—

Just as her foot touched the edge of the path—

“…That cup.”

Her steps halted.

The words weren’t loud. But they struck like a whisper through frost.

Elara froze.

Slowly—so slowly—she turned her head.

Lucavion was still standing there, backlit by the pale haze of the coming dawn. No fire now. No smirk. Just eyes.

Watching her.

Not smug.

Not cruel.

Just… watching.

She said nothing.

He lifted his chin, nodding once—not at her, but at what she still held loosely in one hand.

“That cup,” he said again. “It was because of that.”

The cold slipped down her spine like a drop of water.

Her fingers curled slightly around the carved rim. The warmth inside was long gone, but the scent—faint, strange—still lingered.

Lucavion’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I didn’t sense you, Elowyn,” he said, tone softer now. “I sensed that.”

Her eyes locked to his.

And in that second—just a second—something passed between them.

No mask. No smirk.

Just a flicker of honesty.

Real.

And terribly, terribly quiet.

She blinked once.

“It was because of that drink inside,” Lucavion said, his voice neither quiet nor loud—just even. Controlled. “I smelled it.”

Elara’s grip tightened unconsciously. The cup. The scent.

He stepped forward slightly, then turned his head—partway, not all the way—as if looking at something far past her.

“It felt familiar,” he added. “That’s all.”

His tone tried to be casual. Detached.

But she noticed it.

The slight tremor in his shoulder.

A tiny shake.

Too fast to be called shivering. Too brief to be dramatic.

But real.

Her brows furrowed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. Measured.

Her thoughts turned. Slower now.

’Convenient.’

That was the word that lodged behind her tongue like a stone.

’It felt familiar’? That’s it?

It didn’t sit right.

’He’s lying. He’s making this up on the spot.’

But the worst part—the truly worst part—was that she didn’t know if that was true.

Because she wanted to believe it. Even if it sounded hollow.

Even if she was sure it was some clever shift. A turn of blame. A fabricated truth laid out to redirect her questions.

And still—

Still she asked, voice flat and cold:

“Why should I believe you?”

Lucavion paused.

Then, with an utterly maddening wave of his hand, he turned further, dismissive.

“Believe whatever you want.”

That tone.

Elara’s blood boiled.

The audacity of it. The infuriating ease. Like she was the one being difficult. Like he’d offered her some precious sliver of honesty, and now she was the one holding it wrong.

As he started walking back, his long strides calm, unaffected, her chest tightened with anger.

“You—” she bit out, too loud, too sharp—but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t offer another word.

Just walked.

Elara’s jaw clenched. Her heart pounded harder now, not from fear—but fury. Humiliation. Something ugly.

“Explain yourself!” she shouted after him, her voice slashing through the still air like a blade drawn too fast. “How do you expect me to believe something so vague like that?”

No answer.

Not a glance over his shoulder. Not a pause in his step. Not even a shift in pace.

Just silence.

Silence wrapped in indifference.

She trembled.

Her fingers tightened around the now-cold cup as her breath came out in short, sharp bursts.

’How dare you ignore me?’

’How dare you.’

The wind scraped past her cloak again as she stood there, alone on the stone path, and the storm inside her cracked open.

’What a shitty morning…’

She hadn’t even meant to stay awake. She hadn’t even meant to come out here. The nightmare—her mother’s voice—the dream still crawled at the edges of her vision, cold and hollow. And then he showed up.

Lucavion.

With his games. With his smirks. With his lies, or half-lies, or worse—truths he threw at her like bones meant to distract a dog.

And now?

He dismissed her.

Treated her like she was the one overstepping.

The ice in her blood responded first.

She felt it like a jolt—mana reacting, stirring of its own accord beneath her skin.

In her palm, the chill crept downward.

She looked—and there it was.

A thin sheen of frost laced her hand. Magic coiling around her fingers. Not deliberate. Not controlled. Just there—as if summoned by her heartbeat.

Her gaze flicked down to the cup. Her breath trembled.

And then—unbidden—Lucavion’s voice echoed through her thoughts.

“It’s not only you who gets sleepless nights.”

Her stomach twisted.

He had been burning.

Black flames. Fire laced with intention. Mana stretched just to the point of control.

And now, her mana was stirring too.

He wasn’t calm. He wasn’t unaffected.

He had been unraveling too. Just silently.

Quietly.

’So what? He still ignored me. Still walked away like I was—’

Her teeth ground together.

“You bastard!”

The words tore out of her before she could think.

And the magic surged.

Without a chant. Without formality.

She threw the spell.

A flash of pale-blue light curled around her fingers, and then— shhk!—an ice lance burst into being, crystalline and sharp. Cold cracked across the stones beneath her feet as it launched forward in a perfect arc—

—straight at his back.

But even before it hit, she knew.

He’d block it.

Of course he would.

He always did.

CLANK!

The blade met the ice mid-flight—Lucavion’s estoc, a dark sliver of metal that hummed with mana, parried the incoming spell with practiced ease. The force of the impact cracked against the steel, frost scattering like brittle stars into the morning air.

Elara’s breath caught.

He had turned.

Hair tousled by the wind, black as ink and flicking at his jawline. The light behind him bled pale gold through the haze, but it was his eyes—those pitch-black eyes, fathomless and sharp—that rooted her in place.

He was no longer walking away.

His stare found hers, unwavering.

“What is the meaning of this, Elowyn?”

His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. The low rumble of it, taut with restrained mana and something unspoken, struck her harder than a shout ever could.

But that somehow twisted inside her, making her feel strange.

She didn’t answer—not with words.

Her fury answered for her.

Mana surged through her limbs again, this time with purpose. No hesitation. No falter. The cold coiled tighter around her veins, answering her rage the way only frost ever had.

CLANK!

Another Ice Lance flew—faster, sharper, and this time fueled by more than wounded pride. It howled through the air like a scream given shape, aimed directly at his chest.

And again—

His blade moved.

The estoc rang out like a bell struck hard, scattering the lance into shattered fragments that hissed against the cobbled path.

This time, he didn’t let the silence sit.

He stepped forward, one measured pace. The tension in his shoulders wasn’t gone. If anything, it had magnified—no longer the practiced indifference she’d come to associate with him, but something else.

Wary. Focused.

“Elowyn,” he repeated, quieter now. “What is this?”

That voice—it wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t smug.

It was… confused.

And that infuriated her even more.

Elara didn’t answer at first.

She inhaled through her nose, slow and deep, willing the fury to sharpen into something colder. Her stance didn’t waver. The ice humming along her veins thrummed in time with her pulse, frost whispering up her arms like it wanted more. Like it craved release.

Lucavion stood there—his blade still half-lifted, shoulders tight. Not fully defensive. But not relaxed either.

She met his gaze, eyes like glacial steel.

“You said training helps clear your head,” she said, her tone too even to be calm. “So I’m clearing mine.”