Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"Same reason you didn't, and the same reason why you were staying here by yourself"

Elara froze—not entirely, not visibly, but enough.

Because that answer was too fast. Too certain. And far too accurate.

Her gaze narrowed. "You don't know my reason."

He shrugged again. A maddening, lazy sort of confidence. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just a shared affliction. Of people who'd rather be anywhere else than where they're meant to be."

There was no bite in his words, but there was something quieter. Something that struck her not like a blade—but like a bell rung at just the right frequency to unsettle the ribs.

Lucavion's eyes softened then—barely perceptible, but enough to shift the air between them.

"And besides," he added, leaning casually against the railing, "rooms are boxes. Expectations. A place people assume you are. Sometimes it's better to not be found where you're expected."

Elara let the silence hang between them for a breath longer than necessary. The kind of pause that invited further conversation—or choked it.

"Is that supposed to be wisdom?" she asked finally, gaze flat, arms still folded. "That rooms are boxes?"

Lucavion gave her a smug tilt of the head. "It's philosophy. There's a difference."

She made a small sound—half-scoff, half-exhale. "You read a book once and now you think you're a philosopher?"

"More than twice, actually," he said, holding up two fingers. "One was even upside down."

A twitch pulled at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Not yet. But a shadow of it, maybe.

"I'm sure the book was grateful for the attention."

"Books always are. Especially when they meet someone as devastatingly insightful as me."

"Or devastatingly delusional."

He pressed a hand to his heart. "Elowyn. Please. You wound me."

"Good."

Another beat of quiet. This one not strained, not sharp. Just… still.

For a moment, she let herself observe him again—less like prey, more like a storm cloud she hadn't yet decided to chase or avoid. And despite herself, despite the impulse to draw away, to vanish into the dark halls and reclaim her solitude, Elara felt something unexpected.

Her mind was clearer.

Lucavion's presence was a storm, yes—but it wasn't the kind that suffocated. It stirred things. Shifted her attention. Sharpened it. Not in defense, not exactly. But in purpose.

He didn't know.

And if he didn't know—then neither would Adrian. Neither would Isolde.

Not yet.

That alone was enough to carry her forward.

She let out a quiet breath, the kind she didn't realize she'd been holding. Then straightened.

"Well," she said, her tone settling into that light neutrality again, "this has been… strange."

Lucavion lifted his brow. "You mean delightful."

"I don't."

"Sure you do. I'm unforgettable."

"You're loud."

He grinned wider. "It's part of the charm."

"I'll take your word for it." She turned, one hand brushing against her cloak as she moved. "But I think that's enough philosophy for one night."

Lucavion gave a little mock bow, his cat shifting with an indignant flick of its tail on his shoulder. "Until next time, then."

She didn't answer. Not aloud. But she glanced at him once over her shoulder, expression unreadable. Measured.

And then she disappeared down the corridor, steps quiet, sure.

She hadn't expected to find him here—not so soon, not like this—but now that she had, one thing had become utterly, undeniably clear:

Lucavion hadn't recognized her.

And if he hadn't, then neither would the others.

She could move freely. Rebuild. Plot. Learn.

And when the time came, strike.

That alone made this night worth every word.

The halls whispered around her as she walked, the distant lanterns flickering like breaths held in too long. Marble beneath her boots. Shadows curling at her heels.

Her steps were soundless, but her mind wasn't.

Lucavion.

No.

Luca.

That's what she had called him in Stormhaven. That ridiculous little name that felt too casual for the boy who'd thrown himself into danger and shrugged off pain like it was weather.

She clenched her jaw.

Because now—seeing him again, like this—it was harder to tell where the difference ended. Harder to believe she'd ever truly known him.

Was he always like this?

That easy charm. That maddening smile. That way he slithered through conversation like nothing could stick to him. Like emotion was a tool, not something you felt but something you used.

It had worked on her once.

She scowled, more at herself than him.

Looking at it now, it was clear. He is like that with anyone. The banter, the wit, the deliberate pauses where he wanted you to fill in the blanks. The way he turned attention into a game, making it seem like you'd chosen to follow him when really—you'd been led from the start.

That's the kind of boy he was.

Or the kind of man.

Luca, she had thought of him. The boy who didn't flinch when the ice shards flew past. The one who always walked just on the edge of danger. The one who, for a sliver of time, had seemed like someone safe.

But Lucavion?

Lucavion Thorne was not safe.

'Then again,' she thought, slowing as she passed a wall-length window, the reflection of her illusion gazing back—cool, soft, forgettable. 'Neither am I.'

She pressed her fingertips to the glass for a moment, watching the shimmer of mana ripple faintly across her skin. The illusion was still holding, despite the tremor in her chest, despite the weight of his hand that still lingered in her memory.

Who even is Lucavion?

Was the one in the garden tonight the mask?

Or had Stormhaven been?

She didn't know.

Too many questions.

Too many pieces that didn't fit, no matter how she turned them. And it was infuriating.

Because she couldn't afford doubt.

Not now.

Not when her revenge depended on every move she made being exact. Clean. Final.

She stared at her reflection until the pale face in the glass blurred.

Damned bastard.

He was still getting in her head. Still making her question, hesitate, second-guess. As if she had the luxury of confusion. As if she could afford it.

She stepped back. Let the image fade.

'I will get them all answered.'

Her breath cooled in her chest, her hand falling back to her side.

Every question.

Every memory that twisted and itched.

Every scar that still hadn't faded.

She would get them all answered.

After she finished what she came here to do.

After she made them pay.

All of them. Lucavion. Isolde. Adrian. The Court. The Academy that had turned its back.

And when it was done, when the final blade fell—

Then she would drag the truth out of the ashes, even if it clawed her open.

No more shadows. No more masks. Just the truth—and revenge.

Her steps resumed, quieter now.

Not hesitant.

But hunted.

And hunting.

****

Lucavion lingered there, still leaning against the railing, the curve of his grin dimming—just a shade—as her footsteps faded into the corridor's long throat of shadow.

He watched the place where her silhouette had vanished, head tilted faintly, like he was trying to catch an echo she hadn't meant to leave behind.

The silence stretched again.

Then, without drama or flourish, he muttered—

"What a strange woman…yet somehow familiar…."