Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 796: Crown and Loneliness

And then—

He looked at her.

Not the crowd. Not the guards. Not Lucien.

Her.

Just for a breath.

But it was enough.

The way his gaze lingered—not cold, not triumphant.

Warm.

Proud.

As if this had been the plan.

As if this—her voice, her command, her presence—was what he’d been counting on.

’Don’t tell me...’

She felt her breath catch.

’You... wanted me to stop you?’

Had that been it all along?

That steady escalation. That inching closer to the edge. The blade sharpening, not just against Lucien—but the entire court.

Had Lucavion been daring someone to pull him back?

Had he been waiting for her to do it?

’No. That’s ridiculous.’

But the thought wouldn’t leave.

Because now, standing there, in the space she had carved between him and judgment—he looked content.

Not relieved.

Certain.

Like the piece he had placed on the board had moved exactly as intended.

’You manipulative, impossible—’

And then—

Lucavion leaned in toward Lucien.

Barely.

A whisper’s distance.

His lips moved—too faint for her to hear.

But Lucien’s reaction—

Was immediate.

His eyes widened—not in fear.

In recognition.

In shock.

Like something had just clicked into place. Something ancient. Something buried.

Lucien didn’t speak. Didn’t strike. Didn’t shout.

He just stared—at Lucavion. At nothing.

Like he’d seen a ghost in the face of the boy he thought he could crush.

’What...?’

Priscilla’s chest tightened again.

She didn’t know what Lucavion had said.

But whatever it was—it hit deeper than any blade.

And then—

Lucavion turned.

He walked away.

Calm. Unhurried. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just turned the Empire’s gaze upside down and then declined to claim the aftermath.

No backward glance.

No parting words.

Just—

Exit.

And yet the silence he left behind rang louder than any proclamation.

Lucien remained frozen.

The crowd remained stunned.

And Priscilla?

She couldn’t stop staring at the space where Lucavion had stood.

Not in anger.

Not in confusion.

But in wonder.

’What did you say to him?’

Because whatever it was—

It had shaken the Crown Prince more than any public humiliation ever could.

And then—

Rowen moved.

Not forward.

Not back.

But up—shoulders squaring, spine straightening, his presence sweeping across the hall like a blade unsheathed.

His eyes, steely and sharp, scanned the frozen crowd. Noble after noble—each one caught mid-thought, mid-judgment, mid-flick of their fans and masks.

And when he spoke—

It cracked through the silence like a hammer to stained glass.

"What are you looking at!"

The words boomed—not with fury, but with command. As if the room itself had disrespected the Empire.

Several nobles flinched.

One lord dropped his goblet.

A duchess near the fountain turned her eyes downward, her fingers tightening on her clutch.

Priscilla didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She had seen Rowen furious before—but never like this.

Never cornered by it.

He turned next—not toward her. Not toward Lucien.

But to the three still trying to remain invisible.

Reynard.

Lyon.

Davien.

Their faces had gone pale. Not with guilt. With fear.

"You will face the consequences."

Rowen’s voice was low now—but colder. Final. Like the click of a prison door before the light vanished.

Reynard opened his mouth—perhaps to protest, to plead, to shift the blame.

But one look from Rowen silenced him.

Not with power.

With certainty.

The kind that didn’t leave room for appeal.

No trial would save them now.

And Priscilla?

She watched them—all of them—knowing the tide had finally turned.

And then—

Rowen looked at her.

Not in greeting.

Not in respect.

Not even in acknowledgment.

Just—

Down.

His eyes, cold and unflinching, locked onto hers as if she were another problem on the parchment. Another name on a list. Another variable to control.

It wasn’t contempt.

It was worse.

Disappointment.

The kind that didn’t accuse you of treason, but questioned whether you still belonged.

Priscilla felt it. That flicker of fear in her spine. The urge to look away.

To flinch.

To fold.

But she didn’t.

She kept her eyes level.

Even as her lungs tightened.

Even as every instinct screamed to retreat.

Because if she blinked now—

If she showed weakness now—

The court wouldn’t remember the command in her voice.

They’d remember the girl who couldn’t meet a knight’s stare.

So she held.

Held.

And Rowen, after a long, chilling moment, said nothing.

Just turned.

And that silence—

Was the verdict.

Then—

The doors creaked open.

Not loudly.

Not ceremoniously.

Just enough.

And the musicians entered.

Their jackets slightly askew. Their hair windblown. One of them still adjusting a cuff. They were early—clearly rushed. Forced.

But their expressions stayed smooth.

Professional.

Perfect.

The lead violinist raised his bow.

The harpist settled her hands.

And just like that—

Music.

A soft, elegant swell of strings and harmony spilled into the space like water poured over fire.

The shift was immediate.

Nobles exhaled as if on cue.

The tension—still sharp and fresh—was muffled beneath the orchestral pretense.

A few began murmuring again.

Smiling.

Pretending.

As if the last twenty minutes had been a dream best forgotten.

The court was good at that.

And the Empire?

Even better.

And yet—

Priscilla stood still in the tide of renewed laughter, flutes, and clinking goblets.

Her spine straight.

Her gaze fixed not on the stage, not on the nobles.

But to the edge of the hall.

Where he stood.

Lucavion.

Leaning casually against a marble column just shy of the archway’s shadows, half-lit by the golden glow of chandelier light and half-swallowed by distance.

Alone.

Unapproached.

Untouched.

No one dared go near him—not yet. Not after that.

And yet, even in exile from the revelry, he didn’t look isolated.

He looked—

Content.

His arms folded loosely across his chest, weight rested on one foot, the air of someone not banished—but observing. Like the court was just another page in a book he already knew the ending to.

Priscilla blinked.

And then—

His eyes met hers.

Perfectly.

Casually.

As if he’d been waiting for her to look.

Her breath stuttered.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

But—

Wink!

He winked.

A single, unhurried blink of one eye. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing crude.

Just—

Audacity.

Pure, distilled audacity in a flick of a lash.

Her fingers tightened on her goblet.

Her balance swayed.

For a terrifying moment, she thought she’d drop the damn glass.

’He really is someone strange.’

Because he wasn’t smirking.

He wasn’t mocking.

He was—

enjoying himself.

Like none of what had just unfolded—Rowen’s fury, Lucien’s silence, the full dissection of a political bloodline—had bruised him in the slightest.

And worse?

She could feel the corner of her mouth—

Twitch.

Not a smile.

Not quite.

But the beginning of something dangerous.

Something amused.

And before she could stop herself—

She looked away.

Not to retreat.

To recover.

Because Lucavion hadn’t just dismantled her brother.

He had—somehow, impossibly—disarmed her.

*****

Lucavion sipped from his glass, letting the fine wine linger on his tongue—not for taste, but for texture. It was too sweet, too indulgent. Nobility liked their vices soft and saccharine.

He preferred something with bite.

Still, the weight of it was satisfying. It grounded him.

Around him, the music swelled like polite denial. A lullaby for scandal. The nobles danced with careful steps and false laughter, pretending nothing had happened. Pretending Lucien hadn’t been peeled back like gilded fruit and left raw before them.

Lucavion leaned slightly against the marble column, the coolness of the stone pressing into his shoulder. His gaze drifted lazily across the hall—not watching, not judging.

Just... enjoying.

The silence within him stretched like silk—clean, untarnished, victorious.

Until—

[Now you have done it. Was that really worth it?]

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