Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 780: Customs and Rejection (2)

From the raised balconies that circled the grand banquet hall, Reynard Crane watched.

He did not stand alone.

At his flanks—half a pace behind, like shadows trained to move with him—were two of his most loyal retainers. Lyon Halcrest, tall and sharp-featured, eyes always scanning like a hawk bored of waiting for prey. And Davien Thorne, broader, quiet, but not slow. His silence wasn’t stupidity—it was calculation.

They were dressed impeccably, of course. Not for display, but for declaration.

Together, they stood like a portrait of future dominance.

Reynard’s posture remained perfect—hands lightly clasped behind his back, expression schooled into the calm disdain of aristocracy perfected over generations. But his eyes? They never stopped moving.

They were fixed on one figure in particular.

Lucavion.

There was no mistaking him now. Not after the entrance trials. Not after the entrance ranking.

And certainly not after the voice of the Crown Prince had spoken into Reynard’s ears just hours before the banquet began.

“Make sure to deal with that pest.”

No ambiguity. No restraint.

The Crown Prince’s tone had been velvet-wrapped steel. That of a man used to getting his way, whose tolerance for loose ends was thinning rapidly.

“You failed once, Reynard. Don’t fail again.”

And Reynard would not.

He had planned for this. Waited for this. A public hall—yes—but surrounded by students. Unwatched corners. Masked intentions. Even a whisper of scandal around the top-ranked candidate could shift public perception. One nudge at the right time, and the so-called prodigy could become a liability, not a triumph.

And more importantly, Reynard needed to see him. Up close.

The boy who had outmaneuvered his men. Slipped through their grip. Mocked his standing without even knowing his name.

Lucavion had cost him pride.

Now Reynard would test the price of his survival.

He gave a slight nod, and Lyon and Davien fell into motion with him.

Together, they descended the curved staircase that led down to the banquet floor. Nobles turned at their passing—some with curiosity, others with calculation. The heir to House Crane did not mingle without purpose.

They moved like an arrow in formation—point, shaft, and fletching—silent, sure, and aimed.

Lucavion’s table came into view. Still laughing. Still seated like a man holding court with misfits and misdirection.

The others saw Reynard first—Mireilla tensed subtly, Elayne’s hand slipped toward her goblet not out of thirst but readiness, and Toven’s grin faltered like a song played off-key. Even Caeden’s focus sharpened.

But Lucavion…

Lucavion didn’t look.

Not at first.

As if he knew. As if the presence alone was enough to taste.

Reynard stopped beside the table, Lyon at his right, Davien at his left, the hush that followed their arrival not immediate, but infectious. It spread in ripples—first among those seated, then outward, until half the nearby tables leaned in to listen without seeming to.

“Evening,” Reynard said, his voice polite, warm, perfect.

Elayne’s lips pressed together.

Caeden’s fingers curled around the stem of his wineglass.

But Lucavion only turned his head slightly, lifting his gaze with the kind of deliberate slowness that could be mistaken for laziness by fools—or threat by anyone smarter.

And then, he smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel.

Just enough.

“Ah,” Lucavion murmured, as if a piece of music had finally returned to its refrain. “We meet again, don’t we?”

Reynard’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed—just enough for the trained to notice.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Lucavion’s brow rose ever so slightly. There was no ripple of emotion, no sharp comeback. Just that faint glimmer of amusement curling at the edge of his lips.

But he didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence was its own reply.

Reynard’s expression smoothed once more, practiced and regal. Then he stepped forward, allowing formality to guide him through the next motion.

“I suppose introductions are in order,” he said, loud enough for the nearby tables to catch.

He turned slightly and swept one hand out with elegant precision. “I am Reynard Crane. First heir of House Crane. A pleasure to meet you all.”

His eyes moved, sharp and slow, across the faces at the table—measuring, cataloging.

First, he greeted Elayne. She stood with cool grace, offering her hand with practiced civility.

“Lady Cors,” he murmured. “Your technique in the trials was… instructive.”

“Lord Crane,” she returned, her voice perfectly polite, tone perfectly neutral.

Next was Mireilla. She rose only slightly, but her presence sharpened with court-learned precision.

“Mireilla Dane,” she said.

Reynard took her hand delicately. “Ah. From the Deep Green. I’ve heard much.”

“Most of it’s probably false,” Mireilla replied with a smile so polite it almost hid the thorn.

Then came Caeden. His shake was firm, grounded, met without blink or deference.

“Roark, is it?” Reynard said, eyes narrowing just a sliver.

“Dustlands,” Caeden answered, unfazed. “We don’t use titles there.”

Reynard smiled thinly, as if that explained more than it should.

Toven went next, with a grin and a wink. “Toven Vintrell. Apprentice troublemaker.”

Reynard gave a clipped nod. “Charming.”

Next came the noble group—Aldric, Seraphina, Marius, and Liora. Each offered their hand in turn, and each time Reynard accepted it with the smooth efficiency of someone deeply trained in the etiquette of dominance dressed as diplomacy.

Then—

Lucavion.

Still seated.

Still leaning back in his chair with that calm, unreadable gaze.

Reynard’s hand did not extend.

Neither did Lucavion’s.

The moment stretched.

The silence curled like smoke.

And then Reynard smiled.

Not warm.

Not cold.

But knowing.

’A chance,’ he thought. ’To remind this arrogant bastard that he doesn’t belong.’

He turned slightly, as if dismissing the matter altogether, and tilted his head toward the two behind him.

The shift was almost imperceptible.

Almost.

But Reynard’s followers—Lyon and Davien—caught it instantly.

The slight tilt of his head. The pause. The way his smile didn’t flicker, but his jaw set just a shade tighter.

It was enough.

They moved like dogs let off the leash of courtesy.

“You dare?” Davien’s voice cracked like a whip through the ambient clink of crystal and silver. “Is this your way of disregarding House Crane?”

Heads turned.

Lyon stepped forward, voice colder, more precise. “You think yourself above tradition? Above offering your hand to the heir of one of Arcanis’ founding houses?”

His words cut like a scalpel—measured, practiced, loud enough to be overheard but not enough to warrant intervention from the staff. “This is open defiance of noble custom.”

Reynard said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

The storm had already been conjured for him.

Lucavion exhaled—quiet, bored, as though swatting at gnats.

Then he tilted his head, fingers tapping once against his temple before sliding down to rest beneath his nose.

“House Crane?” he asked softly. “Who?”

A beat.

Then he flicked his finger upward as if remembering something distant and mildly unpleasant.

“Ah. Right. Thugs in the clothes of nobility.”

His smile didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to.

“Wasn’t that right?” he added, voice light as ash.

Gasps echoed from surrounding tables.

Lyon’s eyes blazed.

Davien took a step forward—

But Lucavion didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

He just let the words settle like poison slipped into wine.

And Reynard?

He smiled wider.

Because now… the game had truly begun.

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