Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 819: Customs ?

Thalor’s applause faded into the hush—a signal perfectly timed, almost orchestrated. Every eye flicked to Rowen Drayke, standing firm beside the mage, and then to the Lorian delegation at the far end of the hall.

Rowen’s grip stayed loose once more—steady, resolute. The son of the Knight Commander had volunteered, and the court had accepted. Now all that remained was the final piece.

Thalor’s gaze swept across the Lorian students before settling on their leader: Prince Adrian, tall and composed, every inch royalty. Not an unfamiliar name in diplomatic circles—his presence here underscored the Empire’s intent.

He inclined his head toward Adrian, courteous but precise.

“Prince Adrian,” Thalor said, voice even, carrying a silent challenge. “What do you think of our little competition?”

Silence rippled like static, the air tense with unspoken meaning. All that remained was the response.

Adrian stepped forward—an easy movement that spoke of confidence nurtured by expectation, but tinged with diplomacy. He paused just before reaching the center, where Lucavion, Lucien, Rowen, and Thalor now formed a silent quadrangle of power.

The room leaned in; the wine glasses caught the chandelier light.

Adrian’s voice rang out: smooth, measured, acknowledging yet not yielding.

“This… is a fine proposal.”

He paused deliberately, letting the weight of his words settle.

Thalor’s smile never cracked, but inwardly he exhaled a breath touched with amusement.

Of course you’ll say that.

Adrian’s measured agreement was predictable—inevitable, even. That was the brilliance of how Thalor had framed it. This wasn’t a duel born of pride or challenge—it was cloaked in courtesy, dipped in the wine of celebration and unity. Refusing it would be akin to rejecting Arcanis’ hospitality.

And a prince of Loria couldn’t afford that.

Not here. Not now.

Not when the entire room had been tilted toward diplomacy.

This was the second reason Thalor had spun the event into being. The first was, of course, Lucavion—a variable he needed visible, tested, contained. But the second?

Information.

They knew little of the foreign envoy. No accurate read on their training, their strengths, their internal hierarchy. Arcanis while fighting Loria in the field directly, the youngsters didn’t have any position in neither side.

And it was also Loria who surrendered first. It was all theory and whispers. And now?

Now he had them in the open. In front of the court. In his narrative.

Got you.

Thalor watched Adrian closely, sipping the last of his wine. Polite. Regal. Careful.

Still deciding how to move.

Then Adrian stepped forward again, his expression unchanged but his posture more pronounced—subtle assertion.

“They will participate, of course,” he said. The words were clear, calm. No hesitation.

But then, Adrian added with a small, diplomatic smile, “Though I wonder if sending the heir to the Knight Commander alone might not appear… excessive.”

There it was.

A countermove. Clever. Not aggressive—measured.

Adrian’s smile remained pleasant, but his gaze was sharp.

“After all,” he continued, “this is to warm the atmosphere, yes? A spirited exchange among students.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Having one side represented by such a figure might risk turning the evening into something a little too… formal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Adrian’s smile didn’t falter as he stepped forward again, his tone still gracious, but with a rhythm now—measured, precise. Like a speech long-practiced but delivered with offhand elegance.

“Of course, we are deeply grateful for the hospitality we’ve received since our arrival,” he said, his voice reaching the corners of the hall without raising. “The Arcanis Empire is… known, after all, for its refinement. Its formality. Its seriousness.”

That last word lingered—delicately balanced between compliment and commentary.

He continued before Thalor could interject, as if sensing the mage’s breath draw for a reply.

“We have noticed,” Adrian said, gaze sweeping the assembled nobles, “that your people approach even the smallest gesture with ceremony. It’s admirable.”

A pause. Then—

“But in Lorian, we are taught that excessive formality can often… hinder the essence of things. That a true exchange—of skill, of camaraderie—need not be dressed in too much velvet.”

Several nobles bristled slightly at the wording, though no one spoke.

Adrian’s hands folded loosely behind his back. His posture never broke.

“So, with your permission, we’d like to participate in this contest in a way that reflects our customs. Less pageantry. More simplicity.”

He gave a nod, calm and final.

“We hope the students of Arcanis won’t mind.”

All eyes turned to Thalor.

He could have refused, technically. Could have leaned into the traditions, the expectations. Could have demanded uniformity under the banner of ’fairness.’

But to do so now, after Adrian’s words, would reek of insecurity.

And worse?

It would make him seem… ungracious.

Thalor’s smile remained—cool and polished.

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “Feel free to proceed as you see fit.”

This guy is good.

The thought slid across Thalor’s mind like silk on a blade.

Prince Adrian hadn’t just countered—he’d restructured the entire tone of the event, draping it in the light veil of “cultural difference.” A clever pivot. Disarming. One even Thalor had to admire.

He hadn’t expected such an elegant use of diplomacy-as-deflection. A custom, of all things. A phrase that could excuse any breach, any deviation, while leaving no room for rebuke. It was clean. Humble, even. And yet—it had teeth.

Still.

Thalor didn’t flinch.

Because in the grand scheme, this changed very little.

Even if I don’t pull the measure I wanted from the Lorian envoy…

His gaze flicked casually back to Lucavion—silent, unreadable, still surrounded by the tension that refused to dissipate.

The cause has already been set. Lucavion and Rowen. That’s the real purpose here.

Everything else—the formality, the foreign customs, the exchange of pleasantries and veiled jabs—was garnish.

The meat was the duel.

Thalor took another sip of wine, letting it coat his tongue before swallowing with a pleasant hum.

Yes.

Let Adrian pretend to soften the stage.

Let the audience nod in appreciation of foreign humility.

It won’t matter once the blades are drawn.

Thalor’s gaze slid back to Lucavion, slow and deliberate. The court had shifted, the roles cast, and now the spotlight hovered over the quiet anomaly standing far too calmly for someone about to face one of the Empire’s two blades.

He smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Just enough to show interest.

“Let’s see how interesting you really are.”

Lucavion remained unreadable. The flicker of emotion in his eyes too brief, too polished to catch clearly. He didn’t posture. Didn’t flinch. It was precisely that composure that made him dangerous.

And Rowen?

Thalor spared him a glance.

Rowen Drayke. Of the Drayke lineage. He was not merely a knight—he was a standard. One of the few names whispered alongside Varen Drakov when discussing the next era’s elite swordsmen. Cold where Varen was fire. Methodical where Varen was untamed.

Two sons of two war-forged bloodlines.

And Lucavion was now their measure.

Heh… this will be one for the records.

Thalor brought his hands together in a polite clap—precise, elegant, and just loud enough to draw attention again.

“Let us prepare the grounds, then,” he said, voice cutting through the atmosphere like a note of orchestration. “We wouldn’t want such a display to go to waste beneath chandeliers and velvet.”

With a slight tilt of his head, he gestured toward a pair of attendants waiting along the edge of the ballroom. Their eyes sharpened at once, moving quickly.

“Clear the atrium,” he instructed, his voice soft but unarguable. “We’ll host the match outside. Proper footing. Proper space.”

The staff bowed and scattered, murmuring to others who began lifting barriers, parting the noble crowd, and preparing the way.

The ballroom shifted again—this time with anticipation. Excitement began threading its way through hushed tones and rustling silks.

Something real was about to happen.

And Thalor?

He watched Lucavion.

Still silent. Still untouched.

Let’s see how long that composure holds when steel starts singing.

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