Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 809: Another male lead (3)

She drew in a breath through her nose, slow and measured. Her grip on the glass eased—not out of comfort, but control. Control she couldn’t afford to lose. Not here. Not now.

There’d been enough tonight.

More than enough.

Lucavion’s dismantling of Lucien. Her own public defiance. The recording. The silence that followed like a storm’s eye. She had drawn blood in a room made of mirrors. There was no need to draw more.

’I’ve already taken more ground than they’ll allow. This should be enough. Let it be enough.’

But Thalor?

Thalor had no intention of letting it rest.

His eyes hardened—not in fury, but in that cold, academic way he used when dissecting a spell, or a lie, or a person. The amused veneer peeled back just a sliver, revealing something darker.

Possessive.

Wounded.

Entitled.

”So?” he asked, stepping a fraction closer. ”Is that it, then? Is he the new man you’ve found?”

His voice wasn’t loud—but it didn’t need to be.

Each word was weighted, slow, deliberate. Meant for her. Meant to mark.

”Where did you meet him, Priscilla?” he continued, voice curling at the edges. ”At some backwater tournament? Did he impress you with rebellion and raw edges? Is that your type now?”

She didn’t respond.

Not a blink.

Not a shift.

Not a syllable.

Silence became her shield, one forged over years of standing in courtrooms full of poisoned smiles. She would not rise to this. Would not give him the satisfaction of another wound.

Still, he stared.

Still, he waited.

She held her silence, even as his stare grew more pointed—like a blade pressed against skin, daring her to flinch. But she didn’t move. She refused.

Let him burn in the discomfort of her silence.

But then—

Something shifted.

She felt it before she understood it. Not with sight. Not with hearing.

With breath.

A weight dropped over her chest—quietly, invisibly, but with the force of something meant to crush. Not with violence. With intent. The air thinned, not from nerves, but as if something had coiled around her lungs and tightened.

’Heh...’

The breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t shame.

It was pressure.

And it was coming from him.

Thalor’s expression didn’t shift—not overtly—but his eyes had darkened. The cold had bled in. Not theatrically, not for show.

Dangerously.

”You fucking bitch,” he hissed, voice low, controlled, almost clinical. ”I asked you a question.”

And in that moment—

Priscilla understood.

He was using mana.

Not in a burst. Not in a flare. In the way only masters could—subtly, precisely. A spell so refined it didn’t disturb the room. So tight it didn’t bend the chandeliers or ripple the wine glasses. It pressed inward, on her—and her alone.

No one noticed.

No one turned.

No heads whipped around in alarm.

Because of course they didn’t.

This was Thalor Draycott.

The prodigy. The elite. The favored heir of the South. The man who could sculpt fear like marble—without ever lifting a hand.

Her knees trembled. Slightly.

Her breathing hitched.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t plan. The logic of it—the spell’s composition, the psychological weaving, the silent layering—all of it slipped through her fingers like sand.

She wasn’t in the right state to analyze.

She was just trying to breathe.

’Get out.’

That was the only thought that screamed above the others.

Get out of this spell. Get out of this moment. Get away from him.

But she couldn’t move.

Because his gaze held her still.

And the pressure kept rising.

She tried.

Priscilla summoned what she could, called the threads of her mana up from within her chest, tried to lace them into a shield—not a full defense, just something to breathe through. A sliver of resistance. A flicker of sovereignty.

But it barely rose.

The moment her mana met his—it shattered.

Like glass beneath a hammer. No recoil, no contest. Just absence. She couldn’t feel her own barrier anymore. Couldn’t sense it.

And his?

It coiled around her like silk soaked in poison—tightening, cold and absolute.

’What...?’

The question pulsed in her mind, wild and reeling.

She had known Thalor was strong. Everyone did. He wasn’t called the South’s Warden lightly. He wasn’t placed beneath the Master of the Tower on a whim.

But this—this wasn’t just strength.

It was domination.

The kind of power that didn’t ask permission, didn’t need flourish. The kind that broke people down quietly. Cleanly. Like a knife slicing silk from the inside.

’Since when did he get this strong...?’

Her legs bent slightly—not from collapse, but just enough to feel it. The strain. Her fingers had long since slipped from the glass, and she didn’t even remember letting go. Her vision dimmed at the edges, not from exhaustion, but from sheer overwhelm.

And what terrified her most wasn’t the spell.

It was the gap.

Because she wasn’t talentless.

Far from it.

She bore the Royal Bloodline—even if her mother’s status had always marked her as lesser. She had trained. Studied. She had stood her ground in political rooms where magic was just as present as steel.

She wasn’t weak.

She knew she wasn’t.

And still—

This.

’How?’

She had never felt a gap this wide. Not even with Lucien. Not even with Rowen. This wasn’t just about mana quantity. It was something else.

Refinement.

Pressure.

Intent.

Thalor’s mana felt like it had been tempered—not expanded, but perfected. Shaped for precision. For dominance. For crushing people like her without ever leaving a mark.

’You really... want to humiliate me.’

That was what this was.

Thalor stepped closer—not physically, but in presence. His mana didn’t retreat. It pressed in tighter, coiling around her like invisible chains. Like a leash.

His smile was gone.

What replaced it wasn’t fury.

It was resentment—slow-brewed and sharpened into something petty and cruel.

”I remember how you looked when you ended it,” he said, voice low and full of false calm. ”Like you were doing me a favor.”

Priscilla didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her chest ached with the effort of keeping her breath steady, her spine from bending.

”You acted so righteous,” he went on, eyes narrowing, ”like you were better than all of it. Like the engagement was beneath you.”

He tilted his head, mock sympathy flickering at the edges of his voice.

”Did you think that made you strong, Priscilla? Walking away from a name like mine? From me?”

His words were deliberate.

Measured.

The kind that didn’t need to shout because they were built to cut.

”I was the laughingstock,” he said, and now his voice dropped another octave, anger curling in the vowels. ”The one who got rejected by the bastard princess. Like, in the first place it was a stupid fucking promise, but you dared to do that?”

She tried to shift, to speak, but the pressure on her chest surged, turning breath into something edged and precious.

”And now,” Thalor sneered, ”you stand here, beside someone else. Spreading your legs for a guy like that.”

The jealousy in his voice didn’t rage.

It seethed.

Her knees were beginning to give.

She could feel it now—not just pressure, but fingers. Not physical, not visible. But unmistakably real.

Around her throat.

He was choking her.

Not with his hands. Not with a gesture. With his will alone—his mana laced through hers, coiling around her neck like a vice. Not tight enough to kill. Just enough to make her struggle. To make her break.

’You bastard...’

Her hands were trembling now. Not from fear.

From oxygen loss.

From humiliation.

She was a princess. A wielder of royal blood. She was not supposed to be this helpless.

And yet here she stood, cornered beneath glittering chandeliers, while the South’s golden son watched her with disgust in his gaze and delight just beneath it.

Until—

It stopped.

All at once.

Thalor jerked slightly—shoulders seizing, spine stiffening like something had yanked the floor out from under him.

He staggered.

Only for a second.

But it was enough.

The pressure vanished.

Air returned.

The weight peeled back.

And Priscilla gasped, soundless at first, the breath rattling into her lungs like she’d been underwater.

Thalor blinked once.

Then he cleared his throat with exaggerated ease, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve.

”Ahem. My bad...” he muttered, casting her a glance that flickered too fast with alarm before sharpening again. ”My hand slipped.”