Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The boy’s words echoed—soft, deliberate—and Priscilla could already see it.

The lanterns. The murmuring crowd. The blood on the baron’s lip. His sister trembling beside him. The Crane heir standing tall, basking in noble righteousness. And then—her, stepping into it all.

Too late.

Just in time.

And then—

The boy’s voice changed.

Softer.

Higher.

Feigning a young noble’s tremble, and lacing it with theatrical desperation.

“Ah… Princess,” he said, hand to his chest, mock-shaky but not mocking. “‘My liege—my lady—please. You remember me, don’t you? From the southern court? You… you accepted my vow before the autumn festival.'”

His pitch wavered, like a man recalling a shared truth that never existed.

“‘And now—now they’re threatening me! These nobles—House Crane—they’re trying to force us out!'”

He widened his eyes slightly, miming panic, his voice trembling just enough to sell it.

“‘You must stop them, Princess. Please.'”

Then he stopped.

And silence followed.

But not inside her.

Inside Priscilla, a storm had started to churn.

Because she saw it now. All of it.

The baron’s face—pitiful and pleading. The crowd’s attention turning to her. The nobles watching, already knowing the game. Already expecting how she would respond.

She’d stand there. Silent. Uncertain. Searching through memories that didn’t exist for a face she’d never seen.

And if she said no?

If she denied the boy’s allegiance?

It would not be him who suffered.

It would be her.

She, the “unwanted princess,” the one born of a commoner’s blood, would be painted as cold. Disloyal. Cowardly. The kind of leader who lets her own followers be trampled under noble boots.

Even if none of it were true.

Even if it was fabricated from the first thread.

It didn’t matter.

Because it would be her word against theirs—and in the eyes of the empire’s court, her word had always come with an asterisk.

She could already hear it: So this is the girl the Emperor allowed into the academy? The one who abandons her allies in public? The one too ashamed to defend her own?

The boy didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He just watched her now, quiet again, letting her mind race through every ripple of the trap that could have been.

A trap she hadn’t even seen until it was nearly set.

And slowly—

Ever so slowly—

Her gloved hand curled into a fist over the armrest.

Not out of fear.

But out of understanding.

This wasn’t about House Crane.

Not really.

It was about her.

About humiliating her before she even set foot in the academy. About dragging her title down just enough to ensure she never stood on equal ground.

To make her presence at the capital not just awkward, but undesirable.

And it could have worked.

It could have worked.

That thought, quiet and precise, settled in Priscilla’s mind with the weight of iron.

It wasn’t just a hypothetical anymore.

It was a viable strategy—one with precedent, one the court would devour like blood in the water. Her presence at the academy would already draw whispers, but this? This would give them something to anchor their disdain to. Something concrete. A failure to protect. A display of political weakness. A stain.

And they would not forget it.

She drew in a breath—but said nothing.

Because the boy was still watching her. Still sitting across the table with that maddening calm.

No longer simply a “boy” now that she looked closer.

He was older than she’d first assumed—not a child playing games, but a man, likely in his twenties. Early, perhaps, but no less dangerous for it. His posture, the clarity of his words, the restraint behind his tone—they weren’t just signs of wit. They were signs of control.

He had acted the part of a charlatan, worn the smirk of a provocateur, but now… now that she looked at him without the assumption, she saw how deliberate the act had been.

His face was sharply angled, not gaunt but cut clean—cheekbones defined, jaw lined with just enough softness to undercut the precision. And his eyes—

Those eyes.

They weren’t wide with youth. They were watching. Always. The kind of gaze that didn’t just meet yours—it evaluated what stood behind it.

And now?

That gaze softened again—just slightly—as he lifted one hand in a light, graceful motion.

And then—

He began again.

This time, he played the crowd.

“Oh… oh my,” he gasped softly, imitating the fawning tones of a noblewoman, hand fluttering dramatically near his chest. “Did you see that? She didn’t even acknowledge him. Her own sworn baron.”

Then he shifted—voice deepening into the low, smug mutter of a rotund nobleman. “Disgraceful. Unfit for court, really. I expected poor judgment, but abandoning her own? Tsk.”

Another shift.

A whispery, hushed voice. “Well, her blood isn’t clean, you know. What can you expect from a girl raised by sentiment instead of sense?”

He let those imagined voices hang a moment before his posture changed again.

Shoulders back. Chin lifted slightly. And then—

The heir of House Crane.

The boy’s expression curled into a mask of smug satisfaction, voice now drawn and imperious, heavy with triumphant condescension.

“Of course we never meant to start anything serious,” he said with false civility. “But when a noble of the Empire causes such a disruption, we must act. It is a matter of dignity. Of discipline.”

He leaned slightly, lifting one finger for emphasis, his tone thick with false virtue.

“And with Her Highness unwilling to claim her own… well. What choice did we have but to restore order ourselves?”

He gave a small, performative sigh—exaggerated just enough to mock.

“It’s truly a shame. I had hoped Princess Priscilla might grow into the role.”

Then he stopped.

Let the silence return.

His expression now was still. Calm again.

But in his voice?

Only one question remained—unspoken, but carved into every word that came before:

Do you see now?

Because they did.

Priscilla exhaled slowly, long and quiet.

Her hand uncurled from its fist, returning to the armrest as the firestorm of possibility dulled into something colder—analytical.

Yes, the picture he’d painted was plausible.

Alarmingly so.

But it was also crafted. Layered. Possibly embellished.

And she was no fool.

If she were to believe every tale whispered in a smoky alley or spun by silver-tongued strangers, she’d be buried by paranoia before her next court appearance. She’d be used. Pulled into a thousand webs by a thousand liars.

This—whatever it was—might be truth.

Or it might just be another performance. A trap within a trap, wrapped in insight and delivered with perfect timing.

Her gaze steadied on him.

Measured. Sharp.

“Why,” she said finally, “should I trust you?”

As if on cue, the soft clink of porcelain interrupted the quiet.

A silver tray was set gently between them, two cups placed with imperial precision by a discreet attendant. She bowed out without a word, vanishing into the terrace shadows as swiftly as she came.

The steam rose gently from the delicate cups.

Priscilla noted immediately: not the same order.

She had chosen her usual—subtle, quiet, bitter enough to sharpen the mind.

But his?

Imperial Mirasheen.

Again.

Of course he had.

The boy—young man, she corrected silently—lifted the cup carefully, as if it were a ritual. He took a single sip, posture so casual it bordered on comical… and then let out a soft, contented breath, the way someone might after surviving something that really should have killed them.

And then—

He smiled.

That damned half-smile, just a little too comfortable.

“Why should you trust me…” he mused, the cup still balanced between his fingers.

His eyes flicked toward her, almost mischievous.

“…Hmm.”

Another sip.

The silence stretched, deliberate.

Then, at last—

“Because I don’t lie.”

Priscilla blinked.

Her brows lifted—ever so slightly.

“…Haah?”

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!