Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 743: A mere mongrel

The chamber was quiet, lit only by the faint shimmer of ambient aether running through the filigree-etched walls. This was no throne room—no grand hall designed for spectacle. It was worse.

Private.

Still.

The kind of room where silence spoke louder than banners.

Stacks of documents lay spread across the obsidian desk in front of him, arranged with surgical neatness. Diagrams of mana-weapon channels. Lists of names—students, instructors, guild envoys, foreign observers. Handwritten margins trailed with sigils and personal notes.

And in the center: a profile.

Lucavion.

No crest. No known patron. No bloodline of record.

But the ink over his results was still wet from recalibration—adjusted to account for confirmed irregularities, and still he sat at the top.

Across from the desk, kneeling on the floor, was Khaedren.

Forehead to marble.

Not in gesture.

In penance.

And beside the Prince, arms folded, face unreadable, stood the Marquis of House Varenth—silent, unblinking. A statue of duty carved in noble lines.

The Crown Prince did not raise his eyes immediately.

He finished reviewing the last document in his hand. Folded it. Set it aside.

Then, at last—

“So,” he said, his voice smooth and soft as falling snow, “you have failed.”

The words didn’t rise.

They descended.

And though he did not shout, the air pulled tighter in the room—as if the walls themselves recoiled from his disappointment.

Khaedren’s head pressed lower. His breath shallow against the polished stone.

“My Prince,” he said, voice tight with shame, “he is… unstable. Reckless. He has no respect for order, for tradition—”

“I didn’t ask for analysis,” the Crown Prince said, still not looking at him.

His fingers idly adjusted the quill beside the scrolls.

“I asked for control.”

A pause.

“And instead, you brought provocation.”

He looked up then.

And those tarnished-gold eyes were not angry.

They were measured.

Precise.

“The boy insulted you,” the Prince said. “Which means you allowed insult to be possible.“

A beat.

“You slammed the door. Which means you let your temper write the end of the conversation.”

Another beat.

“And you returned alone. Which means you left without purpose.”

He leaned back in his chair, the faint blue glow of the warded windows casting gentle light across his flawless skin—so young, too young—and yet no one in the room could meet his gaze without feeling the weight of centuries standing behind it.

“There is nothing more dangerous than a dog who believes itself a wolf,” he said. “Unless, of course…”

He tilted his head.

“…the wolves start to believe it, too.”

The Crown Prince finally stood, slow and smooth, walking toward the sealed window at the far end of the room. The capital stretched below—a mosaic of power, hierarchy, elegance, and shadows.

He placed a hand on the glass.

“You’ve failed,” he said again, softly. “Not because he defied you.”

A pause.

“But because you left him thinking he could.”

The Crown Prince’s hand lingered on the glass, his reflection fractured by the runes etched into the window’s surface. Then—slowly—his eyes shifted.

And for the first time since entering the chamber, the room dimmed.

Not from any failing of light.

But from the glow that rose within him.

His pupils, once gold and ancient in hue, bled into a colder crimson—deep and glacial, not fiery. The red of sovereignty not worn, but born. A mark of the Lysandran bloodline, feared across every northern court and whispered of in the Empire’s darker corners. The eyes of the last dynasty to rule not by faith or conquest, but by inevitability.

The Crown Prince turned.

Khaedren didn’t look up. He didn’t dare.

But the Marquis did.

Varenth’s expression did not change—because it never did—but there was a subtle straightening in the lines of his spine, the way only those trained to feel dread without flinching ever moved.

The Prince spoke.

“Marquis,” he said. “It seems my servants are… lacking.”

He didn’t glance toward Khaedren, didn’t need to.

“See to it.”

Varenth bowed, a single fluid motion as crisp as drawn steel. “It will be done, Your Highness.”

But he did not rise immediately.

A breath passed.

“However,” Varenth added, his tone unreadable, “the matter of the boy remains.”

There was no need to say the name again. It hung in the air like a stain on silk.

“Lucavion.”

Varenth’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The formal complaint has been lodged with the Academy, but they are delaying. Politics. Appearances. The new structure of the Trials has complicated jurisdiction.”

To that—

Lucien Lysandros smiled.

Not kindly.

Not amused.

But amused all the same.

The red in his eyes gleamed brighter, casting thin shadows over the room that didn’t belong to the angle of the light.

“There’s no need to concern yourself,” he said, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. “This boy… this commonborn, name-starved cur… he is not some storm to be weathered.”

His gaze lifted, slow and deliberate, back toward the glass. His reflection stared back—flawless, composed, untouched.

“He is a bug. A sheep-blooded insect who stumbled upon a sword and mistook the weight for a crown.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough to let the smile show in profile.

“Let him bark. Let him bleed himself dry chasing meaning in the mud. The first frost will end him. And if it does not…”

Lucien’s voice dropped, almost pleasant.

“…then I will.”

A beat of silence. The weight of the room settled once more.

Then—

“Now go,” the Crown Prince said, turning fully away.

Varenth bowed again, lower this time.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The door closed behind him with a whisper.

The door had barely finished whispering shut when Lucien moved.

He rose from his seat with the elegance of habit, each motion deliberate—measured not for those who might observe, but because that was the only way he knew how to move. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive.

He stepped toward the arched pane of warded glass.

Beyond it, the capital glittered beneath the twilight haze. Spires of light, mana-forged halos, the quiet hum of enchantments layered into the streets like veins in a body too large to feel pain. The skyline pulsed with false serenity, as if it didn’t remember the blood it stood on.

Lucien stared through it all. Past the beauty. Past the wealth. Past the spectacle.

And into the quiet unease tugging at the edges of his composure.

His reflection remained behind the runes—those red irises glowing with quiet frost.

’This is the second time.’

The words weren’t spoken. They didn’t need to be.

They lived in him. Cold. Sharp. Precise.

’The first time was… tolerable. An anomaly. A dog howling in the night is still just a dog.’

A shift in his jaw. Barely visible. But it was there.

’But now?’

He narrowed his eyes.

’Now the dog bares its teeth. Not by instinct. But by will.’

That was not something he could allow.

Not twice.

Not when the Academy—the place meant to mold and separate those worthy of bearing names—had allowed this display to go unanswered.

He clenched his hand once, slow, then released it. Mana flickered through his veins like the whisper of steel against silk. Not loud. Not erratic. But fatal.

His gaze lifted again. Not toward the city.

But higher.

Toward the stars beginning to bloom at the edge of the sky.

And then—

A flicker behind his eyes. A memory. Sharp. Unwanted.

Her.

That whore on the roof.

The word was venom, not lust.

Not a lover. Not even a rival.

His sister.

Or what the court dared to still call his sister.

Mixed-blood. Tainted. A symbol of everything he had carved out of the royal narrative with surgical precision. A stain the Empire had swallowed only because of timing—because the war had needed a symbol.

And now—

’Lucavion.’

The name tasted of iron and rebellion. Of dirt and heat and hunger passed off as “potential.”

And that boy—that commoner—had met with her.

Of course he had.

Lucien’s eyes darkened, the red within them deepening to the hue of old embers.

’Of course that mutt would find his way to the gutter spawn. Like attracts like. Filth finds filth.’

He did not speak the next thought aloud, but it pressed against the glass of his mind.

’I will show them what becomes of mongrels who dream above their station.’

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