Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 738: What am I

“If we’re playing games,” she said, “then let’s make it fair.”

Her eyes met his—firm, unflinching.

“Your move.”

Lucavion’s brow lifted—just slightly.

“Wow…” he said softly, almost under his breath. “Wasn’t expecting that, definitely.”

A pause.

Then—

“Heh.”

The sound was quiet, not quite amusement, not quite surprise. Just a note of genuine acknowledgment, unpolished and sincere in a way that made her fingers still over the rim of the cup.

Priscilla scoffed, low and almost dismissive. But not quite. The edges of it were… careful.

Lucavion didn’t miss it.

“A game, you say,” he murmured, eyes narrowing in the faintest grin. “You are an interesting woman.”

“What?” she asked flatly, her tone laced with warning.

“Nothing.”

But the way he said it—that lazy half-smile ghosting over his lips again, the kind that said everything—told her it wasn’t nothing at all.

He let the silence linger just long enough to tighten between them like a string drawn taut.

Then—

“Well,” he said, tone tilting into civility again, “since we’re asking questions, then don’t mind me.”

His fingers stopped moving.

His body, which had been all casual lean and devil-may-care ease, suddenly straightened—not rigid, but precise.

And his eyes—

Turned cold.

No warning. No flicker of transition. Just the sudden drop of warmth, like someone extinguishing a flame mid-breath.

“What does Miss Princess think of Reynald Vale?”

The question cut.

Not because of its sharpness—but because of its weight. It wasn’t idle. It wasn’t part of the game.

It was the first real strike.

Priscilla didn’t flinch.

But inside, something curled.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

He already knew something.

He was waiting to see what she would say.

She felt it again.

That pressure.

It wasn’t overt. Not like the condescension of palace ministers or the acidic scorn of court rivals. No, Lucavion’s way of pressing against her was far more insidious. Like a cold wind brushing the back of her neck—a reminder that she was being watched, measured, weighed.

He didn’t prod with words. He didn’t cut with judgment.

He simply waited.

And in his silence, she felt the sharp edge of expectation.

Every time she stood in front of him, it was like standing in front of a mirror that reflected not what she was—but what she could be, if she dared to speak freely.

A test.

Always a test.

And this question… this particular strike—it wasn’t about Reynald Vale. Not truly. It was about her. About what she saw. What she dared to admit.

She could lie.

She could craft some vague, evasive noble answer and let it pass.

But what would be the point?

Lucavion would see through it.

No—he was waiting for her to step out of her shadows.

And so, Priscilla Lysandra chose to speak.

“There was something off about him from the beginning,” she said softly, the words folding out like pages turned in thought. “Reynald Vale… knightly name. Sharp technique. Controlled, almost too controlled. I’ll admit it—at first glance, he had everything. The composure, the strength, the image of a perfect duelist.”

Her fingers traced the edge of the porcelain cup, delicate movements masking deeper calculations.

“That was the problem.”

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.

She went on.

“He was too perfect. The stance, the aura, the way he carried himself. It didn’t feel earned. It felt… designed. Fabricated, almost.” She exhaled quietly. “Like someone had written him into the role and taught him how to wear it like a second skin.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet Lucavion’s. There was no fear there—just the deep weight of reflection.

“I tried to track his records after the second day of the Trials. Everything came up clean. Too clean. No noble house. No registered family. No guild affiliation. A sword like that doesn’t come without tutelage—but there was no trace of a master. No military sponsor. Just two years of conveniently vague backstory.”

Lucavion’s expression didn’t change.

But the faintest shift in his posture told her he was listening now. Not casually. Not playfully.

Intently.

“And the Baron…” she continued, “I searched for him too. He was there during the confrontation on the terrace—sitting in full view, like he belonged. But he didn’t. No baron would’ve been sent there alone, no servants, no escort. And none of the registries held his name. It was like he had been carved out of thin air.”

She leaned back slightly, and for a moment, she allowed herself to voice the thought that had been haunting her since that afternoon.

“I think Reynald Vale was part of a plan.”

Lucavion arched a brow—but still said nothing.

“Maybe it sounds far-fetched,” she admitted. “But I’ve seen this before. The crown needs more than just brute force to keep the populace in line. It needs… symbols. Icons. Heroes who shine bright enough that people look toward them instead of questioning the ones in power.”

Her voice cooled.

“I think Reynald was meant to be that. A champion manufactured for the public. A knight without a past—clean, loyal, glorified. Something commoners could idolize. Something controllable. Something they could put on a stage and say: ’See? Even commoners can rise—so long as they follow our path.’”

Her nails pressed lightly into the porcelain rim now. She didn’t notice.

“And Lucien…”

She didn’t speak his name like a sibling. Not even like a prince.

Just a force.

A shadow.

“Lucien has always understood image. He controls narrative. Not by shouting, not by brute dominance—but by curating who gets to speak. I think Reynald was meant to be a tool. A beautiful, sharpened tool dressed in nobility’s glow but leashed from the start.”

A quiet.

Then—”That’s why your duel with him wasn’t just a fight,” she added, her voice low. “It was a severing. You didn’t just break him. You broke what he stood for.”

She inhaled, slow and composed, but something deep beneath her skin still bristled.

Because even now, she wasn’t entirely sure if she was right.

And yet—she knew.

Somewhere beneath all of Lucavion’s smirks and fire-laced eyes, she knew he’d already seen it. That perhaps this wasn’t even news to him.

She met his gaze again.

“I think that day on the terrace,” she said quietly, “you weren’t just confronting a farce. You were unveiling it.”

She waited, then.

Not for validation.

But for his move.

Because she had placed her thoughts bare on the table, stripped of courtly polish.

Now it was his turn.

Lucavion’s silence lingered.

And then—

A smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not that crooked thing meant to taunt or amuse.

This one… was quieter.

Softer.

A smile that didn’t reach for dominance. Just recognition.

“Indeed…” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You are different.”

Priscilla’s brows furrowed. “What?”

She had heard him—but not clearly. Not fully. And the weight of the words—You are different—felt like a thread she wasn’t sure she should pull.

Lucavion didn’t repeat it.

He merely waved a hand, dismissive, as if brushing dust from his coat.

“Miss Princess…” he said, with that drawl that danced between charm and sarcasm. “You really are getting better at theory-crafting.”

Priscilla’s mouth twitched. That tone. That tone.

“You would do a fine novelist,” he added with a grin. “All that court intrigue, conspiracy, elegant metaphors about leashes and stages… really, I almost felt for the poor fabricated soul.”

The cup clicked softly as she set it down.

And she stood again—sharply this time.

“If this is how you plan to waste my time—”

“But you were indeed correct.”

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