Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 964: Sonar’s teeth

“…Sonnar’s cracked teeth.”

Toven blinked. “What?”

“It’s a curse,” Mireilla said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “Local thing. From where I grew up.”

Lucavion leaned forward, curiosity flickering behind his usual smirk. “Sonnar? What kind of curse is that?”

Mireilla exhaled through her nose, half amused, half irritated by the early hour glaring up at her from the parchment. “Sonnar’s an old tale. Not a god exactly. More like a forest spirit—or… a thing people blamed when the woods went wrong.”

“The woods?” Toven asked.

She nodded. “My town borders the Wrenthwoods. Thick and deep. Trees older than memory. We used to say Sonnar lived under the roots. He didn’t show up unless someone broke something they shouldn’t have—cut trees wrong, spilled blood where none should fall, that kind of thing.”

Lucavion raised a brow. “And the teeth?”

A dry smirk tugged at her lips. “If you crossed him, you paid. His teeth were cracked because, well—if we ever caught him, we’d break them ourselves.”

Elayne, silent as ever, glanced briefly up from her schedule. No smile. But her stillness shifted, as though committing the story to memory.

Toven leaned back, chewing. “So basically, your people got cursed every time they were idiots?”

“Or unlucky,” Mireilla muttered. “Didn’t really matter. Sonnar didn’t need logic. He needed blame.”

Lucavion tapped a finger to the time. “Well, he’s clearly found employment at the Academy.”

Mireilla rolled her eyes. “Only a forest-dwelling sadist schedules weapon drills at five-thirty in the freezing dark.”

Caeden glanced toward Lucavion’s page. “Yours is even earlier.”

Lucavion tilted his head, squinting. “Monday. Three.”

Mireilla gave him a long, flat look. “Three?”

Toven choked on his drink. “Why?”

Lucavion just shrugged, the grin returning. “I’ve antagonized two professors and a prince. This feels… merciful.”

No one laughed immediately. Not because it wasn’t funny—but because it wasn’t wrong.

Still, Mireilla shook her head. “We’re not blaming you.”

“Wouldn’t change anything if you did.”

She nodded. “True. You showed us that even if we’re perfect, it won’t matter. Might as well breathe loud and get called a disruption.”

Caeden muttered, “Or blink wrong and get marked for insubordination.”

Lucavion gave a half-shrug. “If they want to sabotage us, they will. But three a.m. weapon drills? I’ve had worse.”

Toven snorted. “You wake up at that time anyway, don’t you?”

Lucavion didn’t miss a beat. “You know that well, since you’re awake at that time anyway. Isn’t that right, Mister Latebloomer?”

Toven’s expression soured instantly. “Shut up.”

“Hm-hmm…” Lucavion hummed, utterly unbothered, as he leaned back in his chair. “Though, to be fair—three a.m. is early. Even I don’t wake up that early.”

Mireilla raised a brow. “Could’ve fooled us.”

Lucavion gave a lazy shrug. “Still. It’s fine. I can manage.”

There was something in his tone—quiet but certain. Not indifference, not arrogance. Just… acceptance. As though he had already measured the weight of it all and found it irrelevant.

“They can twist the schedule,” he added, softer now, “but Vice-Head Kaleran is no fool. He knows what’s happening. Knows how to read patterns.”

Caeden nodded slowly. “You think he’ll step in?”

Lucavion stood without answering, stretching with deliberate ease. “I think he’ll be watching.”

That was enough.

He gave them a two-fingered mock salute, turned on his heel, and strolled out of the hall—coat catching the light, step light as ever.

As the doors swung closed behind him, the four remaining at the table sat in silence.

Then—quietly, almost wistfully—Mireilla muttered, “I really want his carefreeness.”

Toven grunted in agreement. “It would be nice.”

Caeden stared after the door. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Elayne didn’t speak—but her fingers tightened, just slightly, around her cup.

They all sat there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of the dining hall’s buzz return to fill the space Lucavion had left behind.

And then—without comment—they each returned to their meal.

****

Night had settled over the first dormitory block, veiling the Academy in that peculiar stillness only found in spaces once loud, now hushed. Lanterns flickered with soft gold, casting gentle shadows against the ivy-crawled stone. The wind carried faint notes of mist and moonlight—quiet, cool, and clean.

And through it all, a whistle drifted.

Sharp. Cheerful. Completely unbothered.

Thalor Draycott strolled alone down the corridor, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a rare show of comfort. His eyes were half-lidded, chin tilted just slightly upward, as if admiring the stars he couldn’t actually see from inside the stone archways.

He looked like someone pleased with himself.

And he was.

The banquet had played out as predicted—mostly. Minor deviations. Nothing he couldn’t adjust for. No new threats. Not immediately, at least. No fires.

Just the quiet satisfaction of orchestrated chaos landing precisely where he wanted it to.

He took another step—

“I love that smug little whistle.”

Thalor froze mid-step.

And groaned.

Because there, stepping into stride beside him without so much as a footfall of warning, was Cassiar Vermillion.

Perfectly dressed, collar sharp, expression bright with that particular kind of amusement only Cassiar could weaponize.

“Why,” Thalor muttered through gritted teeth, “do you exist.”

“Because the gods enjoy irony,” Cassiar said cheerfully. “And because walking alone is so… dreary. Honestly, Thalor, whistling like that? In public? I thought you didn’t do joy.”

“I don’t,” Thalor snapped. “I do results. Which I had—until you showed up.”

Cassiar tsked. “Such a dramatic way to say ’good evening.’ Truly, what a way to ruin a perfect night…”

Thalor scowled. “Exactly.”

Cassiar grinned, unrepentant, matching Thalor’s pace with infuriating ease.

“Would it help,” he offered, “if I told you I wasn’t here to provoke you?”

“No.”

“A shame. Because I am.”

Thalor exhaled sharply. “Cassiar. Shut up.”

“Only if you admit you were whistling the same melody they played during the second dance at the banquet.”

Thalor turned his head slowly, eyes deadpan.

Cassiar raised a brow. “Caught you.”

There was a beat.

Then Thalor looked forward again, resumed walking, and muttered:

“…Godsdamned Vermillions.”

Cassiar beamed.

“Pleasure’s mine.”

Thalor side-eyed him.

Not sharply. Not with that usual bite. But with a long, exasperated stare—as if measuring just how many seconds of peace Cassiar intended to steal from him this time.

Then, finally:

“…What do you want?”

Cassiar blinked innocently.

“What makes you think I want anything?”

“You’re here. Walking beside me. At night. After a perfectly good day.” Thalor’s tone flattened into pure venom. “Clearly, the gods weren’t finished punishing me.”

Cassiar placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “Can’t I simply talk to you? You know, man to man? Court rival to court rival?”

Thalor snorted.

“Drop the pretense.”

A pause.

Then, with a soft, sly chuckle, Cassiar relented. “Fine.”

He glanced forward as they walked, hands loosely clasped behind his back.

“You haven’t participated in orientation, have you?”

Thalor scoffed.

“Why would I?” he muttered. “I already know the Academy’s entire infrastructure. Layout, faculty rotations, artifact vault security protocols… My father helped design the damn glyph relay system under the east wing. What’s orientation going to teach me? How to hold a quill?”

Cassiar gave a low hum.

“Figured as much,” he said, lips curling into that sleek, satisfied smile.

Thalor’s steps didn’t break—but his brow did furrow slightly.

That smile.

It wasn’t idle.

It wasn’t bored amusement.

It was the smile of someone who’d won something.

“…What?” Thalor asked, voice now edged with suspicion. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Cassiar glanced sideways at him, utterly at ease.

“Heh. Why?”

Then, after a pause—just long enough to be irritating—

“You missed a lot, Thalor.”

And the way he said it?

It wasn’t teasing.

It was a quiet warning. Wrapped in silk.

And suddenly, the air felt just a little less light.