Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 740: Unlawfully

’If he rejected both Lucien and Selienne… who is he listening to?’

Priscilla felt her breath shallow.

The idea settled uncomfortably in her chest.

Either he was being backed by someone so well-hidden it escaped even her senses—or—

He was walking this path on his own.

Which, in some ways, was worse.

“Then he’s either protected by a ghost…”

“Or driven by something I don’t understand.”

Which left the last possibility—

He’s mad.

Not in the flailing, wild-eyed sense.

But in the way only visionaries and monsters are.

He wasn’t aligning with anyone.

He was walking between them.

And that was why they were all watching him.

Lucien. Selienne. The courtiers. The academy heads.

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed, lashes casting shadows like blades against her cheekbones.

“Let’s just say,” he murmured, “I’m not the only one who’s tired of illusions.”

That line. That cryptic, maddening line.

What does that mean? Who else is ’tired’ of illusions? Who stands behind him? Who whispers in his ear? Who feeds him names erased from the imperial record?

She stared at him, gaze sharpening like a blade before the strike.

“And if that’s true,” she said, her voice low, tight, “then name them.”

Lucavion’s smile curved—not cruelly. Not arrogantly. Just… inevitably.

“If I were the sort to reveal everything so easily…” he said, tilting his head, “do you truly believe I’d be doing things in this manner?”

A flick of his fingers, loose, theatrical.

“If I had a neat list of answers, Princess, I wouldn’t need tea and conversation. I’d need an army.”

Priscilla inhaled slowly. Her hands folded against her lap. Not out of calm.

Out of restraint.

But something deeper than irritation coiled inside her now.

A thread she couldn’t name, tight around the space where clarity should have been.

“Then why?” she asked. The word wasn’t thrown, but placed—carefully, like a test.

“Why all this?”

Lucavion didn’t speak.

So she pressed.

“Why meet me on the terrace?”

Her voice remained cold. Controlled.

“Why speak to me like that—like you knew me?”

Still, silence.

“And why meet me again here, of all places? When you could’ve chosen anyone, any sponsor, any ally—why me?”

Her eyes didn’t flinch from his. Not anymore.

“What is your reason, Lucavion?”

The space between them narrowed.

Her breath stilled.

And then—

Lucavion raised a finger.

Slowly. Calmly.

And pointed.

Directly at her.

“You.”

The word came not as a whisper, not as a thunderclap.

But as something in between.

“I’m doing this…” he said, the finger hovering, steady, unwavering, “…for someone I hold empathy.”

Then, without a word more, he dropped the finger in a sudden, clean motion.

A single swipe through the air.

His tone dipped.

“And for myself.”

He leaned back again, the shift effortless.

And that damned smirk returned—unhurried, unreadable.

“Is that reason enough, Miss Princess?”

His eyes gleamed with that silver flicker again.

Not mockery.

Not pity.

Just… truth.

Terrifying in its simplicity.

Because for the first time—she didn’t know if she was the empathy he spoke of…

“…Yourself?”

The word slipped from her like drawn wire—tight, coiled, precise.

“What does that mean?”

Lucavion merely shrugged, the motion lazy and maddeningly dismissive.

“Miss Princess,” he said, tilting his head, “we’re not quite close enough for such personal questions, are we?”

Then, a beat. A flash of mischief stirred.

“Though if you want to be… I don’t mind.”

Priscilla’s gaze turned glacial.

“…Indecent.”

Her tone cut like frost across glass.

Lucavion smirked wider. “…Stiff.”

Silence bloomed between them. Sharp. Alive.

But not hostile. Not exactly.

Then—he spoke again, and his voice carried a strange lightness, like wind against flame.

“Miss Princess,” he said, “the reason I called you here… is simply to show you.”

Her eyes narrowed again.

“Show me?”

“Yes,” he nodded, unfazed. “Just as I said before—on the terrace. You’re going to see me a lot from now on.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice dipping into that low, lyrical register he used when truths slipped between veils.

“And you should look forward to the academy.”

She remembered it.

His words that day, just after the duel.

“Look forward to the festival… You’ll see a lot of interesting things.”

Now, his smile returned—gentle, but edged.

“I called you here to remind you of that.”

A pause.

“You will see a lot of fun things in the future.”

Then his expression changed. Slightly. A shadow of thought passed behind his eyes.

“But…”

He raised his hand.

With the slow grace of intention, he reached toward the untouched chessboard beside him.

The pieces sat as they always did—perfectly arranged, awaiting players who played by the rules.

He picked up a white pawn.

And moved it.

But not forward.

Not legally.

He swept it diagonally—improperly—into a space no pawn should reach. And with that off-kilter move, it knocked over an enemy bishop.

The piece clattered gently against the table’s edge.

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed at once.

She knew this board.

And she knew the rules.

She was a quiet master of imperial chess, after all—subtle maneuvering, strategic restraint.

That… was not chess.

That was something else.

Lucavion, as if sensing the tension spike in her mind, spoke gently.

“When that time comes,” he said, still watching the fallen piece, “you’ll have a chance.“

And then—

He reached for the queen.

Moved her.

Not in aggression.

But to the side of the rogue pawn.

“Not to command,” Lucavion murmured, his voice now soft as starlight through glass,

“but to be a part of.”

His hand lingered above the pieces—queen and pawn, now side by side in open defiance of order. A tableau that should not exist.

And yet… it did.

Then—he clapped his hands once.

A crisp, final sound.

“Well,” he said lightly, with that unshakable calm, “till then…”

He leaned back, as if the room had shifted beneath them and he alone had known it would.

“I’ll leave you with your thoughts.”

The warmth in his tone wasn’t kindness.

It was permission.

Or maybe warning.

Priscilla didn’t move at first.

The tea had long gone cool.

The air remained still.

And as the door behind her opened at a silent gesture from a waiting attendant, she realized—

That had been her allotted time.

Not wasted.

Not granted.

Spent.

She stood. Slowly. Silently.

And turned without another word.

But her eyes, sharp as a drawn blade, lingered one last moment on the board—

Queen and pawn.

Unlawful.

United.

Unexplained.

Her boots whispered against the floor as she left.

And somewhere behind her, Lucavion didn’t follow.

He didn’t need to.

He had already moved his piece.

*****

Outside the chamber, the cool corridor of the Sanctum’s northern wing greeted her like a breath held too long finally released.

The crystalline fixtures glimmered faintly above, but they felt dimmer now—washed out after the strange weight of the conversation she’d just left behind.

Idena stood at attention just beyond the threshold, composed but visibly tense. She straightened the moment Priscilla emerged, her eyes scanning the princess’s face with the quiet attentiveness only someone truly loyal could master.

“Your Highness,” she said carefully, walking beside her, “how did the talk go?”

Priscilla didn’t answer at first.

Her steps were precise. Her cloak drifted softly with each movement. But her silence pulsed with meaning, the way thunder lingers just behind a cloud.

And then—

“It went…” she began, her voice distant, reflective.

A pause.

“…Unlawfully.”

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