Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1006: A commotion

Elara felt the faintest tremor run through her fingers as recognition anchored her back to the memory—the banquet, the chaos, the moment that had shattered every line of decorum.

When Lucien, the Crown Prince, had cornered Lucavion with that smug, lethal precision of his. When half the hall had fallen silent, waiting to see blood drawn or name erased.

And then she had stepped in.

Priscilla—confident, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk.

Choosing Lucavion’s side.

The Empire’s half-princess siding with the most hated name in the room.

It had thrown the entire evening into uproar at that moment.

And now… now she stood in the middle of a shadowed corridor, cornered by her own kind.

Elara’s nails pressed lightly against the column’s edge. She didn’t move yet. The faint hum of the weave masked her breathing, allowing her to stay unseen.

The air inside the corridor felt colder now—heavy in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

It was the stillness that came before cruelty.

Elara leaned closer to the narrow gap, her breath shallow.

One of the girls—a tall one with dark hair coiled into a perfect braid—stepped forward. The mana embedded in her uniform shimmered faintly as she tilted her head, a smile pulling at the edge of her mouth.

“Well?” she drawled. “Nothing to say, Your Highness?”

The honorific dripped with venom, the sort of mockery nobles reserved for those they wished to erase.

Priscilla didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted a fraction, her red eyes steady and cold. “Move,” she said simply.

The word was calm—almost too calm.

The braid girl laughed. A sharp, brittle sound that echoed unpleasantly off the marble walls. “Listen to her. Still thinks she’s above us.”

A second girl, shorter but sharper in tone, crossed her arms. “Above us? She’s not even above the servants. Everyone knows what she is. A pretty little accident that the Emperor pretends doesn’t exist.”

The third spoke next, voice softer but crueler for it. “You shouldn’t even be here. The Academy is for nobles. Real ones.”

Elara’s stomach turned.

There was something raw in this. Personal.

Priscilla’s hands had curled at her sides, fingers pale against the fabric of her sleeves. A small tremor betrayed her restraint.

“Are you done?” she asked. The words were measured, perfectly enunciated. “Because if this is all, I’d like to leave.”

The tall girl moved in closer, blocking her path. “Oh no, Princess. You don’t get to leave until we’re finished.”

The others snickered—mean, delighted at their own power.

One of them flicked her wrist, and a faint shimmer of mana sparked at her fingertips. A harmless cantrip—technically harmless—but the kind used to humiliate. A conjured burst of golden dust, designed to cling to hair, skin, clothing.

“Let’s make you shine like a real royal,” she said sweetly.

The spell released.

It wasn’t powerful—barely more than static—but the golden flecks burst against Priscilla’s shoulder, clinging instantly to the fine weave of her uniform. Her body jerked at the contact, more from shock than pain.

Elara’s throat tightened.

The second girl laughed. “Careful. You’ll ruin your commoner mother’s hand-me-downs.”

“Don’t talk about her,” Priscilla said quietly.

“Oh? Struck a nerve?”

The shorter one leaned forward, voice low and cruel. “Tell me—did she bow when she died? Or did she beg?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Elara felt it physically—like pressure behind her ribs, a pounding at the base of her skull. Every word from those girls landed like a slap she couldn’t intercept.

Priscilla didn’t answer. She didn’t move. But her aura shifted—barely perceptible, like the faint crack before lightning strikes.

The braid girl must have felt it too because her grin faltered for a moment. “Oh, don’t glare at us like that,” she said, forcing a laugh. “What are you going to do? Stare us to death? You can’t even use your royal crest without permission.”

Elara saw it then—the faintest flicker in Priscilla’s eyes. Not rage. Not humiliation.

Restraint.

The kind that hurt.

The shorter girl’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Still nothing? How disappointing. You’d think a royal mistake would at least have a temper.”

The others laughed—low, cruel sounds that rang too clearly in the narrow corridor. The mana hum distorted around their voices, making them seem closer, harsher.

The tall girl’s braid swayed as she took another step forward. “Maybe she thinks silence will save her. Or maybe she actually believes that half-blood charm of hers will get her out of this.”

Priscilla didn’t reply. Her expression didn’t crack. Her crimson eyes followed the movement of the girl’s hand as it lifted—slow, deliberate, mana gathering faintly in her palm.

Elara’s breath caught.

The mana wasn’t harmless this time. Not a simple dust-spell or glow cantrip—this one vibrated with tension, a shaping spell. A push-force. Just enough to knock someone to the floor if used at close range.

The shorter girl noticed her friend’s intent and smirked. “Careful, you’ll mess up her perfect hair. Wouldn’t want His Highness thinking we ruined his little pet.”

The laughter that followed was brittle and vicious.

So that was it. The Crown Prince’s faction.

Of course.

Elara felt it click together with sick clarity.

They weren’t just cruel for cruelty’s sake—they were performing. This wasn’t about Priscilla at all; it was about what she represented. The stain on royal blood. The embarrassment Lucien wanted erased but couldn’t without consequence.

They were doing it for favor.

To prove loyalty.

To show the Prince they could make his problem hurt.

The tall girl flicked her wrist, and the mana pulse shot outward.

Priscilla moved a half-step back—too slow to dodge it entirely. The impact caught her at the shoulder, sending her staggering against the wall with a soft, involuntary sound. The golden dust still clinging to her shimmered in the dim light.

“Pathetic,” one of them murmured, her voice shaking with the thrill of power. “Even your crest won’t answer you, will it?”

Priscilla’s hand pressed against the wall, steadying herself. Her hair fell forward in a silken curtain, hiding her expression.

Elara couldn’t see her face. But she could feel the shift in the air—the faint, restrained tremor of mana that coiled and then quieted, like a pulse being forced still.

She’s holding back.

The shorter girl stepped closer, emboldened by the silence. “You should have stayed hidden, Princess. That’s where mistakes belong—in the shadows.”

She reached out, fingers closing on the edge of Priscilla’s collar—rough, possessive. “Maybe we should remind you of that.”

Priscilla caught her wrist before she could pull. The motion was clean, unflinching. Her grip didn’t shake.

For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

Then the taller girl stepped in, breaking the stillness with a sneer. “How dare you touch her?”

A second pulse of mana flared, sharper this time—a deliberate strike.

Priscilla took it full in the side. The impact wasn’t devastating, but it slammed her into the stone hard enough to send a choked breath past her lips. The sound—small, raw—cut through Elara like a blade.

The shorter girl pulled her hand free, rubbing her wrist where Priscilla had grabbed her. “You should’ve stayed quiet,” she hissed.

Priscilla exhaled, slow and controlled. Her voice, when it came, was low.

“Is this what he told you to do?”

The question landed like a spark in dry grass.

The tall girl stiffened. “Watch your mouth.”

“I’m just asking.” Priscilla’s tone didn’t rise, didn’t even waver. “You don’t seem to have many thoughts of your own, so I assumed the Crown Prince must’ve lent you some.”

The corridor froze.