Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“Because I don’t lie.”

Hearing that, Priscilla blinked.

Her brows lifted—ever so slightly.

“…Haah?” she exhaled, caught between disbelief and outright insult.

Her tone wasn’t cold this time.

It was baffled.

Because that—that—was his answer?

“You don’t… what?”

“I don’t lie,” he repeated, lips brushing the rim of the cup as if he were making a toast to his own absurdity.

She stared at him.

Stared.

Then leaned slightly forward, crimson eyes narrowing.

“That,” she said slowly, “is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard since Lord Varren claimed his horse recited poetry.”

He chuckled into the cup, clearly unfazed.

And then set it down with a soft clink, his gaze flicking back to hers with a devilish gleam beneath the calm.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but he was lying.”

Pause.

“I’m not.”

Her glare sharpened.

The kind that could silence a servant mid-step, or freeze a lesser noble in the middle of a sentence. But this time, it landed on the man across from her like snow on black stone—noticed, perhaps, but utterly unfazed.

“Anyone can claim they don’t lie,” she said coldly, fingers brushing once against the rim of her untouched teacup.

“True,” he replied, with the ease of someone who had never once needed to convince anyone of anything.

“So,” she pressed, voice tightening with restrained disbelief, “why should I believe you?”

He took another sip of tea, calm as moonlight. “Because I don’t lie.”

There it was again.

That same infuriating calm.

“…Do you want to be locked down?” she asked, flatly. “Is this your version of a confession?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Princess,” he said, gently setting the cup back down, “you can lock me whenever you want. There’s nothing stopping you. You can believe me. Or not. I simply stated what I think. That’s all.”

He leaned back, folding his hands loosely in front of him as if that truly was the extent of his concern.

And for a brief second, Priscilla considered ending it there.

But then—

He leaned forward, just enough to catch the lanternlight in the curve of his black eyes.

“…But let’s make it easier for you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Oh?” she murmured.

He smiled again, faint and quiet.

“Why don’t you just check it yourself?”

The air between them shifted.

“For instance,” he continued, resting an elbow on the table, “if you were to dig a little deeper—perhaps beneath the surface of House Crane’s neutrality—maybe you’d find… connections.”

“Connections,” she repeated.

“To the Crown Prince,” he said, with pointed nonchalance, as if he were mentioning a slightly overcooked dinner.

Her spine stiffened.

He sipped his tea again, unconcerned.

“Or maybe,” he added, tapping the side of the cup with one knuckle, “you could look into the baron. That boy from earlier. See where his loyalty truly lies. Or what role he was meant to play.”

Then his voice dropped slightly, just enough to brush the edges of implication.

“Though… considering that guy’s meticulous nature, you won’t find anything. Not on paper. Not in ledger. Not even in a servant’s whisper.”

Her gaze locked on him.

Something about the tone. The phrasing.

His meticulous nature?

‘That guy…?’

Her thoughts turned inward, sharp and sudden.

He can’t mean—

The Crown Prince?

Her mind recoiled, twisting around the absurdity of it.

Is this man crazy?

And yet… as she studied him again—

The man across from her smirked.

Not wide.

Not arrogant.

But with the subtle curve of someone who had already wandered deeper into her mind than he had any right to.

He sipped his tea again—slow, deliberate. Like there was no urgency at all. Like he had all the time in the Empire and nothing to fear from any of it.

Then, casually—

“For you,” he said, voice smooth, “the best move would be to lock me down.”

The porcelain clinked softly as he set the cup aside once more.

“That would save your image, at least. For now.”

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed.

But he wasn’t done.

His gaze flicked toward hers—not piercing, not challenging, just calm. Dissecting.

“But the question is…” he continued, fingers now steepled lightly beneath his chin, “…do you have an image to be saved in the first place?”

The words dropped like ice into still water.

She didn’t answer.

Not because she didn’t have one.

But because—damn him—he’d struck too close.

“And if things keep going,” he said, voice quieter now, not for secrecy but for weight, “just as they are now… do you really think you’ll survive in that academy?”

Another pause.

“Forget survival. Let’s say you endure it—somehow. But do you think you’ll achieve anything? Make a mark? Move freely? Pull your own strings?”

He tilted his head faintly.

“Or will you spend your years like you’ve spent your life so far—dodging knives you weren’t supposed to see coming, and bowing just deep enough to be ignored?”

Her expression remained cold, poised.

But her fingers twitched against the armrest.

Just slightly.

Because he was speaking like he knew her.

Not in the way nobles thought they knew her—the half-smiling sympathy, the whispered pity.

No.

This man—this stranger—was peeling through the layers of her ambition like he had read the outline of it before she ever dared give it form.

It was annoying.

Infuriating.

And worse—it was starting to feel dangerously close to right.

“You speak insolently,” she said, voice cold, clipped. “As if you know me.”

Her crimson eyes narrowed, watching every subtle shift in his expression, every breath.

“Yet who are you?”

The man didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

He only smiled.

Faint. Infuriating. Unrushed.

“Who am I?” he echoed, almost to himself.

Then, with a slight flourish, he lifted one hand and waved two fingers through the air—slowly, as if tracing a word that didn’t need to be spoken.

“Someone,” he said lightly, “you’ll be seeing a great deal of in the future.”

“You speak insolently,” she said, voice cold, clipped. “As if you know me.”

Her crimson eyes narrowed, watching every subtle shift in his expression, every breath.

“Yet who are you?”

The man didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

He only smiled.

Faint. Infuriating. Unrushed.

“Who am I?” he echoed, almost to himself.

Then, with a slight flourish, he lifted one hand and waved two fingers through the air—slowly, as if tracing a word that didn’t need to be spoken.

“Someone,” he said lightly, “you’ll be seeing a great deal of in the future.”

His black eyes sparkled—not with mockery, but with a maddening calm. Like he was already walking steps ahead of her in a dance she hadn’t realized she’d entered.

“Someone you’ll meet again,” he added, rising from his seat with a slow grace, “and again.”

His coat whispered as he moved, the white cat stretching lazily across his shoulders before curling back into stillness.

And despite the guards positioned just beyond the terrace.

Despite the palace law.

Despite her own command that could be given with a single raised hand—

He moved like a man who knew she wouldn’t stop him.

And it was that certainty—that gall—that sent a slow ember of heat curling through her chest.

He paused near the garden’s edge, not turning back yet.

“Miss Princess,” he said, voice drifting like smoke over silk, “you should be looking forward to your time at the academy.”

Another step. Still no rush.

“And to the festival.”

He half-glanced over his shoulder now, not enough to meet her eyes, just enough to let his voice carry one final thread of mischief.

“You’ll see quite a lot of interesting things.”

Then he turned, walking into the shadowed corridor as if he belonged there.

And just before he vanished entirely—

“Your name!” she called after him, the question sharper than she’d intended. “What is your name?”

He didn’t stop.

But he did smile again.

“Wait and see, Miss Princess,” he called back.

And then—

Gone.

Leaving nothing behind but steam rising from two half-finished cups, and a silence thick with questions.

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