Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 849: Why not act?

The banquet resumed—though “resumed” was the wrong word.

It shifted.

As if some unseen chord had been released from tension.

The presence of Rowen Drayke and Varen Drakov—two of the most formidable names in the Empire—had not only neutralized the weight around Lucavion… it had reversed it.

No one said it aloud, of course.

But eyes wandered more freely now. The whispers carried less poison. And those who had been avoiding Lucavion earlier suddenly remembered they had things to discuss near him. As if proximity to him wasn’t social risk anymore—but social currency.

Thalor noticed it first.

A subtle pivot, he noted. The knives retract. The masks return.

One minute, Lucavion was the anomaly. The interloper who’d upset every faction with nothing but wit and a bastard’s will.

The next, he was—

Still the same.

But acknowledged.

Cassiar raised his glass in a half-toast toward Thalor, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “You feel that?”

Thalor didn’t look at him. “Feel what?”

“The change,” Cassiar said, swirling wine lazily. “Lucavion’s gravity. It’s different now.”

Thalor turned his head, slow and precise, the full weight of his stare settling like a blade slipping into a sheath.

“Don’t speak like you’re some sort of poet,” he said flatly. “Gravity, my ass.”

Cassiar chuckled.

But Thalor didn’t. Not even a twitch of humor.

Because it wasn’t gravity. It wasn’t some arcane shift in the weave of fate or charisma or whatever Cassiar liked to coat his metaphors in. It was calculation. Action. Timing.

His orchestration.

His intervention that turned Lucavion from an outcast into a symbol. His arrangement that gave Rowen no choice but to acknowledge him, however grudgingly. His framing that allowed Varen’s shadow to cover Lucavion instead of threaten him.

And now?

He looked across the room.

At the three of them—Rowen, Lucavion, and Varen—speaking in low tones beside the far table. Not openly friendly. Not united. But… standing in alignment. A triangle of blades, each pointing in a different direction, but each recognizing the other’s edge.

It should have pleased him.

It had worked, after all.

But a sliver of regret threaded behind his ribs. Just faintly.

“These swordsman types…” he muttered under his breath.

Cassiar raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“They’re so dumb,” Thalor said, more to himself. “So similar. Like they’re carved from the same idiotic ironwood and painted in different war paint.”

Cassiar arched a brow, swirling the wine in his glass with exaggerated elegance.

“Well, well,” he murmured, lips twitching into a smug half-smile. “And I’m the poet?”

Thalor gave him a look that could’ve flattened a minor noble’s career.

Cassiar took a casual sip, entirely unfazed. “I was merely quoting what my master always said. About men who carry blades like they’re carrying truth. ’A sword’s edge is sharp,’ he’d say, ’but it’s the weight behind it that makes it cut.’ Very profound. Very philosophical.”

Thalor’s eyes narrowed.

“Your ’master’ was probably drunk.”

Cassiar smirked. “Frequently. Which, I’ve been told, is the true state of enlightenment.”

Thalor turned away, clearly done, gaze already scanning the far corners of the hall again, recalculating as though social alignment could be drafted and redrawn like arcane circuitry.

Cassiar watched him for a beat longer, then took another indulgent sip and muttered to no one in particular—

“Sure.”

And just like that—

The moment passed.

The music rose again.

*****

On the other hand, on the table, looking at him now—Varen, standing not far, posture easy but presence like a sheathed storm—Lucavion could feel it.

He’d changed.

Not the loud kind of change. Not the kind people draped themselves in like new clothes, eager to prove something. No. This was quieter. Rooted.

Refined.

When they first crossed blades in Andelheim, Varen had carried heat like a man too proud to admit he was burning. Rage not worn on his face, but carved into his grip. Every swing from him back then hadn’t just aimed to win—it aimed to exorcise. To punish. Not Lucavion, specifically. No—he had simply been the body in the way.

But now?

Now the fire was still there—but tempered. Not dulled. Disciplined. The kind of heat that chose when to burn.

’So,’ Lucavion thought, letting his gaze linger just a little longer, ’you made it through the tunnel.’

It wasn’t just in Varen’s technique anymore. It was in the silence around him. In how people noticed his silence instead of his name. In how the weight of betrayal no longer dragged behind him like a chain—but stood beside him like a shadow that had learned to listen.

He let it forge him.

That wasn’t easy.

Lucavion knew the type. He’d read Varen’s story long before they met. The archetype was familiar: golden heir, fierce discipline, legacy dripping from every syllable of his surname—and the inevitable fall.

Lira Vaelan had seen to that. Another name, another knife. But she hadn’t broken him. Not completely.

Lucavion could still see the scar behind Varen’s composure, though.

That was the thing about warriors who grew through pain. The strength always came with a cost. And if you watched long enough, you could see the echo of the payment.

Lucavion leaned back against the table, arms loose, posture almost lazy. But his eyes didn’t leave Varen.

He watched as the Silver Flame heir spoke to Rowen—sharp nods, eyes narrowed just a hair too long, like he was dissecting every word even while pretending not to care.

They hadn’t forgiven each other. Not really.

But they respected each other.

And Lucavion?

He stood between them.

Hilarious, really, he mused, glancing at the faint ring of nobles now pretending not to hover near their table. A bastard with no crest, no house, and no leash. Somehow sitting at the center of the Empire’s sharpest men. A wild blade among weapons that were forged, not found.

His eyes drifted back to Varen again.

And for just a moment—just a flicker—Lucavion thought he saw it. That brief look. The one Varen gave him during their last duel.

nd for just a moment—just a flicker—Lucavion thought he saw it.

That fire.

Still seated in Varen’s eyes.

Not wild. Not feral.

But sharp. Refined. Like a flame folded into steel.

It wasn’t hatred. Wasn’t rivalry in the traditional sense. It was want.

The desire to improve. To catch up. To best him.

To understand how Lucavion had done it—how he’d moved the way he did. How he’d deflected the Spiral with no formal stance. No crest-born technique. Just will.

Lucavion didn’t need to guess. He knew that look. He’d seen it in mirrors. Felt it before his hands ever touched an estoc. It was that breathless frustration of knowing someone had moved ahead of you—and wanting, needing, to close the gap.

And it was—

’Pretty damn nice, actually.’

That sharpness. That hunger.

There was something rewarding about being the standard someone else was chasing.

And then—

[Stop being gay.]

Lucavion’s mouth twitched. ’….?’

He didn’t move, didn’t shift, just blinked once—slowly—like a man whose internal gears had just misfired.

“…What are you saying?” he muttered under his breath.

Vitaliara’s voice was far too pleased with herself.

[Isn’t that what you say? When two men stare at each other like that? With all that… fire? Longing? You told me that word once. I thought it was appropriate.]

He stared at nothing in particular. Just the tablecloth. The edge of a glass. The fine stitching on Rowen’s sleeve. Anything.

And he felt it.

Ah. So this is what karma feels like.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to react.

That was when Rowen’s voice cut through, soft but precise.

“What’s so funny?”

Lucavion straightened, blinking once—expression deadpan.

“Nothing.”

Rowen didn’t buy it.

His stare lingered.

Not sharp. Not invasive. Just that slow, dissecting weight that felt like he was cataloging the twitch of your breath and the twitch behind it.

But he didn’t press.

He just let the silence settle, filing “Nothing” somewhere in his mental vault—under Unexplained Variables.

Instead, he took a small sip of his drink, gaze drifting elsewhere. Calculated disinterest. Not disengagement.

And that’s when Varen spoke.

“…At that time,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “Why didn’t you act?”

Lucavion turned his head slightly, curious. He could already feel the shift in Rowen’s spine—so subtle most wouldn’t notice. But he did.

Rowen’s reply was measured. “Which time?”

“When Lucien gave you the order.”

That was it.

A simple phrase. No theatrics. No emphasis.

But it landed like a blade set gently, exactly, on the faultline of a mountain.

Rowen’s hand stilled. His eyes, once scanning the room in polite calculation, sharpened in an instant. He turned to Lucavion—not slowly, not with drama, but like a weapon being unsheathed by reflex.

Lucavion met his gaze.

And smirked.

Not tauntingly. Not even triumphantly.

Just a flicker of that damned knowing. That quiet curve of the mouth that said:

’I already know why.’

——A/N——–

Sorry for some late Chapters. We are in the process of moving out, adding an internship….

There is no damn time…