Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 772: A ghost in Velvet

“A ghost in velvet.”

Lucavion’s mouth curved—not into one of his razor-thin smirks or those crooked mockeries he wore like armor.

But into a genuine smile.

Low. Wry. Inevitable.

“Ghost in velvet…” he murmured, almost to himself. “Quite a name.”

Mireilla tilted her head, one brow rising.

Then Lucavion turned toward her, eyes faintly amused, something playful threading beneath the surface of his tone.

“And what would you say,” he asked, “for the one in front?”

There was no need to clarify. Every gaze in the hall still followed him—the Crown Prince, Lucien Arcturus Lysandra, walking like inevitability made flesh.

Mireilla took a beat too long to answer. Not from hesitation—but calculation.

“Hm.” Her tone grew thoughtful. “Impeccable. Composed. Intimidating in the textbook kind of way.”

A pause.

“Regal,” she settled on, safely diplomatic.

Lucavion’s smile broke wider—this time with unmistakable mirth. His laugh, low and quick, slipped out before he stopped it.

“Regal,” he echoed. “That’s what we’re going with?”

Mireilla folded her arms, chin lifting with mock defiance. “What? It’s accurate.”

“Accurate,” he repeated, as if tasting the word like overcooked meat.

“What?” Mireilla challenged, half amused, half daring. “If you’ve got a better one, then say it.”

Lucavion’s expression didn’t smirk.

It shifted.

A smile bloomed—slow, quiet, but not casual. This one had teeth beneath it, and eyes that glinted like steel catching starlight. Not because of malice. But because of clarity.

The kind of clarity that came from understanding exactly what something was made of.

Lucavion watched as the Crown Prince continued his path—unbothered by the weight of the hall, untouched by the heat of attention. Every step was measured, every turn rehearsed until it passed for instinct. Nothing uncertain. Nothing out of place.

It was perfection.

But it was too perfect.

Too smoothed. Too symmetrical. Like marble carved into something lifelike but never living.

’A prince not raised among people,’ Lucavion thought, gaze narrowing slightly, ’but above them. Beyond them. Built on them.’

The smile never returned to his lips, but the gleam in his eyes sharpened.

Because it was clear—undeniable now.

Lucien’s kind of flawlessness wasn’t honed in effort. It was filtered through privilege, layered over generations of silence paid for in coin and blood. It wasn’t that he didn’t see the world below him.

He chose not to.

He believed he didn’t have to.

As if suffering beneath his feet was simply poor lighting in the grand portrait of his empire.

Lucavion’s fingers brushed once against the table’s edge.

Not in anger.

In understanding.

’You don’t rule by earning. You rule by erasing.’

And that was it, wasn’t it?

The name that fit.

He didn’t say it aloud.

But in his mind, it rang like a bell cast in iron and debt.

“The Crown of Silence.”

A crown that didn’t answer.

A rule that didn’t see.

And a man who had never needed to understand how to kneel, how to struggle.

Yes.

It fit.

Not just as a moniker, but as a truth worn in every gleam of Lucien’s polished perfection. A man wrapped in command, untouched by dirt or doubt. Not because he had transcended the world—

But because he had never once stepped into it.

Mireilla turned toward him, brows drawn. “Okay… What does that even mean?”

Toven leaned forward on one elbow, whispering like a child peeking behind curtains. “Are you insane? You just entered this banquet, and you’re already giving titles to the Crown Prince like you’re writing a eulogy.”

Even Caeden’s brow furrowed slightly, though he said nothing.

Lucavion’s gaze didn’t leave Lucien’s back.

But his smile curved once more—razor-thin now, sharp not with mockery, but with purpose.

“By this point,” he said softly, “don’t you understand?”

He lifted his right hand.

And raised his index finger.

Not in flourish. Not in provocation.

Just fact.

“No one,” Lucavion said, voice low but steady, “I bow to no one.”

And he meant it.

Lucavion’s gaze didn’t shift—not to the others, not even when their reactions came as expected.

Toven scoffed. “Right. Here he goes again.”

“Better write that on a banner,” Caeden muttered dryly, though his lips twitched just faintly at the corner.

Elayne said nothing, but her eyes flicked away, as if accustomed to the cadence of Lucavion’s declarations by now.

But Mireilla… Mireilla didn’t look away.

She was still watching him.

Watching him.

Not in jest. Not in confusion.

But in sharp, steady silence.

Lucavion didn’t miss it.

He lowered his hand, voice still quiet but distinct, every syllable carved like glass.

“And I don’t live by the fear of offending those,” he said, “nor by the rules that are put there to chain the freedom of mind.”

He exhaled through his nose, soft.

“This,” he said, “is what I live by.”

Toven groaned into his goblet. “If he starts quoting ancient poets next, I’m jumping out the window.”

“Which one?” Caeden asked idly. “We’re three floors up.”

“Worth it.”

But Lucavion didn’t smile this time.

Not fully.

Because Mireilla hadn’t looked away.

And she wasn’t smirking.

She was still staring, and there was something in her gaze—quiet. Focused. A sort of pause that rarely visited her usually sharp tongue.

Like she saw something she didn’t quite expect.

He met her stare without hesitation.

He didn’t need to speak.

Because whatever strange, silent current passed between them didn’t ask for words.

It just was.

And then, across the banquet hall, the shift came.

Not dramatic.

Just… movement.

Lucien arrived at his designated seat—raised slightly above the noble cluster, not quite a throne, but unmistakably imperial. The platform was arranged with deliberate symmetry, flanked by high-backed chairs of blackwood and etched sigils, but Lucien sat alone in the center.

Because of course he did.

He didn’t need an entourage to prove his weight.

The empire moved for him.

His coat settled flawlessly as he sat, every line of his attire maintaining its perfect fold. He didn’t look at the crowd, nor at the whispers rippling through the outer ring. He simply reached for the goblet laid before him, lifted it, and sipped.

As if nothing around him mattered enough to deserve acknowledgement.

Behind him—just barely behind—Priscilla moved to her seat.

Not beside him.

Not in prominence.

But behind.

A silent seat, half-lit by the chandeliers. Her gown brushed the edge of the dais as she moved—unescorted, unannounced.

The hall didn’t still for her.

No ripple. No shift.

Only a few glances. A few sideways murmurs.

But no bows.

Lucavion’s eyes flicked toward her—not sharply. Just enough to confirm.

Ghost in velvet, indeed.

She carried herself like she’d long since grown accustomed to this choreography of absence. Like she knew precisely how to move in order not to disturb the symmetry.

And then—

Another shift.

The tone of the hall changed—not in noise, but in energy.

The headmaster had arrived.

He didn’t announce himself.

He didn’t need to.

The doors near the end of the platform opened with a slow glide of reinforced mana, and the headmaster stepped through in robes of cobalt and black, his shoulders marked with silvered arcane embroidery that shimmered not with spellcraft, but age. The man didn’t walk. He flowed—his steps practiced, yet not performative.

And everyone knew.

Because every professor, every official lining the far corners of the room, straightened.

And the nobles?

The ones who had postured so confidently before?

They turned.

All eyes shifted, like stars pivoting in alignment.

The headmaster walked with the kind of presence that couldn’t be learned.

The kind that came only from wielding power long enough to forget what it was like not to have it.

He approached the front, stepped onto the platform—and paused.

The room held its breath.

Even Lucien inclined his head.

Not deeply.

But enough.

Because this was one of the few men in the Empire who could be bowed to.

And still choose not to demand it.

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