Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 870: What do you mean why?

Chapter 870: What do you mean why?

Toren’s voice lingered in the air, quiet but unyielding.

“I didn’t like their gaze.”

The words weren’t sharp. They didn’t need to be. There was something in the way he said it—measured, like a blade drawn not to swing but to warn.

He shifted his weight, still seated on the edge of the garden wall, shadows pooling at his boots.

“Some of the ones from baronies, viscounties… they weren’t bad. Spoke plain. Asked questions that actually mattered. One of them—Marian, I think—offered to trade training drills.”

Caeden nodded, recognition flickering in his eyes. “Tall girl, braid like a whip? She’s from Varnholdt’s coast. Good reflexes.”

Toren gave a quiet grunt of assent. “But the others. The real ones. The old names. The ones that didn’t introduce themselves—they just looked. Like they were memorizing our weak points.”

He didn’t say it with bitterness. Just clarity.

“They smiled like it was polite,” he added. “But it didn’t reach their eyes. I’ve seen merchants size up livestock with more kindness.”

Mireilla didn’t comment. She just tilted her head, thoughtful.

Elayne, though, hummed. “House Veyre was like that. The younger daughter, Clarisse—I swear, she stared at me for three whole minutes and didn’t blink. I thought maybe she’d been enchanted into a doll.”

Toven snorted. “I met a De Alraic. Didn’t catch his first name. Just kept calling me ’the Vale-born.’” He made a mock bow. “’You dance surprisingly well for someone who grew up barefoot.’”

“Did you step on his shoes?” Mireilla asked dryly.

“Oh, twice.” Toven’s grin flashed. “The second one might’ve been on purpose.”

Caeden rubbed the back of his neck, frowning slightly. “That older one from House Taeril. He didn’t speak to me. Just… stared. Like he was trying to solve a riddle. Or wondering if I was worth the risk.”

“Or the waste,” Mireilla murmured. “They’re trying to place us. Not as students. As pieces.”

Elayne folded her arms, her voice quieter now. “The nobles that treated us like people? They were the ones still learning where they stand. The ones who already know their place?” She shook her head. “They don’t think we belong.”

There was a pause. A breath.

And then—

A footstep.

Not loud.

Not hesitant.

Just enough.

Lucavion.

He stepped into the edge of their circle, the moonlight brushing the edge of his cloak, catching the faint glint of steel along his bracer.

“Yo.”

Silence.

For a heartbeat, the group stilled.

Not because they didn’t know how to respond.

But because something shifted when he arrived—like the last piece of a strategy falling into place.

Lucavion let the quiet stretch, just enough to notice, before giving a small, lopsided smile.

“Didn’t interrupt, did I?”

Lucavion let the silence stretch, the soft stir of wind pulling at his cloak, a quiet beat between him and the rest of them.

Caeden’s jaw ticked. Mireilla’s arms stayed folded—tighter now. Elayne looked away entirely, her eyes flitting to the curve of the balustrade like it might offer better conversation. Even Toven, usually the first to fill silence with some well-timed smirk or quip, said nothing.

Their quiet was not reverence.

It was reprimand.

Lucavion’s smirk faded, just slightly.

“Didn’t interrupt, did I?” he asked again, this time softer. A feeler. Testing the edges of their restraint.

Still no one answered.

Not immediately.

Because they didn’t need to speak for the truth to press against the air between them: You did the one thing we agreed not to.

He’d promised—or at least implied—that he’d stay low. Blend. Keep the fire on a slow burn until they understood the architecture of the Academy, until they could navigate it without torching themselves.

Instead?

He went after the Crown Prince.

Publicly. Sharply. Brilliantly, yes—but also stupidly. Dangerously.

And who bore the cost?

Them.

The subtle shifts had started before dessert had even arrived. Eyes that had warmed over drinks now turned cool. Nobles who’d chatted about spellwork and blade-forms now excused themselves with vague apologies and sharper glances. The group that had once been novelty had, in a single hour, become liability.

Lucavion had not been shunned.

They had.

Caeden was the first to speak, voice low, even.

“You were supposed to wait.”

Lucavion’s shoulders didn’t move, but the tension behind them coiled tighter.

“I know,” he said.

Lucavion’s shoulders didn’t move, but the tension behind them coiled tighter.

“I know,” he said.

That word sat in the air like a stone in a cup of glass. Insufficient. Weighty. Shattering.

Elayne was the one to break the stillness this time—sharp, clean. “No. You don’t know, Lucavion.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut because it was precise.

“We spent hours keeping our posture right, our tones even, our jokes soft enough to be palatable but not so hollow they smelled like begging. Do you understand what that’s like? To be watched like a half-trained beast in a royal menagerie, and still make progress?”

Toven leaned forward, elbows on knees, not looking at Lucavion when he added, “And then you threw a brick into the glass.”

Lucavion didn’t flinch.

Caeden glanced at the others, then spoke quieter. Not kinder. Just cooler.

“There was already ice between us and them. Thin. But some of them crossed it tonight.” He paused, jaw tightening. “Then you pulled a stunt that made it shatter under all of us.”

“They didn’t just retreat,” Elayne added. “They recoiled.”

Elayne’s words had barely finished echoing when Lucavion raised a hand.

Not abrupt. Not commanding.

But final.

The kind of gesture that didn’t need volume to carry weight.

And they stopped.

Not because they were done—but because something in his posture made them listen. His expression wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even proud. It was tired. Hollowed out, like someone who had already argued with himself all night and still lost.

“So me exposing the truth was wrong,” he said.

Not a question. A blade honed smooth.

“That’s not what we—” Caeden started.

But Lucavion cut across him, voice steady.

“Sure. If I’d stayed silent, the banquet would’ve flowed better. The smiles would’ve lingered longer. The music wouldn’t have skipped a beat. Nobles would’ve kept mingling with us like we weren’t landmines waiting to go off. It would’ve been comfortable.”

He laughed once. Quiet. Bitter. A scrape of steel on steel.

“Comfortable for who?”

No one answered.

Lucavion’s voice lowered.

“What about me?” he said. “Or Reynald? Or Lucien?”

He took a step forward, not threatening—just closer. Realer.

“What happens if I stay silent? The prince goes on with his little lie—clean, elegant, royal. Reynald’s name dragged through mud so thick that for it to get wiped clean, it would be the accuser who is stamped deeper into the mud itself. The truth buried with the next toast. The next dance. And life goes on.”

His gaze swept the circle now.

“And it does go on. For everyone else.”

No one moved.

Lucavion’s tone sharpened, not in pitch but in focus.

“All so the ones not affected don’t have to feel a little uncomfortable.”

Then—his eyes landed on Mireilla.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

The wind moved her hair, soft at the edges, but she didn’t blink.

“Would you say the same,” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, “if you were the one harassed?

Her lips parted—but no sound came.

He stepped once more into that fragile stillness, gaze unwavering.

“What if it had been your sister they spoke about like that? Dragged through polished words and court-approved mockery until her truth was unrecognizable?”

Mireilla’s arms were still crossed—but her fingers tightened, nails digging into her sleeves.

Lucavion kept going. Quiet. Razor-sharp.

“What would you do if everyone else just smiled and stayed silent because speaking up would inconvenience them?”

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