Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 965: Missed something

Thalor narrowed his eyes. His steps slowed, the sharpness in his posture returning.

“What did I miss?”

Cassiar didn’t answer right away. He just kept walking—hands still folded behind his back, gait smooth as ever.

“You’ll hear about it soon enough,” he said lightly.

Thalor stopped.

Cassiar didn’t.

“What?” Thalor repeated, a little louder now. “Cassiar—”

“The guy you’re interested in…” Cassiar said, still not looking back.

Thalor’s brow twitched. “The guy? Lucavion?”

Cassiar gave a noncommittal hum. “Huh-uh…”

Thalor’s voice dropped lower. Tighter. “What about him?”

Cassiar paused then. Just one step. Just long enough to turn slightly—just enough for the candlelight to catch the edge of his grin.

“That guy,” he said softly, almost fondly, “I can say, he really is something.”

Thalor stared at him, deadpan. “Did he do something?”

But Cassiar was already turning again, pace never once breaking as he headed for the next corridor.

“That’s all from me today,” he called over his shoulder. “Next time, you should put some more ears around you, Thalor.”

“Cassiar—!”

But the damned Vermillion heir just raised a hand in mock farewell and vanished into the dormitory shadows, steps echoing down the stone hall like a disappearing smirk.

Silence fell again.

Thalor stood alone now, jaw tight, brow furrowed—his earlier good mood long buried.

“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

Thalor’s scowl deepened.

“Cassiar, you silk-swathed menace—finish your sentences like a normal human being for once!”

His voice echoed down the corridor, sharp and irritated, bouncing off the quiet dormitory stone. A few distant doors creaked open slightly before retreating just as fast.

Far ahead, Cassiar didn’t bother turning back.

He just lifted a hand—palm open, fingers loose—and gave the laziest wave imaginable.

Utterly unbothered.

“Damn bastard,” Thalor muttered again, voice low now. “Always walking off like he’s the end of a Chapter.”

He exhaled, the edge of his irritation cooling to a simmer as he resumed walking—slower now, more thoughtful. Cassiar wasn’t just being vague for the sake of tormenting him. Not this time.

There was something in the tone. That fondness. That quiet weight behind the words.

’He really is something.’

Thalor’s brow furrowed tighter.

“What the hell did you do this time, Lucavion…” he murmured to himself.

But then—

Movement caught his eye.

Just ahead, turning from one of the intersecting corridors under the soft halo of a brass lantern, came two figures. The light bounced faintly off platinum-blonde hair and sharp silver accents on tailored formalwear.

Thalor’s eyes narrowed.

He knew them instantly.

Adrian Lorian.

And beside him, walking with that same casual, too-precise grace…

Isolde Valoria.

The head of the Lorian envoy.

Thalor watched them for a beat longer—Adrian and Isolde, walking together like a painting drawn too perfectly. Platinum and silver. Stature and serenity. The Empire’s future on two legs, if the noble factions were to be believed.

He scoffed.

Not loud enough to draw attention. Just a quiet breath through his nose—sharp and derisive.

Engaged.

Of course they are.

Empire-sanctioned, politically cleansed, orchestrated like some grand symphony of dynastic theater.

’Two perfect puppets in perfect balance,’ he thought, turning away.

His boots clicked once against the stone before his pace resumed.

I had one too, once.

The thought came without emotion, as if brushing past an old ruin—still standing, but long since cleared of anything useful. His expression didn’t change. But his hand did twitch slightly at his side.

Too bad that it was a low-born wastrel.

One more turn through the corridor, and the faint echoes of Isolde and Adrian’s steps faded behind him.

Thalor didn’t look back.

*****

The corridor was quiet, save for the sound of their footsteps echoing off the carved stone. The light from the brass lanterns filtered softly across the gilded trim of Isolde’s cloak and the brocade on Adrian’s coat—two reflections of power walking in measured, silent rhythm.

She didn’t speak right away.

Neither did he.

But silence had always been a kind of conversation between them. One that said more than words.

At length, her voice slipped into the space like a silver blade unsheathed from velvet.

“Any news from the Capital?”

Adrian’s stride didn’t break, but his jaw set—just slightly. A flicker of tension beneath the surface.

“…Nothing yet,” he said quietly.

She nodded once, not looking at him.

“I see.”

It had only been two days. Two days since Adrian had sent the encrypted request to the Lorian internal intelligence network. Two days since the name Lucavion Thorne had been typed into the imperial archives with his clearance code. Two days of waiting.

A flash of candlelight caught on the edge of her eye as she turned her head, almost imperceptibly, toward him.

Two days was a short time in the Empire’s grand theater of politics.

And yet—too long for someone like her.

Adrian didn’t miss the shift in her posture. The faint straightening of her spine. The slight stillness in her hands.

She was… calculating.

Always.

He inhaled deeply, then let the breath go. Slow. Even.

But his fingers clenched behind his back.

Damn him.

Being forced to acknowledge that bet in front of the entire courtyard like that—

Adrian felt it again, that flicker of heat under his skin. Not shame. Not exactly. Something closer to indignation. A prince of the Lorian Empire, baited like a common noble into serving as witness to some commoner’s little ploy.

It was humiliating.

And yet—he couldn’t refuse.

Not in front of the entire crowd. Not with so many eyes already watching him for cracks in his poise, weakness in his character. Every Arcanian noble would’ve whispered that Lorian was afraid. That the prince couldn’t even stand as a witness

Lucavion had known that.

He’d known exactly where to prod.

Adrian’s jaw tensed.

“He played it well,” he muttered, bitterness threading the edges of his voice.

“Hm?”

Isolde looked at him fully now, a sliver of cool moonlight caught in her lavender gaze.

He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to.

She already knew.

Of course she knew.

Her silence was almost… amused.

“Don’t let it weigh on you,” she said, softly. Almost too gently.

Adrian frowned, faintly.

Isolde turned away again, gaze returning to the corridor ahead.

“If he’s who we think he is…” she continued, voice smooth, ”

“If he’s who we think he is…” she continued, voice smooth, “then I’ll deal with him myself.”

There was no tension in her tone. No rise, no tremor. Just a terrifying steadiness. Like a knife laid gently on a throat—cool, deliberate, inevitable.

Adrian glanced at her, brow tight. “…Are you sure?”

A dangerous pause.

She stopped walking.

And slowly turned to face him.

Her gaze—lavender and unreadable in the half-shadow—met his with the calm arrogance only born of blood and victory.

“When,” she asked softly, “was I ever wrong?”

He hesitated, but only for a breath.

“Right,” she murmured before he could answer. “Never.”

And then her hand lifted to his cheek. A caress—light as frost. A gesture for the world, if anyone had been watching. A performance of intimacy, designed to look like affection.

But it wasn’t just for show.

Not entirely.

She leaned in.

And he met her halfway.

Their lips touched—a kiss that was too practiced to be passionate, too poised to be clumsy. It was not about want. Not truly. It was about possession. Claiming. The world watching and nodding. Two powerful houses sealing their arrangement with the press of mouths and ancient intent.

Yet in that kiss….

Her eyes never closed.

Lavender fire glinted behind the curtain of her lashes.

Cold. Sharp. Watching.

And for the briefest moment, as her fingers curled ever so slightly at the nape of his neck, one would wonder….

If it was really the man before her that she was kissing?