Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 648: Brother (2)

At that moment, someone stood right before Priscilla.

Tall. Impeccably dressed. His robes a cascade of silver and violet, threaded with platinum that shimmered with subtle warding. His gloves bore the sigil of the imperial line—clean and bold. A crownless presence, but one that carried weight all the same.

The Crown Prince.

Her half-brother.

Lucien Arcturus Lysandra.

He stood there, hands loosely folded behind his back, as if he hadn't been waiting—but had known she would pass this way.

His eyes, a colder shade of crimson than hers, flicked over her attire.

"Off to join the people, dear sister?" he asked, voice smooth as silk steeped in frost. "How noble of you."

Priscilla stopped, the fabric of her coat settling around her like a hush.

"Lucien," she said coolly. No title. No bow.

He stepped forward, leisurely, boots silent against the marble floor. "You could have asked for a private viewing room. I'm sure the court would've found you a corner."

Priscilla's gaze didn't waver. Not even as he approached with that ever-cultivated serenity—the kind bred into highborns who never once feared consequences.

"Contrary to someone who enjoys watching from a throne of polished glass," she said calmly, "I find more value in blending in."

She allowed a pause. Just long enough to let him feel it.

"To see things as they are. Not how people pretend they are when your shadow falls across them."

Lucien's lips curved—thin and graceful. Amused.

But his eyes?

They gleamed with something colder.

"I suppose that's a luxury you inherited," he said lightly, "from your mother."

The word dripped like spoiled perfume.

Priscilla's hand curled against her side—so tightly her nails bit into her palm through the fabric of her glove. But her expression did not move.

Not an inch.

Lucien continued, voice silk-smooth and laced with quiet cruelty.

"She was good at that, wasn't she? Blending in. Hiding her place. Passing herself off as something... more. Remarkable, truly, how far a common flower will reach for the sun when no one tells it what it is."

Priscilla said nothing.

Not because she had no words.

But because she knew—he wanted her to use them.

And she would not give him that pleasure.

He watched her in silence for a moment more. Then, casually—

"I heard about the incident on the terrace," he said, brushing a nonexistent speck from his sleeve. "Rather dramatic, even for you."

She didn't blink. "You're unusually well-informed."

"Of course I am." His voice was almost musical. "A man with no title, no history—insulting a high house in public, invoking the name of the Empire, and then speaking to a royal as if he were equals? That's hardly forgettable."

Lucien's gaze sharpened.

"And I hear," he added, "you let him walk away."

Priscilla's expression didn't shift—not outwardly.

But inside?

The edges of her thoughts turned razor-sharp.

She had looked into it. Quietly. Carefully. She'd tasked two scribes from the Shadowguard's neutral sect. Not her own attendants. Not the palace informants—all of whom Lucien could sway with a word, a glance, a smile.

She hadn't expected much.

She hadn't gotten much either.

No letters. No transactions. No favors recorded.

No loose ends.

Lucien never left them. And this time was no different.

But there had been something.

Not proof.

Not yet.

But a question.

A crack.

House Crane had long walked the middle line—traditional, insular, and carefully uninvolved. Never quite favoring the Crown Prince, never opposing him outright. And yet, their heir had secured a seat in the Imperial Academy's enrollment—the highest-tier path, the one reserved for the blooded elite. Without question.

No competition.

No trials.

Just… placement.

No public sponsor. No patron declaration.

Just a quiet assumption that had gone unchallenged.

And in court, assumptions were often the most dangerous truths.

She had traced the name of the admissions handler responsible—Lady Girae Vonsin, a minor functionary from the Central Branch with no history of deviation.

Except, three weeks prior, she had received an unscheduled private audience.

No record of who summoned her.

But Priscilla knew.

She could feel it.

It wasn't evidence. Not enough to confront him. Not in this court. Not against him.

But it was a pattern.

And if the boy on the terrace had seen it too—

Lucien stepped closer, gaze sharp now, probing. "So, tell me," he said, voice smooth but heavier now, "what was he to you?"

Priscilla met his gaze.

And smiled.

Barely.

"The same thing your alliances often are," she said, tone cool. "A mirror. Uninvited. But revealing."

Lucien stilled.

Just enough.

Just for a breath.

Then he laughed—quietly, polished, as if truly amused. "You're learning to speak like them," he said. "Careful. Too much of that, and people might mistake you for someone relevant."

Lucien's laughter faded—thin, graceful, the kind that left a sting behind even after it passed.

But then, it stopped.

So did the air.

And in the next breath, he stepped forward.

Too close.

Closer than he ever had before.

Before Priscilla could shift back, his hand moved—slowly, deliberately—and settled on her shoulder.

Elegant.

Controlled.

Cruel.

The platinum-threaded glove looked delicate against the dark fabric of her coat.

But then—

He clenched.

Pain lanced beneath her collarbone like iron driven into flesh.

She didn't cry out.

Didn't even flinch.

But her teeth pressed together—hard.

She felt the sharp heat of it spread through the joint, the pressure radiating like fire held still. Her breath caught, but she forced it down, forced her spine not to move, forced herself to remain. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Lucien's smile never wavered.

And his voice?

It dropped to a whisper—silken, venomous.

"You wear that coat like you matter," he murmured, fingers digging in deeper. "You walk these halls like you've earned a name. But you forget what you are, sister."

His hand tightened further.

And then came the word.

"Your mother," he breathed, right against her cheek, "was a whore dressed in candlelight. A girl who spread her legs for the Emperor and thought that made her royalty."

The pain burst like glass behind her ribs—but it wasn't just from his grip.

It was the violation of it.

The raw, deliberate way he said it. Not for truth.

For dominance.

"You," he whispered, "are a stain we're forced to polish. A footnote pretending to be a headline."

His breath was warm, too warm, but his eyes were cold steel. Unforgiving. Detached.

"This world was never built for people like you. It endures in spite of you."

He finally released her shoulder—fingers sliding off with the smoothness of silk drawn across bone.

The pain didn't vanish. It throbbed—deep and bruising.

He stepped back, brushing the air as if wiping something unpleasant from his glove.

Then, louder—smooth and public again, in case anyone happened to be listening beyond the hall.

"Enjoy the festival, dear sister," he said. "I do hope you find something entertaining in all that rabble."

And with that—

He turned.

And walked away.

Leaving the corridor colder than it had been, and the fire behind Priscilla's eyes bright enough to melt stone.