Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 732: Refusal

Lucavion remained seated, eyes tilted upward, fixed on her silhouette as it loomed before him—imperial, poised, unshakably composed.

But not unreadable.

Not to him.

Not anymore.

His vision—no, his sense—had sharpened since he has been polishing his [Flame of Equinox].

And the ability that he ahs recently learned….It was the time to use it.

This wasn’t just instinct or intuition. It was a honing of perception, a tuning to the pulse of human nature itself.

He saw the veil of her words, wrapped in regality and laced with intention.

And he saw past it.

When she spoke of fairness, her vitality remained even.

When she mentioned care, the flow of her presence didn’t stutter.

But when she spoke of bringing him to her side?

There. The briefest tremor.

Not in her voice.

But in the rhythm of her essence. The subtle change in her vitality. A flicker.

’She’s hiding something…’

And he understood.

Not that she lied outright—but that she had omitted something important. There was more to her offer. More to her need.

’She doesn’t just want an ally,’ he thought. ’She wants control. Of me. Of this outcome. She sees the throne already—and she’s choosing her pieces to place around it.’

He let the silence hang, like a blade just before the strike.

Then he spoke—soft, but cutting.

“Stand by your side…”

He repeated her words slowly. Tasting them.

Then he tilted his head—just slightly—and asked the one question that cracked through the air like a whip.

“As equals?”

The shift in Selienne’s face was so subtle most would have missed it.

But Lucavion didn’t miss it.

Couldn’t.

There, behind the careful mask of nobility—the perfect posture and sculpted smile—a single line of tension drew beneath her eyes. Barely perceptible. A flicker of thought rising too fast to bury.

She masked it, of course.

Quickly.

Elegantly.

But not well enough.

’That was the crack,’ he mused. ’The insult she didn’t speak aloud. The offense she swallowed like poison.’

And now?

Now she stood straighter. Too straight.

The weight of her title settled between them again, even if she hadn’t said a word yet. Not quite anger. But the kind of quiet assertion that said be careful where your ambition points, commoner.

Lucavion watched her, calm, unrattled.

He hadn’t raised his voice.

He hadn’t disrespected her.

He’d just… asked.

But in a world built on hierarchy, asking was often the most dangerous act of all.

Selienne’s pause was brief—but in that pause, a thousand instincts refined by generations of court survival fired behind her eyes.

Then came her answer, voice clear, clipped, and cleanly spoken:

“Of course,” she said. “We would be equals.”

A practiced smile returned to her lips—not one of warmth, but of principle, of stance. “I don’t believe in bloodline superiority. That kind of thinking belongs to the Crown Prince’s faction. The Blood Faction,” she added, with the faintest trace of disdain curling beneath her otherwise controlled tone. “They are relics clinging to the illusion of legacy. A fortress of noble houses desperate to preserve the empire as it is.”

She turned slightly, arms folding with care behind her back, her gaze drifting just over Lucavion’s shoulder before returning to him again.

“I can’t be like that,” she said. “I won’t. I’ve built my platform differently. On merit. On vision.”

It was smooth.

It was clean.

It was almost convincing.

But Lucavion could see it.

Feel it.

The rhythm of her presence stuttered at the edges, barely visible to any other soul in the empire. But to someone attuned to the [Flame of Equinox]—to someone watching her vitality, reading her energy with surgical attention—it was all there.

The truth twisted at the very end of her words.

And then—confirmation.

A soft whisper, like a breeze through glass, spoke beside him.

[She is lying.]

Vitaliara’s voice entered like a thread through velvet. No judgment. Just observation. Truth laid bare.

Selienne stood there, regal and still, cloaked in certainty.

But she was lying.

Even if she didn’t want to be.

Even if she told herself she wasn’t.

She couldn’t mean it.

A Princess of the Empire—raised above crowds since the moment she first opened her eyes. Fed on etiquette, surrounded by expectation, bathed in unspoken supremacy. Even if she rebelled against it, it was her. And in her heart of hearts, the very idea of true equality with a mere commoner—even a powerful, dangerous, famous one—was absurd.

Lucavion didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react.

He’d already expected it.

He hadn’t asked to believe her.

He’d asked to see.

And now?

Now he had.

’Indeed,’ he thought, gaze drifting downward for a moment, before returning to her crimson stare. ’Different side of the same coin.’

Lucien built his world with chains.

Selienne?

With ribbons.

But in the end, both wanted the same thing.

Control. Victory. The throne.

And Lucavion?

He smiled faintly to himself, the corners of his mouth curling like the edge of a blade being drawn.

He had no intention of being anyone’s piece.

It was clear now—crystal, even beneath the polished haze of diplomacy.

Selienne hadn’t come to negotiate.

She had come to press.

Not with threats. Not with brute force. But with presence.

Royalty, distilled into silk and certainty. Her silhouette, her gaze, the cadence of her words—they were designed to remind. Not persuade. To weigh down those who sat before her and make them feel smaller for not standing.

She had wanted him to feel the enormity of her. Of her name. Of her future throne.

But Lucavion?

He didn’t bend.

Not to weight.

Not to names.

And certainly not to legacies sewn into blood.

’I’ve felt the gaze of monsters with no eyes. Fought against those who command legions with a flick of will. You think I’ll flinch because a girl wrapped in silk says “stand by me” like it’s fate?’

She had tried to wrap the conversation in velvet. To trap him not in a cage—but in a promise.

A quieter kind of chain.

And though it was elegant, refined, and full of calculation—

It hadn’t worked.

Lucavion slowly rose from his seat.

Not with flourish. Not with defiance.

Just quiet, unshakable intent.

A show of balance.

Of respect.

And of refusal.

He met her gaze directly. There was no mockery in his eyes. No dismissal. Only the kind of calm resolve that made even silence sound final.

“You’ve shown me courtesy,” he said.

The words were simple, but carried with them the gravity of something deeper. A recognition of her title, of her presence, of the effort she had made—even if veiled in tactics.

“And so I’ll return it in kind.”

He paused.

Then, clearly, without hesitation—

“I will respectfully decline.”

The air shifted.

Selienne’s body didn’t move—but her eyes did.

There it was again—that flicker. Barely a breath of time.

But it was a reaction.

Not rage. Not shock.

But something colder.

Offended?

No. Not quite.

Disappointed?

Possibly.

But more than anything—surprised.

She hadn’t thought he’d say no.

Selienne’s lashes lowered, just enough to shadow the gleam behind her eyes. The silence stretched between them like drawn silk—elegant, taut, dangerous.

Then, with the slow deliberation of someone not used to being refused, she spoke.

“For what reason?”

No longer wrapped in offer.

No longer veiled in charm.

Just a question. Direct.

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, and for the first time since she stepped into his room, the tone of the exchange shifted—he shifted it.

The edge in his posture softened, but only to make room for something else.

Something far more Lucavion.

He gave a slow, theatrical blink, then clasped his hands lightly behind his back. His eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that always danced with danger, and his voice—when it came—held no weight of formality.

Just that signature grin.

“Miss First Princess.”

The title was deliberate.

Stripped of deference. Dressed in charm.

Selienne’s eyes narrowed. Not in offense. In attention.

Lucavion continued, casually, as though they were discussing the weather and not dismantling a royal alliance offer.

“I don’t like the world to be played by the rules.”

The smile that followed was all teeth—clean, charismatic, and completely untamed.

“Rather than walking the predetermined paths,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers, “I like to carve my own.”

There it was.

The refusal wasn’t just no.

It was an assertion.

A declaration.

He wasn’t just stepping away from her throne.

He was stepping into his own.

And no one—not even the Princess of the Empire—could draw the map he’d walk.

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