Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 884: Met him again

Cedric didn’t move at first. He just looked at her a beat longer, something sharpening behind the quiet neutrality of his expression.

Then, a tilt of the head. That old, familiar furrow between his brows. “Are you really sure?”

Her spine straightened, just slightly. “Yes.”

“This isn’t the same city. Or the same castle. You’re not behind Eveline’s wards anymore.”

She turned to face him fully now, the garden mist curling soft around her ankles, the wind teasing strands of damp hair across her cheek.

“And this is the Imperial Academy,” she said, too level, too fast. “If something happens to me here, it’s already far too late for your hovering to stop it.”

His jaw twitched. Not in offense. Just that faint pulse of frustration that only surfaced when he thought she was wrong—and knew she wouldn’t yield.

“Elara—”

“I’m not fragile.”

“I never said you were.”

“But you implied I’m vulnerable.”

He stared at her for a second longer, and then, slowly, his shoulders eased—not in defeat, but in resignation.

“Fine,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t cold, but it no longer carried the warmth it had before. He stepped back from the archway, into the curve of shadow where the hallway began to swallow the light.

It looked—for half a breath—like he might say something more.

But he didn’t.

He just inclined his head, turned, and walked away.

The sound of his footsteps faded, one by one, until they were gone.

And Elara was alone.

The silence crept in like ink spilled on parchment, slow and steady. She leaned back against the edge of the balustrade, the stone cool through her tunic, and let her gaze wander upward. The stars above the dormitory spire shimmered faintly, blurred by low mist and ward-light, too distant to read but near enough to anchor her.

’He’s not wrong,’ she thought, ’but neither am I.’

…She’d meant to be alone with her thoughts.

And yet, as Elara leaned against the cool stone of the arch, eyes half-lidded and breath steady, those thoughts refused to settle. They flickered—unmoored and unrelenting. Not just Cedric’s words, but older ones.

“You are no longer mine.”

Her father’s voice again, cutting through her memory not like a sword, but like a verdict. And behind him, that smirk—Isolde’s careful, clipped satisfaction, the kind that bloomed when everything fell exactly into place. Her place. Her rise.

Elara clenched her jaw.

’And you still think of her. Still feel it.’

She closed her eyes.

Until—

Laughter.

Soft, real, drifting from farther down the garden walk. Elara’s eyes flicked open, narrowing faintly. Her mana pulsed—quiet, measured—as she cast a subtle enhancement around her ears. A simple listening thread. Nothing aggressive. Just… focused.

Voices.

And they did belong to the commoner students, that she has met in the banquet.

Caeden. Mireilla. That curious boy Toren who somehow always sounded like he was recovering from a lightning strike. And—

Her breath hitched slightly.

Lucavion.

Of course.

He’d caused a scene, hadn’t he? Not just on the dueling grounds, but across the banquet, slicing through expectations and formality like it was paper under fire.

She listened in silence as the conversation unfurled—light teasing, glancing sarcasm, and something under it all that felt like relief. A group of strangers settling into each other like stones finding their place in the stream.

…She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Not truly.

But Elara didn’t move either.

She stayed tucked behind the veil of wisteria and shadow, letting her mana thread the sounds of Lucavion’s group into her hearing like a musician drawing strings taut.

Caeden’s voice had come first. “I tried cultivating,” he said, quiet and unsure, “Just a bit. Couple of breaths. Felt… different.”

Mireilla asked how, and he explained: “Like… the mana was watching me.”

And then Lucavion—of course it was Lucavion—answered with that distinct clarity. “You’re not wrong. This place isn’t natural. It’s engineered. You don’t live in a place like this—you’re reshaped by it.”

Elara’s jaw tensed. That voice. That cadence.

Even when speaking casually, he carried precision like it was a second spine. Too measured for a boy who had moved like raw instinct earlier. Too thoughtful.

Too dangerous.

Then came the chaos—Toren stumbling in, sparks still crackling around him like some half-burnt spellbook had tried to swallow him whole. And the laughter that followed—Mireilla’s incredulity, Caeden’s attempts at logic, and Lucavion’s maddening calm.

“You activated the core weave sequence,” he said dryly, while the poor boy whimpered something about muscle annihilation.

The group dynamic shifted between absurdity and warmth, but Elara didn’t laugh. She just listened.

When the others began to peel away, she almost let the thread drop.

“Aren’t you coming?” Mireilla had asked.

“You all go. I’ll walk a bit. Let the night stretch its legs.”

Elara’s breath caught.

’Just go with them,’ she thought, more sharply than she intended. ’Leave. I don’t want to see you again tonight.’

But she did.

And she hated that she did.

Because despite the thorned tension curling in her chest, there was another sensation blooming—quiet and uninvited.

Anticipation.

’For what?’ she asked herself bitterly. ’To exchange a look? To confirm something I don’t want to know?’

The voices fell away.

For a long breath, nothing came.

Just silence. Stillness. The vague whisper of wind threading through high arches, catching on the edges of her sleeve. Maybe he’d left. Followed the others after all. Maybe she’d imagined that stillness lingering, that sense of presence like the air holding its breath.

Elara let her mana thread lapse slightly.

And then—

“…Tch. Hells. Thought I’d locked that part tighter.”

The voice was low. Not spoken to anyone. Not even meant to be heard. But her mana thread caught it just enough.

Lucavion.

His tone was different this time. Not careless. Not detached.

Pensive. Slightly raw.

And that phrasing—locked that part tighter. What part? What had slipped?

Elara’s brow furrowed faintly.

What does that even mean? Emotion? Memory? Control?

She barely had time to chase the thought before the rhythm of boots started—slow and steady, drawing closer. Soft soles on stone, yet deliberate enough that each step grew louder in her awareness. Her breath hitched, then evened.

He’s coming this way.

She considered moving. Just quietly slipping back through the corridor arch, letting the shadows take her before he turned the corner.

But then she stilled.

Why should I leave?

She hadn’t done anything. She hadn’t broken her illusion. No one had called her out, not even Lucavion himself during the duels, despite how carefully his gaze had scanned the crowd. She was still Elowyn here. An unknown, inconsequential girl with quiet eyes and minor ties.

Besides, wasn’t this part of it? The testing?

To walk among them unseen and see if her presence still pulled the strings it once had.

So she didn’t move.

Didn’t even straighten her posture. Just stayed leaning, half-shadowed beneath the carved balcony arch, watching the fog pool low across the floor like river smoke.

And then—

He appeared.

Not with fanfare. Not with the heat and violence he had displayed in the arena. He just… walked into view.

Lucavion wore fitted travelwear—nothing ostentatious. A sleeveless ash-grey tunic, simple and functional, enchanted in ways that didn’t draw attention. Black soft-lined pants, tied at the waist with a loose sash, his movements silent save for the gentle tap of his boots. No crest. No embroidery.

His hair was tousled from the breeze. His expression unreadable.

And on his shoulder, the soft white shape of that familiar cat—its fur bright against the dark fabric, tail flicking lazily like it owned the world and had given him permission to walk in it.

He didn’t glance at her. Not yet.

But he was walking directly toward her. Alone.

And Elara, for all her preparation, felt something catch low in her chest. Not fear.

Not recognition.

Something else. Warmer. Sharper.

Anticipation she still refused to name.