Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 668: Reynald Vale

The fourth day of the Candidate Trials was passing without summons.

For the first time in nearly a week, Valeria was alone.

No velvet invitations. No floating carriages bearing sigils. No endless cycle of measured smiles and polished laughter.

Just her, a quiet balcony shaded by mana-fed ivy, and the distant, filtered hum of the cityʼs arcane arteries pulsing in time with the sun.

She exhaled, slow and deep, letting the silence settle into her bones.

The gatherings had ended.

Dozens of salons. More tea than her stomach could comfortably recall. An entire catalog of nobles, each more eager than the last to measure her—by her name, her posture, her connection to Marquis Vendor.

That was the thread they all pulled.

Not Valeria.

Not the knight who had taken five fortified keeps in two seasons.

Not the girl who had ridden through storms and carved warlords from their thrones.

No.

What they saw—what they calculated—was a daughter of a relevant house, elevated by alliance, not legacy.

They hadnʼt said it outright.

They never did.

But sheʼd felt it in every compliment dulled by caution. In every smile that weighed her not as a person, but as a risk. A temporary novelty, aligned for now with power, but not part of it.

Still—she hadnʼt been surprised.

She didnʼt come to these halls expecting affection.

Only intelligence.

And in that, she had gathered enough.

Among the glittering performances, there had been a few sharp minds. A few people worth remembering—not out of fondness, but strategy.

Potential allies.

Students of old bloodlines, yes, but not blinded by them. Some had asked her real questions. Some had listened without performing. Those, she had noted. Quietly. Precisely.

They were attending the Academy too.

And Valeria knew better than most that real loyalty was often shaped after the banners were chosen.

The sun was dipping lower in the sky now, casting soft amber hues across the cobbled walkways of Arcanis.

From her place on the balcony, Valeria could hear the shift before she saw it—the sound of people. Not courtiers. Not nobles. Just people.

The distant clatter of shoes against stone. The laughter of children darting through the legs of spell-pulled carts. The occasional burst of music from some street performer or a bard-imbued crystal humming out old folk songs in warped harmony.

Below, the city was alive—celebrating the Candidate Trials in its own way. Shopfronts bore woven ribbons and floating glyph lanterns. Vendors hawked fried aether-batter and illusion-dyed silk scarves. Arcane puppeteers danced dragons in miniature between rooftops.

Valeria watched it all for a moment longer, then rose.

Her cloak was a casual one—plain-cut, dark slate with no embroidery, no sigil. Her blade, slung across her back in a half-scabbard, drew a few glances now and then, but no one stopped her. In a city where spell-stitched coats passed for armor and familiars flew overhead like birds, she didnʼt stand out much.

Which was exactly what she wanted.

She moved through the side streets first, her pace relaxed but alert. She was used to cities—had seen dozens during campaigns—but Arcanis was different. Built not just to hold power, but to broadcast it. And yet, beneath the grand towers and glowing ley-paths, there were still alleyways. Still steam rising from back-alley forges. Still taverns with chipped signs and stairways that creaked.

It was nearing mid-afternoon when her stomach gave a low, insistent growl.

She stopped beneath the overhang of a curved stone archway, eyes scanning across the row of buildings ahead.

One stood out.

Not for size or color—but because it didnʼt stand out.

A squat, two-story inn nestled between a potion stall and a runecarverʼs workshop. The sign above its door was hand-painted, a little faded. No enchantment. No illusion. Just a worn script that read:

The Fifth Bell.

Valeria stepped through its wooden doors and into warmth.

The inside was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasnʼt silence, but comfort. Conversations hummed low. A few off-duty guards nursed drinks in the corner. Someone had enchanted the hearth to mimic woodsmoke even though it burned mana-bricks.

No one looked twice when she entered.

Valeria stepped deeper into The Fifth Bell, the soft clink of the door closing behind her sealing her into a warmth that wasnʼt just from the mana-fed hearth. The low murmur of casual voices, the scent of spiced stew and fresh bread—it was so familiar, in a way that caught her off guard.

Her eyes drifted toward the far corner, where a round table sat near the hearth.

ʼ...Iron Matronʼs inn…ʼ

The thought came unbidden. The quiet atmosphere. The faint comfort in the air. The way the patrons didnʼt stare long, didnʼt pry. It reminded her of those earlier days—when things had been simpler, though no less dangerous. When Lucavion would tease her into moving seats, when warmth was something hard-won, not granted by walls alone.

Her gaze softened, just for a moment.

ʼJorkinʼs stew. That hearth. That bloody table.ʼ

She wondered how they were doing. The people theyʼd left behind. Iron Matronʼs place had been a second home during those brief, chaotic weeks. Her mind lingered briefly on the beastkin siblings—Riken and Sena. Quiet Sena with her too-large eyes and skittish movements. Riken, all sharp words and bristled defiance, but still a child pretending not to be.

ʼThey were so small…ʼ

She stopped herself.

ʼI hope theyʼre safe.ʼ

With a silent breath, she stepped forward and claimed a seat at the back, near the far window where flickering glyph-lanterns cast rhythmic glows through the worn glass.

The moment Valeria stepped past the threshold and toward the dining floor, a young waiter in a crisp, magically-scented uniform practically materialized in front of her.

”Welcome, honored guest!” he said with rehearsed cheer, gesturing with one hand toward the seating and sweeping the other toward a chalkboard that pulsed faintly with illusion-light. ”We have festival specials prepared today—slow-braised mana-boar with honeyroot glaze, fireleaf soup with baked embercrust, and an elderfruit tart steeped in moonwine reduction.”

Valeria gave a short nod, scanning the room. Despite the gentle clatter of utensils and hum of low conversation, the energy was unmistakably festive. Lantern glyphs floated near the ceiling, cycling through colors in slow bursts. A quartet of enchanted instruments played themselves quietly in one corner. And above the hearth—framed in delicate runes—was a large, enchanted crystal projection.

The broadcast.

Faintly tinted in arcane blue and stretched across a floating screen, it showed a live aerial view of the Trial Grounds. Illusion barriers, glowing leylines—Valeria recognized it all. The Candidate Trialsʼ next phase was well underway, and judging by the scattered figures sprinting across an obstacle-laden field, things had grown… chaotic.

She chose a seat at the edge of the inn, one tucked neatly into a booth along the wall. From here, the projection hung in clear view. No one blocked her sightline, and the slight shadow of the boothʼs overhang ensured no light-glare marred the image.

The waiter followed promptly. ”Would you like the festival set? Itʼs our most popular today—chefʼs recommendation.”

Valeria didnʼt even glance at the menu. ”That. And tea,” she added, her eyes already fixed on the projection.

”Coming right up!” the waiter said, bowing and disappearing in a whirl of eager footsteps.

Valeria leaned back, arms folding as she studied the screen.

The broadcast shimmered, flickering briefly before zooming into one of the central arenas. The overhead illusion adjusted itself with a flash of rune-light, the image sharpening—too sharp, almost. The scene it revealed was chaos, pure and unrelenting.

Candidates were running.

Not posturing. Not exchanging tactical blows. Running.

The camera panned across a shattered ridge, then another, and Valeriaʼs eyes narrowed slightly. Enchanted terrain—unstable, covered in frost traps and ley-triggered sinkholes—and behind the fleeing candidates surged a wave of monsters.

Not illusions. Not puppets.

Real summoned beasts. Razorfang ursoks. Reaping talons. Twisted spellhounds. All of them augmented with some kind of arcane haze that marked them as enraged variants.

Valeria blinked once. Then again.

Her lips parted slightly.

”…Oh.”