Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 883: In that night

It didn’t bother her.

Not in the way she had once feared it might.

Elara sat there, alone in the hush of the dormitory, fingers still curled against her knees. She let the silence settle like dust around her ribs, breathing it in until her lungs stopped reaching for noise.

No one had seen her. Not truly.

Not Isolde. Not Adrian. Not even the stewards who had brushed past her with shallow bows and polite dismissal. The illusion had held. The layers of spellcraft, voice shift, posture correction, subtle glyphs stitched into her inner sleeve by Eveline’s hand—they had all done their job.

She had passed through the heart of the Academy’s elite like smoke through lattice.

Unnoticed.

And that was the point, wasn’t it?

Her hands curled tighter.

’So why does it feel like this?’

She had expected rage. Shame. At the very least, unease. But instead, there was only this cold… clarity. Like ice on the inside of her chest. Clean, but heavy.

She had imagined it differently. Had imagined her blood boiling, teeth clenched against the mask, fire behind the smile.

But nothing had boiled.

It had simply passed.

The memory of her father’s final words flickered behind her eyelids. “You are no longer mine.”

And Isolde, watching with that quiet smirk coiled behind her lashes like a snake too bored to strike.

Elara opened her eyes.

’I’m not mourning them,’ she realized. ’I’m mourning the death of my expectations.’

That strange grief was heavier than she’d prepared for.

She stood with a slow, exhale, shedding the remnants of thought like she’d peeled off her gown—carefully, deliberately. Then she crossed to the bath chamber, stripped out of the illusion layers and enchanted silk, and sank into the deep stone tub drawn from the central warming spring.

The water was hot.

Too hot.

Good.

She sat there until her skin flushed and her muscles softened, until the ache at the back of her neck faded into something bearable.

Later, dressed in a deep-grey tunic and boots, her hair damp and combed back, Elara opened her door and stepped into the corridor.

The tower at night was quiet—sleepy in a way the banquet had never been. The spiral halls carried every footfall like a whisper.

She didn’t have a destination. She just needed… air.

Her feet carried her down one curve, then another, until she found a small open balcony overlooking the western garden wall—wisteria blooms hanging like quiet stars, the wind humming through the lattice in low tones.

She stepped into it—and wasn’t alone.

Selphine was already there, her back straight against the railing, a cup of something steaming in her hand. The scent was sharp. Minted tonic.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Selphine asked, without turning.

Elara joined her, arms folding across the edge of the railing. “Didn’t try.”

Selphine hummed. “Figured you’d be one of those.”

Before Elara could answer, a familiar voice spoke from behind her.

Before Elara could answer, a familiar voice spoke from behind her—familiar not just in sound, but in the way it moved through the air. Anchored. Heavy with unsaid weight.

“El—”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“—Elowyn.”

Cedric’s voice was low, quiet enough that it didn’t carry far. But Elara caught the catch at the front of it. The momentary stumble. The name that almost wasn’t masked in time.

She didn’t turn right away. Let him sit in it for a second.

Then: “Yes?”

He exhaled through his nose, subtle. Almost sheepish. “You look better,” he said, coming to lean on the stone rail beside her. “Refreshed?”

“I am,” she replied simply, voice unembellished. “Hot water helps.”

Cedric gave a small grunt of agreement, and they fell into the kind of silence that didn’t require effort. The kind built of shared weight.

Then came the soft scuff of footsteps. The others appeared like shadows rolling through the corridor—Marian first, animated as ever, followed by Dellen, who looked freshly towel-dried and half-dressed for sleep, and Aurelian, in a robe of dark velvet that he wore like it was armor. Selphine barely twitched at their approach.

“Of course you’re all here already,” Marian said, eyeing them. “You didn’t even try to sleep, did you?”

“I rest when the world makes sense,” Aurelian replied, yawning, “which should explain a great deal.”

Dellen gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the balcony. “Did any of you check out the side wing off the east corridor? There’s a whole reading alcove with floormats that reorient to spine posture. I think I fell in love with furniture.”

“They really did stuff this place, didn’t they?” Marian murmured, running a hand along the balcony rail. “I swear half the corners are charmed. The bed literally adjusted to my temperature when I sat down.”

“Mine has a mirror that identifies facial tension and suggests meditative sequences,” Aurelian said, brushing something invisible from his sleeve. “Frankly, more helpful than most of the servants back home.”

Selphine sipped from her tonic. “It’s deliberate. They want to impress us, but also remind us—this is the Imperial Academy. You’re not just students. You’re investments.”

“They want us to remember where we are,” Selphine continued, setting her now-empty cup gently on the railing, “and exactly how rare it is to be here.”

“That’s fine,” Dellen said, stretching his arms above his head. “As long as they keep giving us lavender soap and mattresses that breathe, I’ll happily pretend I was born to be here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Marian said, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “I nearly got lost just trying to find the bathing chamber. This place has more hallways than sense.”

“That’s by design too,” Aurelian offered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s meant to make us feel like we’re always on the edge of somewhere important.”

“Poetic,” Selphine muttered.

They walked slowly down the spiraled walkway, shoes muffled against the plush carpet inlaid between veined stone paths. The lanterns that lined the arches above glowed a mellow copper, casting warm shadows on the walls as their conversation ebbed and flowed—stories about strange chamber layouts, debates over whether the tea was laced with clarity runes, someone muttering something about how the toilets heated themselves in the exact shape of one’s backside. It was mundane and oddly grounding.

Elara didn’t say much, but she listened. The warmth of the group was easy to orbit. Softened laughter rose like candle smoke, ephemeral and sincere.

For just a moment, they were not nobles, not warriors, not forgotten exiles or masked names.

They were students. Late-night wanderers in a place built for futures none of them could yet imagine.

Eventually, one by one, the group began to peel away.

Selphine was the first to nod goodnight, saying she needed to “detangle her thoughts with comb oil and patience.” Aurelian followed with a dramatic yawn, already muttering about finding the exact center of his mattress. Marian and Dellen drifted off still whispering about a hidden chamber they’d found behind the library’s northern wall.

And then it was quiet again.

Just Elara and Cedric, paused beneath a low-hanging arch draped in pale-flowered vines, the mist settling like a hush between them.

He looked at her. Not with concern. Just… awareness.

“You’re not going back in yet,” he said.

“No.”

A small beat.

“I could stay.”

She met his gaze then, something gentle and firm in the angle of her chin. “I need to clear my head. Alone.”