Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 863: Probing… (4)

The ripple of conversation that followed eased the tension—though not completely. Courtiers shifted subtly back into their patterns, the exchange between Valeria and Isolde having been dissected and reassembled in the time it took for a hand to lift a wineglass. There were a few light laughs. A return to chatter.

But that silence between them—the one born not of awkwardness, but of understanding—remained.

Valeria took another breath. Not tired. Not disarmed.

Simply ready.

She turned slightly, just enough to address the cluster surrounding her. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said with a slight nod, “I should see to some of the other houses before the hour grows late.”

Gracious. Detached. Unassailable.

There were nods in return. Courteous bows. One or two murmured well-wishes and compliments. The circle began to loosen.

But before Valeria could fully step away, a softer voice followed at her side.

“Then I shall take my leave as well,” Isolde said, folding her hands with impeccable grace. “Standing too long in one place tends to invite… assumptions.”

Her smile was polite. Still.

But her eyes held a shimmer of calculation—sharp and sweet as chilled wine.

Valeria met her gaze for one final moment. And with that same composed expression—one forged from a thousand palace hallways and one too many battlefield dawns—she inclined her head.

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “Lady Isolde.”

Isolde returned the gesture. “Lady Valeria.”

And just like that, they parted.

Not coldly.

Not as rivals.

But as two figures who had seen each other clearly—and chosen, for now, to let the curtain fall between acts.

Valeria’s footsteps were quiet against the polished floor. Her poise unshaken. She didn’t look back.

And neither did Isolde.

*****

The chandeliers burned lower now, their crystal arms casting gold-tinted halos onto velvet carpets and polished marble. The banquet had softened—no longer sharp with announcements and spectacle, but warm with wine and carefully measured laughter.

At the far end of the grand hall, near a half-curved balcony veiled by dusk-blue curtains, Lucien stood among them.

His faction.

The nobles.

The real ones.

The ones who hadn’t flinched when the room turned volatile. The ones who knew how to smile through blood and lace. The ones who, even in the face of tonight’s disruptions, had never doubted whose shadow they served beneath.

They stood loosely in a crescent around him—cloaked in silks, embroidered coats, and quiet arrogance.

Marquis Teran’s heir, Dain—tall, bronze-haired, and built like a marble statue someone had given a sword and too many chances to win.

Elaris Vonte, daughter of Countess Vonte, all pearls and venom. Her laugh could gut a debutante and still sound charming.

And then there was Allaire Montclaire, heir to the southern earldom, whose honeyed voice always found the precise balance between adoration and suggestion.

More filled in the circle. Five. Then eight. Then ten. Nobles of all ranks, gilded by birth, each carrying the pride of centuries in their names.

Lucien, of course, didn’t command the conversation.

He simply stood there.

And it bent to him.

“Your Highness handled that display earlier with remarkable restraint,” Allaire said, her hand gently resting on the stem of her crystal goblet. “Truly. I don’t think I would’ve had the poise.”

Lucien offered her a smile—just enough curve to show favor, just enough cold behind his eyes to keep her guessing.

“Poise,” he said, “is often just knowing where the blade should land—and when.”

That drew soft laughter from a few of them. Dain raised his glass.

“Well said, Your Highness.”

“And frankly,” Elaris cut in, eyes gleaming beneath lashes thick with powder, “I think it only made your authority shine brighter. Let them talk about theatrics. Anyone with blood worth counting knows who stood tallest tonight.”

A few of the younger ones murmured agreement, eyes flicking between Lucien and each other, chasing the comfort of consensus.

Then the topic shifted.

As it always did.

To the Academy.

And what came next.

“We’ll need to be more assertive this term,” Dain said, eyes narrowing. “Some of the lesser houses are grouping with foreigners. The Lorian delegation in particular… They’re not just here to observe. Everyone can see that now.”

“Let them gather,” Allaire said with a dismissive flick of her fingers. “They don’t have the infrastructure. Not like us.”

“But if they start aligning with our outliers…” Elaris’s voice trailed off, loaded with implication.

Lucien let the wine swirl slowly in his glass, his gaze drifting—not inattentively, but with that deliberate slowness of someone who already knew what he would see.

The conversation had taken its turn. As it always did.

From power, to plans, to politics.

And now—

To Lorian.

It began as a passing glance. A shared murmur among the circle. And then all at once, their focus shifted.

Across the banquet hall, where the music curled gently through low conversation and velvet drapes, there was a subtle convergence. A quiet pull of attention.

Not because of a spectacle.

But because of a pair of women seated together, like pearls set apart on a darker cloth.

One with hair the color of snow-reflected moonlight, skin fair as frost, and lavender eyes that shimmered without need for expression. Isolde Valoria. Lucien’s gaze lingered on her just a beat longer than most. Not because of vanity—but calculation.

She was not simply beautiful. She was elegant in that detached, quietly terrifying way that made men lean forward while wondering if they were already bleeding.

He’d seen her file.

One of the sharpest minds among the Lorian delegation. Said to have turned three noble houses into vassals before her sixteenth year, not with blood, but with favor. And threats implied so delicately, they tasted like compliments.

The perfect diplomat.

The kind of woman who wore her country like silk and steel both.

The kind who could smile in a court and have a duke executed two rooms away.

’She’ll rise,’ Lucien thought, tilting his glass slightly. ’If she hasn’t already.’

And beside her—

The pink-haired one.

Ah. That one.

Valeria Olarion.

No title echoed too loudly yet. No string of victories or storied family prestige to shout her name through the marble of court.

But still—

There she was.

Eyes like deep violets under glass. Lips relaxed into a faint curve that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a warning. A woman who, by every rule of Arcanis, should have been politely overlooked.

But still—

There she was.

Eyes like deep violets under glass. Lips relaxed into a faint curve that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a warning.

A woman whose name had begun surfacing lately with increasing frequency—not in fanfare or scandal, but through the quietly dangerous channels of intelligence briefings and noble gossip.

Valeria Olarion.

Olarion—a name most in the upper court had long associated with soft harvests and border trade. Useful, but unremarkable.

Until recently.

It began with a report. Then two. Then a flood of murmurs from the provinces. The Marquis Vendor’s name had been attached—always at the periphery, always cloaked in duty—but the center was unmistakable.

Valeria.

Moving with precise obedience, prosecuting nobles who had overstepped, rerouting assets with technical legality, delivering decrees with a cold, meticulous grace that left seasoned councilors stunned silent. She didn’t act like a baron’s daughter. She acted like a scalpel.

And now—

She was on his floor. In his Academy. And had chosen, of all people, Lucavion.

Lucien’s jaw tensed—barely—but Elaris, as ever, noticed.

She leaned in, voice like a silken coil tightening behind his ear.

“You’ve heard about her, haven’t you?” Her tone was amused, but there was something darker nestled in its folds. “She’s been rather… active lately.”

Lucien didn’t respond. Not yet.

Elaris smiled, as if indulging a game only she knew the rules to. “Valeria Olarion. Crown prosecutor under Vendor, unofficially of course. She’s made quite the name for herself—cut down a Count’s estate last winter. I heard the man’s mistress ended up joining a cloister just to avoid testifying.”

Lucien exhaled slowly. His gaze didn’t move from Valeria.

Elaris’s smile widened.

“Oh, and—of course. She was the first to approach Lucavion after that moment. The only one who did.”