Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 912: Another one (2)

Chapter 912: Another one (2)

“Archmage. Still walking tours?”

Selenne’s expression didn’t shift. “Still finding time to speak to me in passing, Marcus?”

He stopped just short of her, the students behind him fanning out slightly, their attention fixed on her with open curiosity. A few were whispering—quiet, but not quiet enough.

“…That’s her. The one they—”

Marcus’s lips thinned faintly, but he didn’t shush them. “I hear your last lecture series ran half-empty. A shame. With your… unique status, one might expect you’d have no trouble filling a room.”

“That’s the loss of those who don’t take the course,” Selenne replied evenly.

A few of Marcus’s students smirked at that, but the man himself only gave a small shake of his head, as though she’d proven some point for him. “You’ve always preferred your own methods.”

“And you’ve always preferred commentary over contribution,” she returned, stepping aside just enough to let him pass.

He didn’t. Not immediately. Instead, he leaned a fraction closer—not enough to breach decorum, but enough for those near the front to catch the words meant for her alone. “Careful you don’t mistake tolerance for respect, Selenne. The Tower’s favor doesn’t last forever.”

She met his gaze without a blink. “Then it’s fortunate I’ve never asked for it.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Marcus gave a short, quiet breath that might have been a laugh—or might not have—and turned away, leading his group past her without another word.

Marcus had only taken a few more steps before his voice carried back—not raised, but pitched just enough for it to be clear this part was meant to be heard.

“Well, you’ve all seen her now,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the students following him. “The Archmage of Starlight. I trust the name isn’t unfamiliar—given how often it comes up in the context of… exceptions.”

A ripple of low amusement moved through his group. It was obvious this wasn’t the first time he’d spoken about her.

From the center of his students, one figure stepped forward without hurry.

Golden hair caught the sunlight in perfect strands, and his eyes—deep, sharp, and unmistakably red—held the lazy confidence of someone born into power rather than having clawed toward it.

Lucien.

Crown Prince of Arcanis.

He looked toward Selenne with the faintest upward curve to his lips. “So,” he said, his tone even but laced with interest, “she is the Archmage of Starlight.”

“Yes, your highness,” Marcus replied, inclining his head slightly.

Lucien gave him a sidelong glance. “Come on, you don’t need to call me that.”

“I just prefer it that way,” Marcus answered, the deference practiced, deliberate.

Lucien’s smile deepened by a fraction before his gaze shifted fully to Selenne. The weight of it was not hostile, but there was nothing casual about it either—more the look of a man measuring a piece on a board, testing how it fit into the game he already had in mind.

Lucien’s gaze held on her for a moment longer before he spoke, voice smooth as polished marble.

“Archmage Selenne. I remember we have not met before.”

Selenne inclined her head, the motion precise. “Indeed, student Lucien. I also recall that we have not met before.”

The shift in his expression was subtle, but it was there—a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth, the glint in his red eyes sharpening by a fraction. It wasn’t outrage, not yet… but the change was enough for those watching to notice.

“You…” His tone carried the start of a word meant to correct—or perhaps to warn—but it didn’t finish.

Marcus’s eyes cut toward her, sharp enough to feel like a second blade at her throat. “Archmage Selenne,” he said, his voice cool but edged, “is there a reason you—”

“Is there a problem?” Selenne asked, raising one brow with unhurried precision.

The air seemed to pause with her words.

And no one answered.

Because it was true—within the Academy’s walls, titles of court and throne had no formal weight. By rule, students were addressed by their given names or chosen forms. Protocol was for the battlefield or the banquet hall, not here.

Lucien’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…”

For a split second, the two of them stood locked in the kind of silence that drew every eye and held it. Not quite challenge, not quite dismissal—just the unblinking tension of two people who had both decided they weren’t the one to look away first.

Then—

“Booooh!”

The sudden, drawn-out call came from behind Selenne, loud enough to snap the moment clean in half.

Hmm?

Selenne turned slightly, and so did half the gathered students, to find the source.

Leaning with one shoulder against a pillar, black hair falling carelessly over his forehead, stood a young man whose presence seemed… off, in a way hard to define. His eyes—deep, unnatural black, so dark they seemed to drink the light—watched the scene with a kind of amused detachment.

Lucavion.

The same student who had stirred trouble with Marisse earlier.

Lucavion’s gaze slid lazily from Selenne to Lucien, meeting the crown prince’s sharp red eyes with unhurried ease.

Then, with a grin that was equal parts mockery and charm, he lifted a hand in a casual wave.

“Oh… it’s my friend Lucien. How nice to meet you here.”

The words dropped into the air like pebbles into still water—small, but enough to ripple through every ear in range.

Lucien’s face twitched, the faint muscle at the corner of his mouth betraying what the rest of his polished composure tried to hide.

“Lucavion… ahem… I don’t recall—”

“You don’t recall us being friends?” Lucavion interrupted with exaggerated disbelief, hand pressed lightly over his chest. “Come on, don’t do that to me. You’re hurting my feelings.”

The crowd caught the deliberate familiarity in his tone. A few students half-smiled, others looked outright scandalized, but all were listening.

It was Marcus who stepped into the gap, his eyes narrowing like a drawn bow.

“Lucavion… so you’re that student.”

Lucavion’s grin tilted wider. “Damn… I’m famous already…”

Marcus said nothing, but the pause that followed carried the weight of his disapproval. The man’s gaze was cold, assessing—as though he were already considering how best to shut this student down.

Lucavion, for his part, only looked more entertained.

Marcus’s eyes narrowed further, the faintest furrow cutting between his brows.

“Indeed… you are famous,” he said, his tone cool and deliberate. “But fame doesn’t always bring good things with it.”

Lucavion’s smirk didn’t budge. “Well, I like challenges quite a lot.”

Marcus’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, more a subtle sharpening of expression. “You will get them. Don’t worry.”

“I’d be happy to,” Lucavion replied, tilting his head with the air of someone utterly unbothered. “Though… you might first want to have a little chat with your co-worker. Professor Marisse, was it?”

The shift in Marcus’s expression was minute but noticeable—an ever-so-slight tightening at the jaw, the kind of reaction that said the name alone was enough to warrant thought.

“What?” he asked, voice dropping just a fraction, caught between suspicion and the unwillingness to admit curiosity in front of an audience.

Lucavion’s grin took on a sharper edge, as if savoring the hook he’d just set.

Lucavion gave a small shrug, as if brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

“You should ask her,” he said lightly. “Not me.”

Marcus’s gaze lingered on him, but Lucavion didn’t offer another word. Instead, he tipped his chin in an almost playful manner… and winked.

The gesture earned a faint stir in the crowd—half irritation, half reluctant amusement—but Lucavion’s attention had already shifted. His black eyes, still glinting with mischief, caught on something… someone… beyond the visible exchange.

She was standing just at the edge of the gathering, almost unnoticed by the others. A young girl—slender, still as stone—her hair catching a faint shimmer of light. And her eyes…

Purple.

They met his gaze directly, unflinching, as if she’d been watching him long before he’d noticed her. No smile. No frown. Just the kind of look that didn’t need words to feel deliberate.

No one else seemed to notice her. The conversation, the tension, the shifting weight of the crowd—all of it moved past her as if she were just another shadow in the corner of the courtyard.

But Lucavion saw her. And she knew he saw her.