Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The flickering lamplight inside the secluded stone chamber cast long, distorted shadows across the walls. High above the rest of Velis Prominence, tucked behind a shuttered balcony meant only for nobles with names too proud to be seen drinking among the crowds, the heir of House Crane stood alone at the room’s center, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white.

His chest heaved.

Not from exertion.

But from fury.

“I should’ve crushed him,” he growled under his breath, voice shaking. “Right there. In front of all of them.”

Around him stood his entourage—two attendants, one senior officer of the estate guard, and a family cousin whose robes bore the telltale silk trim of those tied to the Elitist Circle behind the Crown Prince’s faction.

“Lord Reynard, please,” one of them said quietly. “Your mana has still not stabilized. You could worsen the damage to your inner circuits if you—”

“Silence!” Reynard snapped.

His aura flared for a second—brief, unstable, but filled with heat and humiliation. He turned sharply, pacing across the room like a caged predator, the back of his heel slamming against the leg of a polished chair and sending it screeching aside.

“He humiliated me. In front of everyone. The nobles. The commoners. Her.” The last word spat like venom.

The cousin raised a placating hand. “It was unforeseen. That boy was not listed on any of the watch rosters or academy contenders. We still don’t even have a name.”

“And yet he knew everything,” Reynard hissed. “He knew the law. He knew the timing. He knew she would be there.”

His gaze shot to the side, toward the corner of the room where two figures stood uncertainly—the baron boy and his sister, half-shadowed by the golden trim of the curtains behind them. Their posture was stiff, backs pressed near the wall, clearly unsure if they were meant to leave or be questioned further.

Reynard stepped toward them slowly, his boots echoing across the polished stone.

His eyes—red-rimmed and furious—locked onto the baron.

“You,” he said.

The boy flinched.

“You… Do you know that bastard?”

His voice was ice and fire layered over contempt.

The baron shook his head quickly. “N-no, my lord. I swear—I’ve never seen him before tonight.”

Reynard took another step forward. The baron’s sister instinctively placed a hand in front of him, protective, but she said nothing.

“Then why was he there?” Reynard’s voice thundered across the chamber, cutting into the silence like a blade. “Why did he care enough to step in—for you?”

His words hung heavy, filled with a bitter venom no apology could ease.

The baron boy swallowed hard, eyes wide and panicked. He looked to his sister, but she said nothing, her hand still protectively across his chest, holding him back like a fragile wall between the storm and the sea.

“I—I don’t know,” the boy stammered. “I swear it, my lord. I don’t know who he is.”

Reynard’s fists clenched, veins bulging white across the back of his hands. For a moment, it looked as if he might strike the boy then and there. His body shook—not with fear, but with the sheer pressure of swallowed rage.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

This wasn’t just a bruised ego.

It was a crack in a design that had taken months to shape.

The baron had no faction. No ties. That was the point. That was his role in the plan. A disposable name from a rural border, here on a forged admission. Someone no one would protect. Someone who wouldn’t cause a stir if cornered in public—someone who would collapse quietly under pressure and make the princess watch.

It had been crafted perfectly.

By him.

And yet—

Now, the name that wasn’t supposed to matter had pulled the eyes of the capital to a single moment, and he, Reynard of House Crane, stood humiliated in the ashes of it.

A retainer cleared his throat, hesitant. “My lord… perhaps the princess has already dealt with him.”

Reynard turned slowly, his jaw clenched so tight it creaked.

He didn’t speak at first.

Then—coldly, quietly, with all the venom of his bloodline poured into a single breath—

“…That bitch.”

He spun away, pacing to the window slit carved into the tower wall, his boots echoing with every step.

A pause.

And then, a quieter whisper, one not meant for anyone’s ears but his own.

“…He will not like this.”

The others heard it anyway. They exchanged glances—careful, measured.

They all knew who he meant.

The Crown Prince.

This entire night had been orchestrated to prove Reynard’s usefulness—to publicly shame the so-called “princess of diluted blood.” To show that she was weak, that she could not uphold imperial law, that even a mere baron could be stepped over under her gaze and she would do nothing.

It was meant to make her bend.

To make him—Reynard—look strong in the prince’s eyes.

One of the final tests, the final conditions, before House Crane would be welcomed as an official ally to the most dangerous faction in the Empire.

And instead?

Instead, Reynard had collapsed in the middle of Velis Prominence, brought low in front of half the capital. A nameless boy had taken control of the scene. Of the crowd. Of her.

He hadn’t exposed her weakness.

He’d exposed his own.

All because of—

“A bastard,” Reynard whispered, his eyes burning now—not from tears, but from hate.

He turned from the window, his voice like steel dragged across stone.

“Find out who he is.”

The attendants nodded immediately.

“And when you do,” he added, voice dark as frostbite, “bring him to me.”

His eyes landed once more on the trembling baron and his sister.

And this time, the look in them was colder than before.

Calculated.

Unforgiving.

******

The moment his presence slipped beyond the terrace arch, the silence he left behind felt oddly full—like a room still echoing with words that had no right to linger.

Priscilla remained seated, unmoving, her eyes still fixed on the last place he had stood. The faintest curl of steam still rose from his untouched tea.

Behind her, quiet footsteps approached with practiced caution.

“Your Highness,” Idena said softly, voice carefully measured, “should we have him… detained?”

The pause before detained was not out of fear—it was formality. A question already half-answered.

Priscilla didn’t reply right away.

Logically, the answer was obvious.

Yes.

He had spoken without deference, danced around provocation, even dared to mock the sanctity of her station—all without a single noble title to shield him. In any other circumstance, the guards would have seized him the moment he began his performance.

And yet—

Yet.

She didn’t give the order.

Because her mind wasn’t finished spinning.

If she did lock him down, what would that achieve?

A show of strength, yes. A clean return to decorum. Her image salvaged—perhaps even bolstered. A firm response to whispers about weakness. The court would nod. House Crane might simmer down.

But—

Would she be right?

That man… no, that young man—had spoken with precision. Not wildness. Not the desperate unpredictability of an agitator, or the smug confidence of a dissident. His words had been placed like stones in a river, redirecting the flow without ever forcing it.

And the strangest part of it all?

She sensed no hostility from him.

Not toward her.

Not even when he pushed.

It wasn’t a game for domination. Nor ambition. It was as if he’d been testing a thread. Giving her something.

Her time in the palace had taught her to read the air around people. To listen to what wasn’t said. The ones who smiled and loathed. The ones who bowed and plotted. That man—as much as he irritated her—had not radiated malice.

He hadn’t come to strike.

He’d come to warn.

She let out a breath—measured, soft.

“No,” she said finally.

Idena straightened slightly. “Your Highness?”

“We won’t pursue him,” Priscilla said, her voice even, but with that quiet finality that brokered no counter. “Not tonight.”

Idena hesitated, then bowed. “As you command.”

And Priscilla returned to silence, her crimson eyes drifting back toward the cooling tea, her thoughts already running again.

No name. No title. But he saw too much. Knew too much.

And somehow… despite all of it…

She couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the last time she’d see him.

And when she did—

She would demand answers.

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