Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 810: Thalor Draycott

Air.

Real, full, precious air surged back into her lungs, cold and biting, and Priscilla nearly choked on the relief. She steadied herself with a hand against the column behind her, the world stuttering back into motion one throb of her pulse at a time.

The pain was gone.

The grip—gone.

The humiliation?

Still there. Deep. Raw. Burning behind her ribs like shame stitched into bone.

And then—she saw him.

Lucavion.

He stood only a few paces away, not close enough to crowd, not far enough to miss. One hand rested at his side, casual, as if he’d just brushed dust from his coat. The other tucked calmly behind his back.

And his eyes?

Fixed on Thalor.

Unmoving. Unblinking.

A smile curved his lips—quiet, razor-thin, and unmistakably deliberate. The kind of smile that didn’t ask if someone was alright.

Lucavion stepped forward with the poise of a man who had never once known the feeling of being unwelcome in a room, though his very presence now seemed to tighten the air between them. The smile on his face remained—thin, polite, and utterly unreadable.

He reached out and gave Thalor’s shoulder a single, casual pat.

“Ah, apologies,” he said smoothly, his voice light as ever. “I may have spilled a bit of my drink on you. I hope your clothes aren’t too damaged?”

He gestured subtly to the barely noticeable line of moisture along Thalor’s sleeve—likely wine, dark and fading quickly into the cloth. The kind of spill that could happen in any ballroom.

Or in the aftermath of being hit by a sudden, invisible wave of pressure.

Lucavion stepped back just slightly and offered a small nod, fingers brushing his own lapel.

“It seems I’m a bit shaken today,” he continued, voice still easy, still disarmingly soft. “After all that… I suppose I’ve become a little sensitive to mana.”

Thalor’s smile remained.

But his eyes?

His eyes narrowed.

The curve of his lips didn’t move, but something sharp and thin flickered behind his gaze—surprise first, then calculation, and finally something darker. A flicker of caution that most would never catch.

But Priscilla did.

’He knows.’

Lucavion hadn’t said it outright. Hadn’t pointed fingers. But the implication—mana—delivered with that soft tone and that knowing gaze, left no ambiguity between men who lived and breathed spellwork.

Lucavion had felt it.

He had known what was happening.

Not just guessed—sensed.

And to do that?

To perceive a spell as finely tuned, as insidiously cloaked as Thalor’s had been? free\NovelFire.c o(m)

That wasn’t common.

It wasn’t even expected.

It was remarkable.

’You really are dangerous…’ Priscilla thought, a strange mixture of relief and something warmer twisting in her chest.

Because while no one else had noticed—

Lucavion had.

That was the part that wouldn’t leave her.

Not the fact that Lucavion sensed it—though that alone should’ve stunned her.

It was the fact that he acted.

Because he had no reason to.

No political gain.

No romantic tie.

Not even a public to impress—their exchange had been subtle, buried in the ambient murmur of the ballroom. If anything, stepping in like this risked more than it rewarded.

And still… he came.

She stared at him, still catching her breath, heart stuttering under the weight of what just didn’t make sense.

Why?

He wasn’t someone who played protector. Not for the sake of gallantry. Not for optics. She had seen Lucavion corner people with his words, dismantle them without raising his voice. He was precise, deliberate, always moving for advantage.

And yet here he was.

Standing between her and Thalor like a wall made of glass and razor wire.

It unsettled her more than it comforted her.

Thalor, for his part, recovered fast. Faster than she would’ve thought possible. That smile slid right back into place, smooth and untouched—as if Lucavion hadn’t just called him out with surgical precision.

“As I said,” Thalor murmured, brushing the sleeve with a glance, “nothing to worry about.”

He flicked his fingers.

A simple snap of gesture, elegant and effortless.

The wine vanished.

Not just dried—but undone. Fabric re-woven, fibers tightened, color restored. Not a wrinkle out of place.

He stepped back, posture easy, voice pleasant.

Thalor turned to Lucavion with the same easy charm he wore like armor. A noble’s tone, dressed in silk and misdirection.

“Well then,” he said, voice laced with the gloss of courtesy, “this saves me a letter. I’ve been meaning to meet you, actually. Your name’s been… circling, let’s say.” f.(r)eew ebnov\ll.com

He let his words hang like perfume, as if the compliment meant more than it said.

“How nice of you to come all this way.”

But Lucavion?

He smiled.

That same delicate curve. Calm, measured, and just a little too slow.

“I also wanted to meet you,” Lucavion replied, his tone light—almost gracious.

Then he paused.

Tilted his head.

And delivered the rest with surgical calm.

“Though I assume there’s a misconception,” he said. “I didn’t come here to meet you.”

His smile widened just enough to be seen. Not enough to be polite.

“I was just heading out to get some fresh air,” he added, eyes flicking toward the grand terrace doors. “The air in the banquet hall felt… ionized.”

******

Thalor Draycott smiled, but the expression felt like a formality—tight at the corners, empty at the root.

’So this is what I’ve been reduced to…’

He stood in the ballroom, surrounded by ornate decadence and people who mistook proximity to power for relevance, and felt—nothing. Not pleasure. Not pride. Not even irritation. Just that dull, creeping static that had started to plague him lately. The kind that stretched across his days like fog—soft, cloying, insufferable.

Magic, once an extension of his will, had begun to plateau. Every layer of refinement brought diminishing returns. The spells he used to shape like calligraphy now felt like tracing circles. Even the Tower’s inner sanctum, once a playground of secrets, had begun to echo with stale silence. The last duel that made his blood stir? Months ago. The last conversation that left a mark? Longer.

And now, this.

He tilted his glass, swirling the wine with the idle grace of someone who had learned to feign interest. The nobles simpered. The music played. And he—

He waited for anything worth his gaze.

Then it happened.

Lucien. The Great Lucien—poster child of imperial precision, darling of every Council, heir with more weight on his shoulders than substance in his spine—was spoken to like a peer.

No. Worse.

Like an obstacle.

Thalor hadn’t recognized the man at first. Lucavion. An unfamiliar name on the periphery of power, only ever seen in filtered reports and suspicious footnotes.

But when that voice rang out—steady, unhurried, utterly unimpressed—and Lucien flinched?

Something sparked.

Not curiosity.

Not yet.

But it was close.

’Who the hell is that?’

He’d felt the atmosphere shift the moment Lucavion entered. Not with bluster. Not with theatrics. But pressure. Precision. Presence. The same kind of weight Thalor had learned to recognize in duelists who didn’t need to posture—because their very breathing made lesser men doubt themselves.

Finally.

Something interesting.

But then—she appeared.

Priscilla.

Of all people.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!