Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 861: Probing…(2)

Valeria stood still amid the shifting circle, the low murmur of voices coiling and unraveling like silk around her ankles. The air, which had felt warm only moments ago—thick with the scent of wine and flickering candlelight—now seemed cooler. Still. As though holding its breath.

Isolde.

The name had floated ahead of her, like perfume in a closed room. And now, here she stood—slender, poised, framed in the elegant halo of the chandelier above. Her hair shimmered like spun platinum, curling softly at the ends. Her gown—a deep lavender offset with silver-threaded lace—clung and fell in all the right places, modest and regal, yet impossible to ignore.

She was beautiful.

Undeniably so.

Valeria watched her with a gaze that neither narrowed nor warmed—simply studied. The girl reminded her of something carved. Not marble, like most of the court would say. No, Isolde had the softness of porcelain. A painted delicacy. Smooth lines, effortless movement. Not fragile—but composed in a way that gave the illusion of gentleness.

A doll.

That was the word that surfaced in Valeria’s mind as she watched Isolde’s fingers move—light and practiced as she folded them in front of her. As if the world was something she’d been trained to hold, and would never drop.

And everyone else felt it too.

They leaned in. Smiled wider. Even the tension in the more unruly nobles lessened, their posture unconsciously shifting to accommodate the presence that had graced them.

Valeria didn’t feel threatened.

Not in the way Jesse made her feel. Jesse had storm-wind in her. Unpredictable. Crackling. A step too close to shatter. But this girl?

This girl felt… clean.

Too clean.

Valeria had noticed her when she entered—of course she had. One did not ignore the future Princess of the Empire. And even then, before a single word had been exchanged, a part of her had thought:

Beautiful.

But now, as Isolde’s voice brushed the air like velvet ribbon, as she deflected and defused with the same grace as a court-trained blade… Valeria felt something unfamiliar twitch beneath her skin.

It wasn’t suspicion.

It was…

Recognition.

When Isolde spoke of Lucavion—people who defy easy explanation… who change depending on who’s watching…—Valeria felt her fingers flex slightly against the stem of her glass.

The words were elegant. Safe. And yet—

They echoed.

Too specifically.

Too precisely.

And for a moment, she felt it again—that same sensation she had felt from Jesse not ten minutes prior.

That subtle flicker. The silent code between tones. As if what was being said wasn’t quite the message—but the rhythm beneath it.

She knows him.

The thought came unbidden.

And she hated that it did.

Valeria had no reason to believe it. No tangible proof. But her instincts—sharp as they had ever been on the battlefield—tightened in her chest like a cinched strap.

She had lived through that strange rhythm before. In Andelheim. In the quiet between Lucavion’s words. In the long hours spent not knowing what he would say next—or what he already knew and simply chose not to reveal.

And that rhythm… it was here again.

Draped in lavender and lace.

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

Why would you say that?

Not how she said it.

Why.

It wasn’t the words themselves. It was the cadence. The weight she’d given to them. Valeria had lived long enough at court to know when someone was speaking for the room… and when they were speaking for themselves.

Isolde stepped closer, and the ambient chatter dimmed as if the room itself adjusted to accommodate her. Her movements were slow, smooth—each step purposeful without feeling deliberate. The effect was uncanny, like watching a dancer float into position rather than a noblewoman enter a conversation.

Then—at last—her lavender gaze settled fully on Valeria.

And she spoke.

“My apologies,” she said gently, folding her hands once more in front of her. “It seems I’ve been rude. I joined without offering proper greeting to the honored guests.” A slight dip of her head. “Especially to you, Lady Olarion.”

Valeria studied her a heartbeat longer, weighing tone against expression.

There was no mockery. No insincerity.

Just refinement—refinement so cleanly drawn that it left no smudges behind. A courtesy sharp enough to cut, though never openly.

Valeria inclined her head in return, her voice cool and composed. “There’s no need for apology. We’re your guests. I should be the one offering mine.”

Isolde raised a brow, just faintly. “Offering yours?”

“I’ve not been to Lorian before,” Valeria said. “And I’ve not always followed your customs perfectly. For that, I extend my regret.”

A pause.

Then—Isolde smiled.

Soft. Precise. Almost… admiring.

“Honorable,” she said, as though the word had texture. “That is what I’ve always heard of Valeria Olarion.”

Valeria tilted her head slightly, unsure whether to accept it as compliment or observation. Perhaps both.

“That is what I strive to uphold,” she answered evenly. “In name and deed.”

Isolde’s smile held, unbroken.

“I see.”

There was a beat of stillness between them. A quiet space filled only with the ambient sounds of distant conversation and clinking glasses. Yet the center of the circle had already shifted, drawn magnetically to where the two stood—two legacies colliding like threads stitched into the same tapestry from opposite corners.

Then—at last—Isolde spoke again, voice smooth as drawn silk.

“Isolde Valoria,” she said formally. “Heir to House Valoria of the Lorian Dukedom. And…” Her eyes didn’t flicker. Her smile didn’t change. “Betrothed to Prince Adrian.”

The words were not boastful. They didn’t need to be.

They simply landed with the weight they carried.

And Valeria, ever poised, nodded once.

“Valeria of House Olarion,” she replied, voice low and clear. “Knighted under the Silver Order.”

There was no shift in her posture—but she extended her hand.

Palm up.

Respectful. Formal. A gesture of knightly courtesy, extended to a peer.

Isolde’s gaze dropped, just briefly, to the offered hand.

Then she stepped forward and took it.

Isolde’s hand met hers.

Cool.

No—cold.

Not the simple chill of a room left under-serviced, or the brief coldness of a noble whose warmth was reserved only for show. This was something else.

Valeria noticed it immediately.

The temperature of her fingers—too low for someone so composed, so poised beneath chandelier heat and candlelight—felt like frost kissed beneath silk. The kind of cold that lingered. Quiet. Clinical.

Like an illness that had never fully left.

And yet—there was no tremor. No weakness.

No sign that the girl before her felt it.

The grip was light, but firm. Isolde’s posture unbroken, her eyes calm and unwavering. Her skin might have been cold—but her presence wasn’t. There was no fragility in her touch. Only precision.

No hesitation.

Valeria’s knight-trained instincts, honed sharp and quiet across a decade of command and steel, caught something odd in the contrast. The strange dissonance of a body that moved like a dancer, spoke like a diplomat… and felt like marble.

But she said nothing.

The handshake ended.

And just like that, the moment passed—though the cold remained against her palm like the ghost of pressure.

Isolde drifted back into the circle with the kind of practiced smoothness that made it feel unintrusive. She didn’t demand space—people gave it to her. She didn’t interrupt—she folded seamlessly into whatever conversation the room wanted to have.

And then she steered it.

A single smile.

A single glance.

That was all it took.

“Earlier,” Isolde said, voice light as velvet string, “it was mentioned that Mister Lucavion shares a rather… unique rapport with Lady Valeria.”