Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 860: Probing…

The moment Isolde stepped into the circle, the atmosphere reshaped itself.

Not broke.

Not shifted.

Reformed.

As if every conversation, every shared breath, every gaze had simply been waiting for her.

And maybe they had.

Because this was Isolde—the fiancée of Prince Adrian. Not merely a noble, but the one tethered to the future Crown. Her rank alone placed her second only to royalty among the Lorian students. But what drew the circle in now wasn’t just title. It wasn’t just legacy.

It was presence.

The silk of her voice. The fluidity of her movement. The way her lavender eyes skimmed the gathering—not with judgment, not even with scrutiny, but with command.

Effortless.

The group parted without thinking. A gentle sweep of shoulders. A few murmurs. Soft nods.

“Of course,” someone breathed.

“Lady Isolde… an honor—”

“Please, join us—”

Even some of the boys, who had been mocking Rowen just moments earlier, straightened their collars and adjusted their stance, as if caught out of place. One of them—an Arcanis noble with a wine glass trembling ever so slightly—blushed faintly as Isolde passed.

She smiled once.

Just once.

And it was enough.

But Jesse—

Jesse didn’t smile.

She watched the unfolding with a stillness that wasn’t envy, exactly. Not even dislike.

But something colder.

A disconnect.

Because while others were caught in Isolde’s gravity, Jesse remained… untouched by it.

She couldn’t even explain why.

Maybe it was the way Isolde’s elegance felt intentional—crafted rather than discovered. Maybe it was the way her voice coiled through air like something practiced. Or maybe—maybe it was the eyes.

Those lavender eyes.

Because while they glowed, Jesse didn’t see light behind them.

What Jesse saw in Isolde’s eyes—

It wasn’t light.

Not really.

It was a glint. A shift behind lavender irises that came and went too quickly. The kind of flicker a knife makes when it catches light from beneath velvet. Barely there. Almost imagined.

But Jesse had learned, in the war, in the quiet corners of rooms where too many powerful people said too little—that almost imagined was often the only warning you got.

So she watched.

Isolde moved with the grace of someone born under chandeliers and maps of conquest. She took no seat, made no demand—she simply stood, the center of attention without lifting a finger.

“Everyone,” she said softly, nodding once to the circle. “Please don’t let me interrupt.”

“You honor us, Lady Isolde,” someone murmured, hand to chest.

“Indeed,” added a girl from House Derain. “We were just…”

But Isolde had already turned.

Her gaze met Jesse’s. Not piercing. Not warm.

Measured.

“I wanted to offer my compliments,” she said gently. “Your performance earlier today—it was exceptional. A proud showing for Lorian. You held the court’s eye.” A pause. “And mine.”

Jesse dipped her head slightly. “Thank you, Lady Isolde. I’m honored.”

Her tone was even. Controlled.

But inside, her thoughts curled like smoke.

What are you doing? Why are you here now?

The timing… the poise…

None of it felt accidental.

Isolde smiled again—pleasant, smooth. “May I ask what the conversation was before I arrived?”

There was no edge in her voice. Only that velvet grace that lulled others into forgetting to think too hard.

But one of the Arcanis students answered without hesitation.

“Oh! We were talking about Lucavion, Lady Isolde.”

And then—

That was the moment.

Barely half a second.

Just a flicker.

But Jesse saw it.

A shift.

A change in the set of Isolde’s mouth.

A faint brightening in her eyes, so subtle it might have been a trick of the candlelight catching her lashes.

Jesse narrowed her eyes.

Did I actually see it?

Or had her mind just filled in the shape it expected to find?

She’d been reading people for too long—across war tables, behind drawn curtains, in the thrum of battlefield silences. But this…

This wasn’t like that.

This was a ballroom. A gathering. A place of wine and compliments and conversations too polished to trust.

And maybe—just maybe—Jesse had come in expecting to dislike Isolde.

Not just because she was Adrian’s fiancée. Not just because she moved with the kind of untouched grace that didn’t feel earned.

But because there was something in her that Jesse couldn’t read.

And Jesse hated unreadable.

Whatever, she thought. Let her speak.

Because now—Isolde was turning toward the conversation again, her fingers loosely laced in front of her, expression calm.

“Lucavion, was it?” she asked, her voice honeyed but light, the tone of a woman unbothered by the ripple her name could send. “I see he’s been a popular subject this evening.”

“Well, how could he not be?” said one of the Arcanis boys—Kellen, she thought, from House Vire. “He made Rowen look like he was fencing with his own reflection.”

Laughter scattered lightly again. Even Cali grinned, her earlier tension softened by wine and performance gossip.

Isolde smiled politely at the response. But then—tilted her head slightly.

“And what about him?” she asked. Not accusing. Not even curious.

Just… level. Measured.

“Well, we were just wondering,” Cali answered, stepping in with a playful lilt, “what kind of person he is. You know, behind all the wit and theatrics.”

Someone from behind added, “We heard he’s a little… unpredictable.”

“Insufferable,” said a voice from the right.

“Brilliant,” said another, quieter.

Isolde’s lashes lowered just slightly. Her gaze didn’t shift, didn’t flutter. But Jesse watched the line of her mouth flatten, as if smoothing out a crease only she could feel.

Someone shifted closer in the circle—Kellen, from House Vire—his voice warm with deference and curiosity.

“Well, Lady Isolde… your judgment’s sharper than most of ours. What’s your impression of someone like Lucavion?”

It was a clean question.

No assumption of prior meetings.

No suggestion that she knew him.

Just a call for insight—from someone whose opinion carried weight.

Isolde’s head tilted slightly. She didn’t rush. She never did.

“I’d rather not say,” she replied, voice light and unhurried.

A hush. Not tense—just expectant.

“Ah?” someone teased gently. “You sound like someone who knows something.”

A ripple of amused chuckles. But Jesse’s eyes narrowed.

Isolde smiled again—poised and unreadable.

“I just prefer not to speak too early. Especially about people who defy easy explanation.”

“Defy explanation?” another asked.

She met the question with a calm nod.

“People like him tend to change shape depending on who’s watching. Say too much, and you risk saying something untrue. Or worse—something you believe, that was never real to begin with.”

Soft laughter followed. One of the girls sighed, dreamily.

“That’s even more cryptic than he is.”

“Fitting, then,” Isolde said, lips gently curved.

“But if anyone knows him,” came a chiming voice from one of the Arcanis girls, “it’s Lady Valeria, isn’t it?”

The words were light—playful, almost—but they fell like a soft stone in still water.

And just like that, the focus shifted again.

All eyes turned.

Valeria didn’t flinch beneath the attention. Her posture remained immaculate—chin slightly tilted, expression composed. But her gaze… it lifted and locked.

Straight across the circle.

To Isolde.

Lavender met violet.

And for a single, stretched breath, there was no court, no music, no polite conversation.

Just the quiet weight of two names meeting.

Two legacies.

Two minds.

Jesse felt the shift even before either of them spoke.

Something quiet. Something precise. Like swords being drawn beneath velvet cloth.

Then—graceful as always—Isolde moved a half-step forward.

“My apologies,” she said smoothly. “It seems I’ve been rude.”