Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The sun had barely crested over the far spires of Arcanis when Selphine and Aurelian claimed their usual corner table at the terrace café near the upper promenade.

It was quieter than usual—at least, in the way noble haunts quieted during deep intrigue. The kind of quiet that carried the weight of speculation beneath every clink of porcelain and overly polite exchange of words.

Selphine sliced into her honeyed fruit with surgical calm. “So,” she said, not looking up, “are we all just pretending the world didn’t get rearranged yesterday?”

Aurelian, halfway through dunking a piece of spiced bread into his tea, snorted. “Oh no. We’re absolutely pretending.” He popped it into his mouth, chewed, then added, “We’re nobles. It’s what we do when we don’t know what the hell just happened.”

The corner of Selphine’s mouth twitched. “Lucavion.”

Aurelian’s expression sobered. “Lucavion.”

The name had already carved itself into Arcanian conversation like a brand. Not whispered. Not avoided. Spoken with awe, suspicion, bitterness—depending on who you asked. A commoner, yes. But no one was calling him ‘just’ that anymore.

“Peak 4-star,” Selphine said, tapping her fork once against her plate. “They thought he was mid-range. Safe. Strong, but within expectation.”

“He was playing all of us,” Aurelian muttered, eyes on the steam curling from his cup. “No. Not even playing. He just didn’t bother showing more until he had to.”

“And when he did,” Selphine added, “he shattered one of the strongest projected picks of the exam.”

Reynald Vale.

The Bastion.

A name people had been chanting in the streets not forty-eight hours ago.

He had stood at the edge of the last convergence, surrounded by monsters, unwavering. He had shielded the helpless, carved paths for the wounded, rallied fractured groups into order.

He had become, for a moment, the people’s hero.

And he had lost.

Aurelian’s voice lowered. “That duel…”

Selphine didn’t speak immediately. She remembered it vividly. The moment Lucavion had accepted Reynald’s challenge—quietly, without grandstanding. The moment their blades met.

And the moment Lucavion’s sword stopped looking like a weapon and started looking like intent incarnate.

It hadn’t just been a duel.

It had been a dissection.

They both fell silent for a moment, each replaying the final exchange in their minds: the sudden shift, the step through space, the black flame that didn’t explode—but erased the final blow.

Reynald hadn’t screamed.

He’d simply dropped to one knee, lowered his blade, and nodded once—like a knight conceding to a king.

Aurelian looked up toward the tower line in the distance, where banners of gold and blue now flew in anticipation of the Imperial Academy’s opening banquet.

“He’ll be one of us now,” he said. “Lucavion.”

Aurelian had just begun to speak again—something about the way Lucavion’s black flame had cleaved straight through Reynald’s barrier, something about how even a peak-tier reinforcement artifact hadn’t saved him—when the quiet rhythm of footsteps caught his ear.

Not rushed.

Not tentative.

Just present.

He turned first, then froze mid-sentence.

“…Elowyn?”

Selphine’s knife paused just above her plate, and she looked up sharply.

Elara stood at the edge of the terrace, framed by sunlight pouring in through the tall arches behind her. Her hair caught the light—still in its subtle illusion of chestnut and gold—but something about the way it moved, the way she moved, felt less like illusion and more like clarity. Her robes were simple but sharp, her stance relaxed, and her expression—

Not unreadable.

Not guarded.

But glowing.

There was a softness to it. Not weakness—no, never that. But something unburdened. A brightness in her posture, a glimmer in her gaze that had been missing for days—months, even.

And beneath that light… was the trace of something far more complicated.

Aurelian blinked. “You—uh. You’re out.”

“I am,” Elara said, her voice light and even. And then she smiled. Softly. Almost lazily. “Am I late for scandal and judgment?”

Selphine leaned back in her chair, studying her. “You missed the bloodbath.”

Elara approached and pulled out a chair without asking. “I didn’t need to see it.”

“No?” Aurelian asked carefully. “It was… intense.”

Elara’s gaze flicked between them both, catching the hesitation in Aurelian’s tone, the curiosity buried under Selphine’s restraint. She nodded, almost to herself, and folded her hands in her lap.

“I heard,” she said. “He won.”

They didn’t need to ask who.

And when she looked down briefly, blinking against the sunlight, there was a faint shine to her eyes. Not tears. Not grief.

Just a glaze of something impossible to name.

Selphine tilted her head. “You seem… fine.”

Elara looked up again. And this time, her smile widened—not in defiance, not in performance.

Just honest.

“I am.”

Aurelian watched her for a long beat. “You didn’t even want to see how he fought?”

Elara exhaled softly, her voice lower now, not secretive, but distant. “I’ve seen it before.”

And there, in the space between those words, something ancient passed between the three of them—acknowledgment without explanation.

Elowyn—the sharp girl with precise spellcraft and a measured voice—had disappeared for days.

But the woman who sat here now?

She had known Lucavion before he was a legend.

And seeing him again—alive, whole, terrifying—hadn’t broken her.

It had freed her.

She looked up at the flags waving over the towers in the distance. Blue. Gold. Imperial.

The beginning of something new.

And maybe, just maybe—

Something unfinished.

The wind shifted over the terrace, stirring the edge of Elara’s sleeve, and with it came the faint sound of bells ringing from somewhere deeper in the city—the high, melodic chime that meant another hour turned, another festival procession winding toward its end.

Selphine, ever precise, took it as her cue. She set down her fork, dusted her fingers with a napkin, and said, “Well. We’ve had our existential unraveling.”

Aurelian raised a brow. “Already? I was hoping to spiral at least once more before lunch.”

Elara huffed a soft laugh.

Selphine ignored him. “Now we have more practical matters to attend.”

“Such as?” Elara asked, already suspecting the answer.

Aurelian grinned. “The Banquet.”

Elara blinked. “That’s already happening?”

“Two nights from now,” Selphine said crisply. “You’ve been… resting.”

She gave no judgment to the word, though Elara heard it anyway. She didn’t mind. Not now.

“The Imperial Academy Entrance Banquet,” Aurelian echoed, making it sound absurdly grand, as he always did. “Where freshmen get paraded around like peacocks under a chandelier while the nobility exchange thinly veiled threats disguised as compliments.”

“It’s tradition,” Selphine said dryly. “You’ll like it.”

“No, I won’t,” Elara said without hesitation.

Selphine smirked. “Still. It’s mandatory. All freshmen attend. Commoners and nobles alike. Even the Loria delegates will be there.”

Aurelian added, “And more importantly, it’s the only time before classes begin that the Academy lets everyone see who’s aligned with who. Early alliances. Patron interests. House ties. It sets the tone.”

“More importantly,” Selphine cut in, “you’ll need to wear something that doesn’t look like you just fought your way through a thunderstorm.”

“I’ll have you know,” Aurelian said, mock-wounded, “my dueling ensemble is very stylish.”

“It has burn marks,” Selphine said.

“Battle scars.”

“It smells like stress.”

Elara shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “So. We need outfits.”

“Not just outfits,” Selphine said, rising smoothly from her chair. “Statements.”

Aurelian nodded. “Wealth, elegance, power. Or if you prefer—mystery, menace, and being left alone.”

“And you, Elowyn?” Selphine turned to her with a tilt of her head. “What do you want to wear?”

Elara thought about that for a moment.

Not what would make her look strong. Or untouchable. Or cold.

She thought of the dome that had glowed above Lucavion’s head, gilded with his name.

She thought of the night he pushed her through the vortex.

And the person she had become since.

And the word ‘Lorian Delegates’.

‘Not yet.’

She would love to show everything, but she can’t.

It is not the time yet.

“I want to wear something that doesn’t flinch,” she said quietly.

Aurelian and Selphine exchanged a glance—then nodded.

That was fair.

Because in two days, they would all walk into the banquet as equals in name only.

And some ghosts didn’t show up in the guest list.

But they showed up all the same.

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