Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 862: Probing….(3)

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

The words were carefully chosen. Dipped in courtesy, but placed with intention. And though her tone bore no overt pressure, the shift was palpable. A turn of the tide within a polished sea.

Valeria felt the air draw inward again—like the ballroom itself paused to listen.

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, her head tilted, just slightly.

Composed.

Controlled.

Predictable movements—because if there was one thing Valeria had learned among nobles, it was that stillness could carry more force than words.

“Yes,” she said, her voice even. “We met during a tournament in Andelheim.”

A pause followed.

Brief. Subtle.

But noticeable enough that even the softer clinks of wine glasses seemed to quiet.

Isolde’s head tilted gently to one side, her lavender gaze curious. “Andelheim… I’m afraid I don’t know it. A city within the Empire?”

Before Valeria could respond, another voice—confident, almost too eager—spoke up from the side.

“It’s the capital of the Vendor Territory,” said Lord Emeran of House Durell, a young man whose family specialized in land logistics and fealty trade across the middle provinces. “Far west. It was under provisional governance until last winter. Now it answers directly to the Marquis.”

“Ah,” Isolde said, nodding faintly. “Marquis Vendor.”

Her tone was calm, but the name didn’t land idly.

Someone else caught the moment too.

“You know of him?” one of the court ladies asked, slightly surprised. “He’s been getting famous only recently.”

Isolde offered a soft smile. “Titles travel faster than people. Especially when tied to new influence.”

Another pause.

Then someone else murmured, “He’s been getting quite a bit of attention lately. His holdings are stabilizing faster than projected. And some of his proposals—”

“—are being cited in court debates,” finished another.

Isolde’s eyes stayed on Valeria, even as the low chatter rippled briefly around them.

“So,” she said gently, “you met Lucavion there?”

“Yes,” Valeria replied, her voice steady.

Simple. Confirmed.

And yet… that was the third time she’d said it tonight.

She met him there.

Each time, it changed.

Each time, it echoed differently depending on who was asking.

“You mentioned a tournament?” Isolde continued, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to participate in formal contests.”

“You mentioned a tournament?” Isolde continued, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to participate in formal contests.”

Valeria’s gaze didn’t shift, but her posture adjusted slightly.

“What does Lady Isolde mean by that?” she asked.

The question was posed lightly—no sharpness, no accusation. But it landed with unmistakable precision. Enough to still the surrounding voices again, just slightly. Enough to turn curiosity back into attention.

Isolde didn’t answer right away.

Instead, her eyes drifted.

Just a glance.

Over Valeria’s shoulder, toward the edge of the ballroom—where, sure enough, Lucavion stood alone.

He wasn’t postured for company. Wasn’t preening for attention. His stance was relaxed, one hand resting lazily against the rim of a decanter table, the other casually lifting a glass toward his lips. Watching. Not lingering. Not engaged.

Simply present.

As if the room were happening around him, and not to him.

Isolde’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, then slipped back to Valeria.

“He seems rather…” she said softly, “free-spirited.”

A ripple of quiet amusement stirred the circle again. Not laughter. But interest.

Valeria, however, didn’t smile.

“That is correct,” she replied evenly. “But he is not one to shy away from any competition.”

Her tone was polished steel. Not sharp—but polished enough that the reflection showed intent.

Isolde’s brow lifted the smallest degree. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Valeria answered.

No embellishment.

Just the truth—delivered in full armor.

Isolde held her gaze. “Then perhaps I misjudged him.”

“Perhaps,” Valeria said, with equal poise. “Or perhaps you simply haven’t seen the right kind of contest.”

A quiet murmur passed between two of the nearby nobles, though they quickly masked it in sips of wine.

Isolde’s lips curled—delicately. Not a full smile. Not concession.

But the kind of acknowledgment one gave to a move well-played.

“Then I hope,” Isolde said, “that I will have the chance to observe him in such a setting.”

Valeria didn’t miss a beat.

She shook her head, slowly. Once.

“You would rather not,” she said.

The words were calm—polite even. But they settled over the group with a peculiar finality, like frost drawn across glass.

Isolde’s brows rose slightly, curious. “No?”

Valeria’s voice dropped by a breath.

“When he holds a sword,” she said, “he isn’t the man you saw earlier. He’s not just bold or unruly or free-spirited.”

She paused. Just long enough for tension to draw itself in again.

“He’s like a demon.”

That landed.

The murmurs returned, softer this time, tinged with something else—intrigue, yes. But also wariness.

Valeria tilted her head slightly. “That’s why the name followed him. Sword Demon.”

And with that, something shifted.

Recognition flashed in one of the younger nobles—a boy from House Alborne, who straightened with a sudden gasp of memory. “Wait—that’s him?”

Others turned.

“You mean the one who fought Reynard Vale in the entrance duels?”

“That match was broadcast to half the region—”

“Didn’t he beat Vale who was using artifacts and strange powers?”

“Yeah,” someone else muttered.

Valeria said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

Because now the tide was moving without her.

“His popularity exploded after that,” said Lady Rynn, folding her fan with a soft snap. “The nobles were confused at first—no pedigree, no recommendation seal—but the commoners were calling his name like he was some returning war hero.”

“And then Andelheim,” another said. “It wasn’t even the formal duels. Just… the stories. The way people talked about him. Like a ghost walking among soldiers.”

“The Sword Demon of the Western Outlands,” someone recited.

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” a man said, half-laughing. “To think that name belongs to that man. Just standing over there like he hasn’t broken a spine or two.”

“Yep.”

Isolde listened to the hum of recollections and rising recognition with a poised stillness. The threads of Lucavion’s reputation were weaving themselves into full color now—rumors turning to confirmation, myth hardening into memory. And all of it rooted, quite clearly, in him.

She let the voices finish. Let the stories breathe.

Then she smiled.

Soft. Curved like the edge of a sealed envelope. Not warm, exactly—but attentive.

“So,” Isolde said lightly, “Lady Valeria has stood beside such a man.”

Valeria’s gaze didn’t shift.

“Yes.”

Simple. Unshaken.

Isolde tilted her head, just a little. A strand of pale hair slipped against her collarbone, catching the chandelier’s light.

“I see…” she murmured. Her tone carried no judgment. No surprise. Just a steady quiet. “I suppose that explains why you went to his side… even after he made a rather peculiar scene.”

Another stir among the nobles. Some amused. Some cautious.

Valeria didn’t look away. Didn’t smile.

“That is correct,” she said, tone as composed as glass held at the edge of heat. “Since he is someone I’m close to.”

A beat.

And then Isolde repeated, almost curiously, “Oh… Close to…”

Valeria’s voice stayed level.

“Yes. Close to.”

No hesitance. No inflection. But enough weight to make it land. The circle quieted again, as if the word itself had more shape than they expected.

Isolde’s expression didn’t shift.

She didn’t raise a brow. Didn’t press.

Instead, she let the silence stretch.

Then—very gently—she nodded.

“I see…”

And then came the softest curl of a smile.

“As a lady knight like yourself,” Isolde said, “I would love to say that… it’s quite fitting of you.”

The words floated on the surface, sweetly composed.

But Valeria—trained not only in swordplay but in speech, in gesture, in the thousand masks of diplomacy—heard the second blade beneath it. The unsaid.

She stood in that silence, watching Isolde with the same clarity one might watch the first snow fall during a ceasefire.

And replied with the faintest smile of her own.

“Thank you,” she said.