Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 815: Thoughts

There was always a formula.

’She would say this, when I brought up the comparison between our books…’

Lucavion’s mind flickered, straying further from the ballroom and the polished rot of nobility. A part of him was still watching the way the air shifted around Priscilla—still aware of the quiet threads being pulled. But another part—sharper, more amused—had already drifted into the archives of memory.

His sister had always been fond of reverse harem novels.

Not in a quiet, embarrassed way, but in the manner of someone who had built a private cathedral out of glittery covers and dog-eared pages. She devoured them between study sessions, during banquets she faked illness to skip, and in the corners of the library where even the archivists turned a blind eye.

Lucavion, on the other hand, read them out of spite.

Well—spite and curiosity.

Because every time she sneered at the male-oriented ones, with their wooden heroines and baffling proliferation of bath scenes, she would turn around and defend hers like they were sacred texts. Still, even she had her limits. Even she had once closed a book halfway through and declared, with solemn conviction: “If he calls her ’kitten’ one more time, I’m setting the next volume on fire.”

He’d agreed.

Some stereotypes deserved to die.

And yet, the core structure—ah, that persisted.

Lucavion leaned faintly against the marble pillar, eyes trailing the periphery of the room, but his mind continued its quiet categorization.

First: the Crown Prince. Cold, calculating, and born with some glowing ancestral magic that made everyone forget he had the emotional maturity of a grapefruit. Always dressed in gold. Always towering. Always obsessed. The kind of man who claimed he didn’t care, and then murdered three people the moment someone made the heroine cry. Obsessive. Possessive. Destroyed kingdoms over jealousy. And somehow—somehow—the narrative framed that as romantic instead of pathological.

Then, the Knight. Duty-bound. Silent. Possibly raised by wolves or monks or some combination thereof. He bore his feelings like scars—always there, never named. His vocabulary consisted of “yes,” “no,” and an occasional grunt of emotional anguish. If he ever admitted to love, it came with a battlefield monologue and at least one near-death experience. Moral compass so unshakeable it could be used to calibrate navigation arrays.

Of course, this could also be the mage, depending on the writer’s choice.

A mage that is forced to study later and later because of his lack of talents for instance, and then becoming a man of few words.

Yet, the core stayed.

A serious one would be forced to exist.

And then—

The Rogue.

Lucavion’s eyes shifted, just slightly.

There he was.

Thalor Draycott.

The archetype in tailored blue silk.

Witty. Smiling. Always circling conversations like they were dance partners, speaking with too much leisure and just enough menace to make people lean in—or recoil.

A mage.

Of course he was.

Because only a mage could weaponize subtlety the way Thalor Draycott did. Words were spells. Smiles, illusions. Every gesture rehearsed. Every line perfectly timed to disarm. And yet, Lucavion had seen behind that too-perfect curtain before.

Back then, in Shattered Innocence, Thalor was one of the first male leads to appear. Introduced not with a battle or a declaration, but with a wry quip in the middle of an incantation test—just enough flair to make the reader lean closer, wondering who’s that?

He had been in the same class as Elara.

He made jokes, yes. Good ones, even. The kind that felt spontaneous, clever without being cruel. He was the kind of character who’d pretend to flirt with everyone but never actually make a move, charming, irreverent, seemingly harmless.

Yet, to a different reader…

It was a little different.

Because beneath the charm, there was a sliver of something colder.

Thalor was a snake. Not the kind that struck out of fear—but the kind that studied your steps for days, waited beneath the foliage, and only uncoiled when your back was turned.

He harbored his emotions too well. There was pride, coiled and sharp behind those eyes—pride not in the public sense, but personal. Arrogance polished to the point of elegance. He never needed to be center stage, because he believed the stage would eventually revolve around him anyway.

And when he smiled?

That was when you needed to check your pockets.

In the story, his darker edge was revealed slowly. Scenes with a tinge of venom. Snide remarks that weren’t quite jokes. A moment where he let someone else take the fall with just a well-timed silence. The charm didn’t vanish—it twisted. Became selective. A blade offered with a bow.

Julien had been like that too. The same serpentine duality.

But Thalor’s poison came in subtler vials.

Lucavion remembered the arc where Thalor’s history with Priscilla had been unveiled.

At first, it was buried—whispers more than scenes. Barely a footnote in the greater plot. But the story didn’t need to shout to cut deep. It knew how to scar in silence.

Thalor had been engaged to her, once.

A political match. A promise forged between Thalor’s father and the Emperor—a marriage of consolidation, prestige, and old power. The kind of arrangement that passed as tradition in noble circles but reeked of possession under any real scrutiny.

And Thalor?

He played his role. Smiled. Praised her in public. Called her my Priscilla with a fondness that sounded sweet—until you realized it was always possessive, never personal.

He never asked what she wanted.

He assumed it was him.

But the story revealed it subtly—never through declarations, but through fragments in dialogue, quiet notes buried in confrontation. It wasn’t Thalor who ended the engagement.

It was Priscilla.

She had walked away.

And Thalor—Thalor had not liked that.

Not openly. Not theatrically. That wasn’t his style. But beneath the velvet civility, behind that regal posture, something cracked. He didn’t rage. He didn’t beg. He simply… turned.

And when Priscilla appeared again—changed, colder, dangerous— as one of the Corrupted.

A scene of a later time.

A title of a future when the world is about to be buried into the chaos.

Lucavion remembered the moment her corruption was first implied—when she confronted Thalor in the Tower ruins, black veins spiraling across her arms, her eyes no longer reflecting the court’s daughter.

She said one line. Simple. Almost forgettable.

“Out of all, you are the one with the darkest second face.”

And Thalor?

He smiled.

A beat too long.

A note too high.

The kind of smile you give when someone strikes the nerve you thought was buried.

Later, it was Elara who picked up the thread. She traced the lines through reports and offhand comments. Through the memoirs of a dismissed handmaid. Through invitation lists, conspicuously missing Priscilla’s name after the fallout.

Her findings were quiet. Undeniable.

Thalor had spread rumors.

Not directly, of course. No, he was far too elegant for that. But within his circles—among the junior nobles and social architects—he planted ideas. Just questions at first. Just observations.

At first, they were whispers tucked into harmless laughter. She has always been the one to spend a lot of time alone with her tutors. Did you hear what happened after the masquerade ball?No one sees her leave the dormitories until late… wonder who’s keeping her busy.

They weren’t accusations. Not yet. Just idle curiosity spoken in rooms too polite to be direct. And because they weren’t loud, no one challenged them. That was the trick.

No one ever questioned the source.

No one remembered it anyway.

’No one remembered it…’

It was the start of an another arc, after all.

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