Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 782: Slander (2)

Reynard’s smile did not break.

Not even now.

The words had struck clean. So clean, they left no blood to show—only silence. The crowd held its breath. His followers stared, stunned by how neatly Lucavion had laid the narrative, how tightly each thread wove into the next. A perfect trap.

But Reynard?

He bowed his head slightly.

A breath. A pause.

And then he exhaled with the quiet gravity of a man too noble to raise his voice in anger.

’Fell right into it. As expected from a lower-born commoner,’ he thought. But his eyes didn’t show triumph. Only sadness.

He stepped forward—not in fury, but with grace. Measured. Controlled.

“I had hoped,” Reynard said softly, his voice warm with ache and restraint, “that this evening might be unmarred by division. That we could begin our time here as comrades, not adversaries.”

He turned slightly, allowing his voice to carry—not like a commander, but a scholar wounded by what had just unfolded.

“But instead… my House is insulted. Not with questions. Not with critique. But with open accusation. Lacking proof. Lacking witnesses. Delivered not in inquiry—but in condemnation.”

His gaze swept the room—not to demand, but to appeal.

“Does this sound like House Crane? The same house that has stood guard over the Empire’s eastern frontiers for four generations? That negotiated peace at Fort Halveth? That lost twelve sons and daughters during the Night of Smoke just five years ago?”

Murmurs passed like a tide across the banquet hall.

“We are not flawless,” Reynard continued, “no House is. But thugs? Truly?” He smiled—not with mirth, but hurt. “Thugs? That word. Directed at us. With no trial. No evidence. Simply dropped into the air like poison in wine.”

He looked to Lucavion, not with challenge, but with a pained sort of disappointment.

“And to think… it came from someone I had not even had the pleasure of knowing before tonight.”

He turned to the Academy officer, his voice soft, but clear.

“This is not a duel. This is not a matter of pride. This is a matter of precedent. If one may stand at the center of this great institution and tarnish a family name without consequence, what becomes of law? Of civility?”

His bow was slight but deliberate.

“I request that the Discipline Committee review this matter with urgency. I ask not for vengeance—but for fairness. For clarity. Let the truth speak where rumor now reigns.”

And then—he stepped back.

A noble, injured not in body but in name.

And in the silence that followed, Lucavion could see it—how perfectly Reynard had moved the stage. From aggressor to wounded heir. From suspect to victim.

The applause hadn’t come.

But the doubt?

It was starting to grow.

Reynard stepped back into the silence with all the grace of a man who had just offered a prayer to civility itself. His hands clasped neatly behind his back, expression soft, brow furrowed with quiet disappointment. He didn’t press further. He didn’t gloat. That wasn’t necessary.

Because the room was already tilting.

He could feel it.

A rustle at the periphery—robes shifting, goblets stilled mid-air, conversations cut off like blades sheathed mid-draw.

From the edges of the hall, from tables dressed in crimson and gold—the colors of Crown Prince’s faction—several nobles began to rise.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But enough.

The first to approach was Lord Elric Vaumont, a second cousin to the royal family through maternal lines. Young, sharp-jawed, and thoroughly average in talent—but a master of loyalty.

He stepped forward and gave a shallow bow in Reynard’s direction, his voice clear and carefully measured.

“If honor is sullied by tongue alone, then none of us are safe,” he said to the crowd. “We do not condemn a house for surviving insult. We condemn the practice of casual defamation disguised as courage.”

Others joined.

Lady Brienna of House Hathvale, flanked by her twin attendants, offered a nod toward Reynard, then turned toward the nearest Academy officials. “The institution cannot allow such behavior to stand. We have all come to study under the same roof, but that roof must not shelter spite disguised as speech.”

Lord Cassiar of Trinhold gave a scoffing laugh, brushing invisible dust from his cuffs. “Commoners learn quickly that tongues are sharper than blades—but they rarely learn when to sheath them. House Crane deserves clarity, if nothing else.”

A tide.

Small. Subtle.

But rising.

Reynard didn’t smile. He simply inclined his head, acknowledging the words, the unspoken allegiance. These were not his closest allies—not in public. But they were part of the Crown Prince’s net, cast wide across every banquet, every lecture, every corner of the Academy.

Lucavion, still seated, met the ripple of judgment with his usual ease.

But now?

Now even his silence seemed like arrogance.

To those already uncertain, it was proof. He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t deny. He simply leaned, watched, and drank—as if the court of opinion was beneath him.

And that?

That was the final turn of the knife.

Because even those who hadn’t sided with Reynard began to whisper. Not accusations. Not certainty. Just doubt.

Lucavion laughed.

Not forced. Not strained.

A low, velvety sound that rose like a ripple of silk against a stone floor—calm, unbothered, and vaguely amused.

He clapped.

Twice. Then thrice. Not loud, but just enough to sting.

“Aha… ahaha… as expected,” he said, rising slowly, lifting his goblet as if to toast the room’s fickle mood. “Be it in this world, or any other… those without spine are always the loudest. And the most shameless.”

He took a sip.

His eyes, black and sharp, locked directly on Reynard.

“Did you have your fun with lying, Reynard?”

The name hit like a whip crack.

Reynard’s smile faltered, eyes narrowing. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Subtle. But enough for those who watched closely.

Lucavion tilted his head with mock innocence.

“What? That look?” he asked. “We’re students of the same academy, are we not? Surely, I can call you by name. Or does nobility teach its children to be frightened of casual address?”

He swirled the wine in his glass, its surface catching the banquet lights like a blood-stained mirror.

“But then again,” he said, stepping forward, each word crisp and deliberate, “people like you—who’ve made a habit of hiding behind the embroidered veil of legacy—you were never taught the difference between reverence and relevance.”

Reynard’s hand twitched at his side.

“You insolent—”

But Lucavion raised a finger.

“Now, now,” he said smoothly. “You had your moment. You spun your tale. You earned your pity. It’s only fair I take my turn.”

He took one last sip from his goblet, then placed it gently on the edge of a passing servant’s tray, not even breaking eye contact.

“You claim you weren’t there. I claim you were. A classic stalemate, isn’t it?”

He spread his hands lightly, the tone of a man explaining something tedious to a crowd not quite worthy of his time.

“Which means, by tradition, by honor, we need a witness. Someone to speak what we cannot prove alone.”

And then—

He turned his head.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

To the far end of the banquet hall, where the shadows thinned beneath the lanterns.

And standing there, half-shielded by a trailing curtain of ivy-laced crimson silk, was a girl.

Pale white hair.

Eyes the color of crushed rubies.

Regal.

Still.

Watching.

“Isn’t that right, Princess?” Lucavion asked.

The room went still.

As one, every gaze shifted.

To her.

To Priscilla Lysandra—the once-ignored royal. The ghost of court scandal. The Princess with the red eyes of the Crown, and the silence of a shadow long underestimated.

And now?

She stood with the full weight of the banquet hall’s attention pressing against her skin like cold iron.

Lucavion’s voice dropped just enough to force the silence deeper.

“You were there. That day. On the terrace.”

He smiled—not wide, not cruel. But certain.

“You watched it all.”

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