Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 751: Some strange politics

“The moment you step into that hall, you’re not yourself. You’re an image. Be careful to not cause a scene.”

Lucavion let out a quiet, dry laugh. Not loud. Not disrespectful. Just… amused.

Kaleran’s head snapped toward him with the precision of a blade being drawn. His stare cut sharper than most swords.

Lucavion’s face had already returned to its composed, impassive state, his eyes half-lidded and calm.

“What,” Kaleran said coolly, “is so funny?”

Lucavion gave the most innocent shrug a man with a void-forged estoc could manage. “Ahem. Nothing,” he said smoothly. “I just… thought of something irrelevant.”

“Be serious,” Kaleran replied, each word enunciated with flat disapproval.

Lucavion placed a hand over his heart, mock solemn. “I always am.”

Kaleran did not look convinced. He turned away with the sigh of a man who had already aged too many years thanks to a single student.

“Move. All of you,” he said. “Your attendants are waiting.”

The group broke apart as their respective guides arrived—uniformed stewards and silent mages in the trim-lined coats of the Academy’s presentation wing. Each moved with professional detachment, bowing just deeply enough to respect, not worship. Mireilla blew a kiss at hers, earning an exasperated roll of the eyes. Toven started asking about food. Caeden was already halfway down the hall with his in quiet stride.

Lucavion followed his own escort through the winding corridors toward the eastern chamber tiers, his footsteps echoing softly along the gold-veined stone.

[They’re going to polish you like a jewel,] Vitaliara mused as she padded alongside him unseen. [Don’t squirm.]

’I don’t squirm.’

[You absolutely squirm.]

’Then maybe I’ll just enchant one of the stylists by accident.’

[That’s worse.]

He pushed open the tall lacquered door that marked his chamber—and was greeted by a scene that might’ve unsettled a lesser man.

Velvet cloths. Mannequins with half-draped robes. Trim tables laden with accessories that shimmered faintly with enchantment. Four figures turned toward him in perfect unison—each dressed in rich silver and sapphire, hair bound in the official style of the Second Imperial Ward.

“Ah, Mister Lucavion,” one of them said, eyes already calculating every detail of his posture, height, and bone structure. “You’ve arrived on time. Rare.”

Lucavion smiled politely. “Let’s not make a habit of it.”

The door clicked shut behind him. The team circled.

The war of glamour had begun.

*****

The sun had barely risen over the upper tiers of Arcania, but the capital was already awake—alive with quiet anticipation.

It was the day of the Entrance Banquet.

Within one of the temporary noble accommodations assigned to the Lorian delegation, Jesse stood motionless in front of a mirror framed with crystal filigree and subtle enchantments that adjusted lighting according to the ambient mana. Her dress—a deep violet, lined with ash-silver embroidery—fit perfectly, tailored to imperial standards. It clung to her figure without being restrictive, sharp at the shoulders, clean in its lines.

Everything was in place.

Everything… except the people around her.

The attendants moved in stiff, careful motions. One fumbled with a hairpin. Another nearly dropped a jewelry box. Their steps were uncertain, their glances quick and uneasy—like servants trying too hard to seem invisible.

Jesse didn’t speak. Didn’t scold.

She simply observed.

Watched how their hands trembled ever so slightly while fixing her sleeves, how they whispered behind her back with nervous glances toward the sealed door. She could feel their discomfort pressing into the air like humidity—smothered and sour.

Then it clicked.

Of course.

Her expression sharpened.

’Are you that stupid?’

She didn’t say it aloud. She didn’t need to.

It was written in the stillness of her body, the way her fingers clenched slightly against the vanity, the faint flicker of disgust that crossed her gaze.

Her stepmother.

It was always her. Subtle manipulations passed off as minor inconveniences. Delays, errors, half-hearted preparations all veiled in politeness. This time? Sabotaging her appearance—not with poison or blades, but with lazy attendants. A petty, coward’s way of trying to dim her presence.

Layered stupidity.

Jesse’s eyes lingered on her reflection—not out of vanity, but calculation.

She was not bright when it came to politics. She knew that. She didn’t maneuver with words behind silk curtains or navigate courtrooms like a dancer in perfume and innuendo. That was never her style. But even she could see this move for what it was.

Stupid.

Because this time, it wouldn’t just hurt her.

It would hurt the family.

The empire.

She was here as an envoy of the Lorian Empire—a symbol of the so-called peace that had been etched into parchment and sealed with gold. The exchange program was a first. A fragile, carefully constructed display of cooperation. And tonight, all of Arcania’s nobility would be watching.

What would they think when one of Loria’s chosen showed up disheveled? Unprepared? Half-dressed in political costume and nothing more?

They’d think the Empire was weak.

They’d think Prince Adrian’s standards had slipped.

And he—the man known for crushing incompetence beneath quiet smiles and surgical precision—would see it immediately.

“You’re not just trying to ruin me,” Jesse thought coldly. “You’re endangering the Empire’s image in front of someone who never forgets.”

The irony stung.

Because Jesse didn’t even care about the Empire.

Not really.

Not anymore.

She didn’t care about Loria, about treaties, about the future of diplomacy.

What she cared about was him.

Lucavion.

Her thoughts circled back with sudden, searing clarity.

He’ll be there.

After all this time, all these years spent clawing out of the darkness he left her in, she was going to see him again. Face to face. And what if she looked like nothing? What if she looked like some washed-up provincial soldier draped in borrowed velvet?

What would he see?

Not the Jesse who survived.

Not the Jesse who rose.

Not the one who followed the whisper of his name across a border she was never meant to cross.

He must only look at me.

Her hand gripped the edge of the vanity.

He must see only me.

She wouldn’t allow him to overlook her. Not tonight. Not after everything.

Not after she had bled, broken, and rebuilt herself just to find him.

A cold breath left her lips.

And then—without hesitation—Jesse moved to the side of the room, pulled open the polished lacquered case that held her secondary attire and styling tools. The ones she brought herself. The ones she didn’t trust anyone else to prepare.

She would handle it alone.

No empire. No attendants. No noble scripts.

Only her.

And when she stepped into that banquet hall… she would make damn sure that when Lucavion looked up—

He would know.

That is why…she couldn’t allow this to happen.

Jesse turned sharply, the worn velvet of her chair barely creaking before she rose.

In two swift steps, she closed the distance to the nearest maid. The girl flinched as Jesse’s hand clamped around her wrist—firm, unrelenting.

Her eyes, cold and sharp as carved obsidian, locked onto the maid’s.

“What are you doing?” Jesse asked, voice quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the room feel suddenly smaller. “You think this is just another day? Another spoiled noble to half-dress and forget?”

The maid tried to stammer something—an excuse, a plea—but Jesse didn’t let her speak.

She leaned in slightly, just enough for the torchlight to catch the sharp edge of her expression.

“Do you really want to die?”

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