Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 885: Are you okay ?

Lucavion didn’t stop walking. Not until the fog coiled around his boots and the wisteria-framed alcove pulled him into its hush.

Then—he lifted his gaze.

And their eyes met.

His were black. Not like coal, not like ink. Not even like shadow. They were obsidian in stormlight—depthless, unblinking, and polished so dark they caught reflections like mirrors.

She saw herself there.

Just a flicker. A ghost of a girl in grey, outlined in silver mist and softened by distance. But unmistakably—her.

’Will he recognize me?’

The thought wasn’t panicked. It wasn’t even fearful.

It was… suspended. Like a breath held too long.

Because what would that mean?

If Lucavion looked at her—not Elowyn Caerlin, baron’s daughter from Caedrim Reach—but her, truly her… Elara of House Lorian.

How can you look at me like that?

The thought unfurled without grace. Jagged. Bitter. She met his gaze and held it, her own breath steady while her pulse thundered beneath her skin like war drums muffled by velvet.

Lucavion didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His expression remained a smooth mask, impassive as always. That same unreadable confidence. That same calm.

But Elara—

Elara was burning.

Because behind her steady eyes, her thoughts clawed and surged.

You.

You were one of them.

One of the reasons.

One of the cold hands that had reached into the sanctity of her home, her future, and twisted it into ash.

He hadn’t cast the vote. He hadn’t delivered the exile himself. But he had played a part. He had delivered her—bound in frost and blood—to the woman who wore betrayal like perfume.

He had watched her fall and done nothing.

And worse—when they’d met again in that corridor, he hadn’t even acknowledged what he’d done. No flicker of remorse. No recognition of consequence. Just that damnable calm, as if her ruin had simply been a side effect of some larger, abstract strategy.

Elara’s fingers curled slowly against the stone rail. Her mana shifted—subtle, involuntary—responding to the anger that curled tight in her belly.

She wanted to speak.

To demand why.

To ask if he remembered—her eyes wild with desperation, her body weak from poison, her entire life collapsing while he stood by Isolde’s side, so terribly quiet.

’How could you?’

’Do you even care what you destroyed?’

’Was it worth it?’

The questions clawed at her throat. Her illusion flared under strain, Eveline’s enchantment holding—but barely.

She wanted to confront him, right here in the garden, where the mist still clung to her boots and the moon cast only suggestion instead of truth. She wanted to break the silence between them and throw it at his feet like shattered glass.

But she didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

’Not yet.’

Not if she wanted her revenge to mean something. Not if she wanted to keep her blade hidden until it was aimed with precision. Not if she wanted to win.

If Lucavion knew her—truly knew her—he wouldn’t just become a threat. He would inform Isolde.

And then—

Everything would shift.

Her place at the Academy. Her protection. The slow work Eveline had so carefully laid.

All of it would burn before she could strike back.

And yet—

Despite the burn behind her ribs, despite the ache in her throat from all the words unsaid, something inside her stirred.

Something quieter than rage.

Stormhaven.

The thought crept in like a crack beneath a door, trailing wind and memory.

That fleeting pocket of stillness between exiles and alliances. The place where her limbs had trembled from exertion and her chest had still been hollow with grief, but for one frozen heartbeat, someone had caught her.

Luca.

No, Lucavion.

She didn’t want to rely on other people too much…. But that hadn’t stopped him from lunging through chaos and risk to shove her from the edge of that collapsing vortex. His voice—lighthearted as usual, as if everything was in his control.

And then he had.

Moved. Pushed.

Taken the blast himself.

His body had struck the ward line with brutal force. She’d watched his form crumple, watched How did he disappear.

And before her vision blurred with blood and pressure and the cold pain of overdrawn mana, she’d seen his face.

Those eyes.

Pitch-black. Storm-dark. Reflective, like twin blades kissed by obsidian rain.

And now—now—they were the same.

The same as they had been in that moment. Looking at her again with that terrible stillness. Not indifferent. Not cruel. Just… watching.

But—

When she woke up.

Not in the corridor. Not on the training fields. But after.

After it all. After the moment everything turned.

At the banquet.

In the shattered ruin of her inheritance, when the crowd stared and her family’s shame was recited like scripture. When her father turned his face away. When the court whispered her name as if it were a slur.

In that breath between ruin and exile—

In the start of that moment of her disgrace…

It started with her opening her eyes in that bedroom…

And the first thing she had seen—

Wasn’t black.

Her brow furrowed. A tension bloomed in her chest, sharp and involuntary.

’What?’

She gripped the edge of the balustrade, a tremor slipping through her fingers.

’What color… were they?’

Not ink. Not shadow. Not void.

No.

The memory came not as a vision, but as a feeling. A brightness.

The memory flickered.

Not like fire.

Not like light.

But like something caught beneath ice—trapped, distorted, pulsing just beneath the surface.

The moment she opened her eyes in that gilded bedroom…

The sheets had smelled of perfume and dust. Her wrists ached. Her vision swam.

But there had been eyes.

And they hadn’t been black.

They had been—bright. Startling. Like twin shards of something cold and dark-laced, staring down at her with a gaze that split the world into before and after.

A breath hitched in her throat.

’Then it wasn’t him.’

The thought didn’t soothe. It didn’t clarify. It twisted harder.

’But it was him. He was there. He—’

Was above her.

That memory slammed through the veil like a poisoned blade.

That version of him. That angle—him over her. His weight. His stillness. That unbearable closeness, reeking not of desire but of control, of condescension. His voice—barely raised. His hands—uncaring. Her body, heavy and useless, her scream locked inside her lungs like frost-bitten air.

The world spun.

Elara gripped the stone tighter, her nails digging into the moss-laced balustrade as if it could anchor her to now. Her illusion rippled, just slightly, before shuddering back into place.

’No…’

She bit her lower lip, hard enough to taste blood. The pain was grounding. Real.

But the memory wouldn’t fade.

That bedroom. That shame. That feeling of being looked at like a mistake, a failure, a conquest.

And yet—

The face at the center of it all had never solidified in her mind. It had always been a smear, a weight, an accusation cloaked in shadows.

Was it him?

Or had her mind made it him—because it had been easier to attach a name to the horror than let it float without one?

Elara’s breath grew rough. Shallow. Unsteady.

Not now. Not again.

Not here in the mist. Not with him standing only feet away, watching her like he was waiting for something to fall from her lips.

She turned her head slightly—just enough to shift the angle, to break the line of sight. Her profile cast in moonlight. Her chest rising too fast.

She counted her breath.

One.

Two.

Three.

And then—

A touch.

Light. Careful. Not invasive, but present.

Fingers just brushing the curve of her shoulder, like someone asking permission without words.

“Are you okay?”