Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 962: Paranoia

Elara inhaled sharply.

Her hand lingered at her temple, the throbbing pain subsiding just enough for her to catch her breath. The dining hall swam back into focus—silverware clinking, conversations rolling, the scent of warm bread and spiced wine clouding the air. Laughter rose from the far end of the table. Marian’s voice slipped in beside her, soft and concerned, but Elara didn’t truly hear it.

She wiped at her mouth with a napkin. Smoothed her hands against her lap. Straightened her spine.

A practiced calm returned to her like armor being refastened, piece by piece.

’That’s right. It’s just stress,’ she told herself. Her thoughts sounded too even, too automatic. ’A strain on the nerves. Magic burn, maybe. The headache. That’s all it is.’

It had to be.

Of course the smirk had meant what she thought it had. Of course it had. All that had happened in that cell—how he stood there, silent, as Isolde’s plans unfolded. How he walked out untouched, while she was left in the dark. That smirk hadn’t been sorrow or regret or anything as noble as that.

Had it?

Her eyes dropped to the untouched food on her plate. The steam rising from her stew had already begun to fade.

She pressed her fingers to her forehead once more.

’You’re spiraling, Elara. Stop.’

But no matter how she steadied her breath, the thoughts wouldn’t quiet.

Because the memory had changed.

Not entirely. But just enough to slip under her skin.

And then there was the bigger question—the one that wouldn’t leave her now that it had taken root.

Lucavion. Luca.

What had he been doing in Stormhaven?

It was not a place that he would just appear for no reason....

The wine tasted bitter in her mouth now. Or maybe that was just the edge of suspicion curdling on her tongue.

She lowered her goblet slowly.

Her gaze flicked back across the table. Lucavion had returned to the posture he always wore—leaning back in his chair, grin dancing at the edge of his lips as he bantered with the twins.

She barely breathed.

Her gaze hovered on him—not sharply, not directly, but in that careful, sidelong way she’d perfected over years of needing to know more than others wanted to tell.

Lucavion laughed at something Quen said, tossing back a remark that made Valen nearly spit his drink. His grin curled lazily, half-shadowed beneath the chandelier glow. To anyone else, he looked exactly like who he claimed to be: a charming nuisance with a silver tongue and an overfed ego. A lowborn scholarship student with good instincts and better timing.

But Elara’s stomach turned with quiet unease.

Stormhaven.

Why were you there, Luca?

Because the more she thought about it, the less it made sense.

He’d been born in Lorian—but wasn’t Lorian.

He’d been taken by Thorne knights—but not treated like kin.

He’d served Isolde—but hadn’t walked away with anything a traitor should have earned. No rank. No gold. No protection.

Only silence.

And now, years later, here he was again. In her world. In her path. At the very same Academy as her—mask still firmly in place, name changed only slightly, just enough not to draw the eye unless someone was looking.

So Elara was looking now.

And what she saw—

Did he ever choose to be there?

Was he placed?

Was it... because of her?

Her hands curled against her skirt. The wine in her goblet trembled slightly.

She didn’t want to think it.

Didn’t want to say her name.

But the thought came anyway.

’What if it was because of Isolde?’

The doubt hit her like a blade turned slow and quiet.

A single doubt had bloomed.

And with it, came the shadow of a hundred more.

*****

The lamps in the dining hall burned lower than usual, their rune-light softened into a steady amber that washed the stone walls in long shadows. Outside the windows, the courtyard was already dim beneath the veil of the dome, twilight smudged into a muted indigo.

The four of them sat at their usual table—Mireilla, Caeden, Elayne, and Toven—eating dinner without much conversation. The food was every bit as fine as breakfast: roasted fowl with crisped skin, vegetables glazed with mana-sweet honey, bread still steaming from the ovens. But their focus wasn’t on the flavor.

Caeden cut his portions into neat, deliberate bites. Mireilla idly tapped her spoon against the rim of her bowl, though she hardly touched the stew. Elayne ate quietly, gaze low, posture still refined. Toven hunched over his plate, chewing without care, his eyes shadowed as if the weight of the morning’s orientation still sat heavy on him.

The silence wasn’t oppressive, just taut—like each of them was turning over Selenne’s words in their own head.

Then—

The doors swung open with a clatter, and voices rushed in ahead of the students.

”They finalized it!” a boy’s voice echoed, loud enough to carry across the hall. ”The exam schedule’s out!”

A cluster of first-years spilled inside, their boots quick against the stone. One girl clutched a folded parchment, the wax seal glowing faintly with the Academy’s crest. Her friends crowded around her, half walking, half stumbling as they leaned in to read.

”I’ve got theory tomorrow afternoon.”

”Mana calibration at dawn. Dawn! Can you believe it?”

”Wait, wait—let me see. Where’s mine?”

Their excitement and panic mingled, voices overlapping as they spread toward the serving line. More students entered after them, some already with papers in hand, comparing notes, trading complaints.

At their table, Mireilla finally broke the quiet, her lips curling faintly as she set down her spoon. ”So. The hammer drops tonight, then.”

Toven’s chair scraped back across the stone, loud enough to draw a few stares as he stood. His fork clattered against the edge of his plate, forgotten.

”They really posted it already?” he muttered, more to himself, then raised his voice. ”Hey—can I see it too?”

He strode toward the group of students, his robe wrinkled, hair still sticking up at odd angles. The girl clutching the parchment turned as he approached. Her eyes skimmed over him once, and her lips curled—not into a smile, but something sharp, dismissive.

”What?” she said, voice lilting with mock surprise.

Her gaze flicked from his messy robe to his unkempt hair, and then she muttered low enough that she clearly meant him to hear: ”As expected of a low-born...”

Toven stiffened. His jaw tightened, breath sharp through his nose.

One of the girl’s friends, a lanky boy with cleaner manners, shot her a warning look. ”Come on, don’t say it like that, Celinne.”

Celinne’s eyes flicked, sharp and cold, before she gave a little scoff, tilting her chin. ”What? Am I wrong?”

The words weren’t loud, but they carried just enough to sting. A few of her friends laughed under their breath, the kind of hollow laughter meant more for the person beside them than the boy in front of them.

Toven’s teeth ground together. To be fair, Lucavion had warned them this would happen—that nobles and their lapdogs would seize any excuse to sneer, to remind them of their place. And Toven had braced for it. He knew it was coming. Still... having the words spat in his face left a bitter weight crawling up his throat.

Before he could bite out a retort, the lanky boy who had spoken earlier lifted his hands in a hasty, almost placating gesture. His tone was gentler, carrying the easy rhythm of someone used to diffusing tension.

”Listen—she’s not lying about the schedules. Every student gets theirs sent directly to their dorm room. Sealed, warded, personalized.” He glanced between Celinne and Toven, then added, ”It’s not like you can check yours on someone else’s paper. That parchment only shows the schedule for our wing.”

Celinne smirked faintly, as if she’d just been proven right, her fingers tightening on the folded sheet.

Toven exhaled hard through his nose, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t trust himself to answer, not without giving Celinne the satisfaction she clearly wanted. Instead, he gave a stiff nod, muttered something under his breath, and turned back toward his table.

Behind him, the nobles’ chatter resumed, bright and careless, as though the interruption hadn’t even happened.

’Tch.’