Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 851: Unchained

Lucien didn’t extend his hand.

Neither did Lucavion.

They simply regarded one another across the table—two still points in a room wound taut with ceremony, pride, and unspoken threats. The silence between them was not awkward. It was deliberate. Calculated.

They both knew the gesture was expected. The rules of court dictated that someone offer—even if it was only for show. But Lucien didn’t move. And Lucavion?

He was already miles past gestures.

So Lucien let the breach remain.

Instead, he took a single step to the side, placing himself just slightly closer—not encroaching, but making the space intimate. Measured.

“I’ll be brief,” he said, tone steady, “for once.”

Lucavion’s lip twitched—only slightly.

Lucien ignored it. Or perhaps registered it and chose not to react. His eyes, crimson and perfectly unreadable, flicked toward Rowen for the briefest moment—acknowledging his presence without giving him weight—then returned to Lucavion.

“There were… miscalculations,” Lucien said.

Not apologies. Not admissions.

Miscalculations.

“Reynard Crane will face correction. I’ve already seen to it. A formal censure has been submitted to the Imperial Review. His assets are to be temporarily frozen. His personal guard disbanded. And he is to step down from Academy. The Crane Family will also face repercussions.”

A pause.

Then, as if brushing dust from silk:

“It will be done quietly. But thoroughly.”

Lucavion swirled the wine in his glass with a slow, unbothered flick of his wrist. He didn’t look surprised.

Not even impressed.

When he finally spoke, his voice was casual. Polished. The kind of tone that masqueraded as conversation but left marks when it passed.

“Ah… How noble.”

Lucien arched a brow. “Is that sarcasm or gratitude?”

Lucavion smirked.

“It’s just an observation.”

He let the glass rest back on the table. His fingers tapped once.

Then—

“After all,” he said lightly, “when a subordinate missteps, the blame rarely rests solely on their shoulders.”

Lucien’s smile didn’t waver.

“And in this case,” Lucavion continued, “well… ’When the horse stumbles, the reins lie in the rider’s hands.’”

His tone was almost amused, the idiom slipping through his teeth like an old proverb wrapped in silk and blade.

Lucien tilted his head just a fraction more, that composed smile never quite reaching his eyes.

“A fair saying,” he murmured. Then, after the briefest pause—he added, “Though there are certain riders… fated to be winners.”

The weight of that word—fated—landed like silk-wrapped steel between them.

Lucien continued, calm and confident. “And in such cases, where the outcome is written before the race begins, it becomes nearly impossible for such riders to cause the horse to stumble. After all, they do not steer through desperation, but destiny.”

A faint breath. Measured. Controlled.

“With a logical mind,” Lucien said, “wouldn’t you also conclude that the blame could only lie with the horse?”

That silence returned—sharp, deliberate.

Then—

Lucavion laughed.

Not a scoff. Not derision. A genuine laugh—low, sharp, and amused. He raised two fingers as if in toast or interruption, eyes glittering with something keener than defiance.

“That is quite ’fair,’” he echoed, voice light with mock approval. “Mentioning fate during a discussion of horsemanship.”

His smirk widened into something nearly dazzling.

“In the sight of a hind,” he said smoothly, “if one is fated to win… why bother with the horse at all?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table now, fingers steepled in idle thought.

“Wouldn’t it be more prestigious to simply outrun everyone by oneself?”

His voice dropped a shade lower—not threatening, just quieter. More dangerous in its calm.

“But then again,” he added, eyes never leaving Lucien’s, “I suppose such riders would never let go of the comfort of leaving the actual work to the ones they so dearly love to blame.”

A beat.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

Lucien’s smile thinned—graceful, practiced—but for the first time, it held tension.

Not rage. Not fear.

Just… awareness.

That he’d walked into one of Lucavion’s barbs, dressed in philosophy and civility, but sharpened for blood.

Still, Lucien didn’t retreat. His chin lifted slightly. His posture did not break.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed—but only slightly. His tone remained steady, unbothered on the surface. But there was something glacial beneath it. Ancient. Imperial.

“I suppose,” he said quietly, “those who insist on viewing the world from the lens of a horse would never understand the grace of one fated to ride.”

The words were velvet. The implications, iron.

“With that lack of elegance… crawling through mud and calling it forward motion—well, it’s no surprise the world itself begins to reject them. Filth always finds its own level.”

It was a dismissal cloaked in poetry. A judgment passed without a rise in volume, only in altitude.

Lucavion tilted his head, then gave a soft breath—amused. Almost indulgent.

“Oh… now that is a perspective,” he said, fingers lifting again in mock consideration, “fit for someone high on empire-scented narcotics.”

He grinned, barbed and brilliant.

“If it came from anyone else, I’d have assumed they’d gotten into the wrong vial of alchemy powder.”

A pause. He let the moment settle.

“But I presume,” he added, voice smooth as oil over a fire, “these riders of fate do come with… a certain immunity to such drugs.”

His smile widened, slow and deliberate.

“Side effects include inflated divinity, selective memory, and, occasionally… the inability to detect when they’re the ones dragging the horse through the mud.”

Lucien’s gaze darkened—but his expression didn’t shift. Not openly.

Not at first.

He simply stood there, gaze steady, the silence stretching like taut string between them. And then—

He smiled.

Not the brittle smile of a noble holding composure. No. This one was quieter. Older. The kind of smile that knew things it wouldn’t say aloud. The kind of smile carved from marble and inherited, not learned.

He bowed his head—not in deference, but in finality.

“Well,” he murmured, “I believe that satisfies the expected courtesies.”

His tone remained gracious. Cordial, even. But hollowed.

“Since I have fulfilled them,” Lucien said, “I shall take my leave.”

He paused, his eyes drifting once more across Lucavion—watchful, but no longer invested. Already stepping away in mind, if not body.

“But before I do…” he added, turning just slightly, “…congratulations.”

Lucavion’s brows lifted—fractional, curious.

Lucien’s smile didn’t waver.

“On your duel with Rowen. I imagine a draw against him is no small feat.”

The words weren’t mocking. But they weren’t quite sincere, either. They walked that knife-edge where court praise became politics.

Then, almost as an afterthought, Lucien turned slightly more, offering a brief—very brief—nod to the man beside Lucavion.

“Varen.”

The name alone sufficed. Not warmth. Not recognition. Just an imperial acknowledgment wrapped in syllables.

Varen inclined his head in return, jaw set.

Lucien didn’t linger.

He turned to Rowen, who had watched the entire exchange like a blade in its sheath—tense, coiled, unblinking.

“Come.”

That single word carried no command in volume. But it bore authority like a seal.

Rowen moved without hesitation. Smooth, silent, and sharp-edged as ever.

And together, they walked away.

Lucien did not look back.

As Lucien’s figure disappeared into the ornate blur of nobles and sycophants, the tension at the table didn’t vanish—it condensed. Refined into something quieter. Thinner. But still sharp enough to bleed.

Lucavion didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He simply watched the ripple Lucien left behind. The space people instinctively gave him. The silence he carried like a second cloak.

And then—

Varen exhaled. Not loud. Just… tired.

He looked at Lucavion.

“You really know no bounds,” he said flatly.

Lucavion’s head tilted slightly, that ever-present smirk flickering back to life, touched with something just a little too amused.

“If you only just learned that,” he said, “you need to work on your skills.”

Varen gave him a look.

The kind of look men give right before tossing someone off a cliff—or offering a handshake. Even he probably didn’t know which it was.

Then he sighed.

Low. From somewhere deep behind his ribs. The kind of sigh that spoke of patience wearing out and tempers cooling just enough to avoid war.

Without another word, Varen stood.

He adjusted the leather strap of his sword, his movements precise as ever, then turned without ceremony.

And walked away.

Lucavion didn’t stop him.

He just watched his back retreat into the crowd, steady and unbending.

There went the heir of the Silver Flame.

And with Lucien gone, Rowen pulled beside him, and Varen leaving by his own will—

Lucavion remained.

The last one seated at the table.

Still.

Smiling faintly.

And very much unchained.