Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1005: Followed

Elara stepped out into the hall, blinking once as the sudden brightness washed over her. The cool interior light of the hall gave way to the golden warmth of the Academy’s upper terrace. The transition made the world feel momentarily unreal—too bright, too open, too alive.

Her hand rose briefly to shield her eyes, and that was when she saw him.

Lucavion.

Not far off—crossing the main terrace, half a dozen paces ahead.

He was easy to spot, even in the crowd. That careless gait of his, that faint tilt of the shoulders like he was always walking just a step out of rhythm with everyone else. His coat caught the light in flickers, black turning almost silver at the edges as he moved.

But what drew her attention wasn’t just the familiarity of him. It was the pace.

He wasn’t strolling like the others. He was moving with intent—too fast to be casual, too precise to be wandering.

It was as if he was heading to somewhere.

Elara’s faint smile vanished without her realizing.

Her body moved before thought caught up.

One step. Then another.

Not enough to be noticed, but enough to keep him within view.

’Where are you going?’

He turned a corner at the far end of the terrace, heading toward the northern wing—the part of the academy reserved for staff corridors and restricted study rooms. Students rarely had business there unless summoned.

Elara slowed slightly, blending with a group of older students as she trailed after him. Her posture stayed relaxed, her expression composed. But her pulse had picked up again, a steady rhythm against her ribs.

Something about the way he moved—unhurried but sharp, eyes forward, jaw set—didn’t match the Lucavion she’d seen before. The one who laughed at authority, who treated most of life like an elaborate inconvenience.

This looked like purpose.

It looked deliberate. Every step, every turn.

Lucavion wasn’t wandering aimlessly—he was headed somewhere.

Elara’s fingers tightened slightly against the strap of her satchel as she followed, her steps soundless over the stone.

’Where are you going?’

The question repeated itself, quieter this time, curling inward until it wasn’t curiosity anymore—it was unease.

Because the direction he was taking...

It was out of everywhere.

A flicker of cold pressure rolled down her neck.

She slowed her pace.

’Is that really?

The thought didn’t finish. It split, fragmented the way all her thoughts did when she entered them.

Isolde.

That name still sounded like a bruise when she thought it.

’No. He wouldn’t—’

Wouldn’t what?

Wouldn’t why in the first place?

Her temples ached. A dull, rhythmic knock beneath her skull, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

She drew a slow breath, but it didn’t steady her.

If anything, it made her realize how fast her chest was rising.

She remembered his tone—dry, flippant, almost kind.

She remembered the way he’d looked at her in the testing hall.

That brief moment where it hadn’t felt like a stranger’s gaze at all.

So why did this feel wrong?

Why did he look like someone with a secret to protect?

A shadow crossed her face as she stepped under the archway leading into the northern corridor. The air changed here—cooler, quieter, the sounds of the terrace fading behind her. The light dimmed, replaced by the soft luminescence of embedded runes lining the walls.

Her thoughts were running too fast now, faster than her steps could carry.

’If he’s with her—if he still—’

Her jaw clenched.

She couldn’t even finish the thought. The mere image of Isolde’s face—smiling that soft, poisoned smile—was enough to twist her stomach.

Her hand brushed against her temple. The ache there had sharpened, pressing harder behind her eyes. The kind of headache that didn’t come from exhaustion but from emotion she couldn’t afford to feel.

’Not now,’ she told herself, her voice low. ’You’re not her anymore.’

But that didn’t stop it.

The uncertainty, the suspicion—it all came roaring back like frost under the skin, sharp and biting.

And just as the spiral began to close around her—

—voices.

Distant at first. Then closer.

Elara froze mid-step.

The sound came from the corridor ahead, low and clipped. Two people, maybe three. The kind of conversation meant to stay hidden.

She moved closer, quiet as breath. The hallway bent slightly, ending near a half-closed door lit by a thin strip of mana light.

The voices sharpened—muffled at first, then bending strangely in the air. Too close, too far. They slipped between the walls like water under glass, the kind of distortion only magic could make.

Elara took another step forward, her breath held tight. The sound didn’t grow louder. It... shifted. One moment, it came from the left wall, the next from above, as if the corridor itself were holding its breath.

She knew that resonance.

A containment weave.

Not a perfect one.

”...Heh...”

That sound. A low, derisive chuckle—male, laced with the kind of arrogance that came from never being told no.

Elara’s fingers brushed the carved seal etched on the nearest stone column. Her instincts told her to stop, to turn back, but her feet ignored it. She leaned closer. The strip of mana light under the door flickered faintly as the weave pulsed, a thin ripple running across its frame.

The spell wasn’t meant to keep people out.

It was meant to keep sound in.

Except whoever cast it wasn’t very good at it.

Through the imperfect silence, fragments leaked.

”...still think she’s above her station, standing here pretending she’s royal...”

Another voice—female this time, smooth and venomous.

”...Half-bloods should know their place,” came a second, sneering, ”you’d think a bastard child of the Emperor would at least have the decency to stay hidden.”

Elara’s breath stilled.

Half-blood.

Emperor.

Her stomach turned cold.

The mana hum shifted again. The sound cracked wider this time, spilling through the weave like light through broken glass.

”...I asked you a question, Your Highness.”

Elara’s pulse kicked once—sharp, instinctive—as the voices bled through the faulty weave.

She glanced toward the door again, every nerve suddenly alive beneath her skin.

Lucavion was nowhere.

The corridor ahead was empty—utterly, unnervingly empty. No trace of his coat, no echo of his steps, nothing. He had been walking just seconds ahead, and yet... gone. Vanished as if the air had folded around him.

Her gaze flicked to the runes carved along the wall. The mana signatures still trembled faintly from the containment spell leaking sound, and she realized—that’s why.

He hadn’t gone inside.

’Lucavion... what are you doing?’

But before the thought could settle, the voices sharpened again—this time clearer, no longer warped by the weave.

”...still think she’s above her station, standing here pretending she’s royal—”

”...Half-bloods should know their place...”

The words hit like glass underfoot—cutting, deliberate.

Elara’s focus snapped toward the doorway. She stepped closer, keeping to the column’s shadow. Through the narrow sliver of light, she could see movement—shapes, color, the faint shimmer of enchanted embroidery.

Girls.

Three of them, their uniforms pristine, hair polished into the kind of perfection only old houses could afford. Their posture radiated that familiar kind of arrogance—shoulders drawn back, chins lifted just enough to suggest inherited authority.

They stood in a loose semicircle around someone.

Someone smaller.

Someone who wasn’t speaking.

Elara’s stomach sank as the view cleared.

The light from the runes caught white—brilliant, almost unnatural white—and for a moment, Elara’s breath stopped.

Long, silken hair, cascading down like threads of frost. Skin pale as moonlight, too pale to be natural. And then—those eyes.

Red.

Deep, flawless crimson.

The unmistakable mark of the Imperial Bloodline.

Priscilla Lysandra.

The princess.