Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The side chamber adjacent to the Crystal Hall was quieter now, its stonework catching the last hues of afternoon light like molten silver trapped in stillness. A polished mirror hung beside the arched exit, framed in runes of reflection—not magical, just ceremonial. He adjusted his collar in its glass.

Caelen D'Rion.

First of his line to stand within these walls.

First to carry the crest of a minor house into the halls of the Arcanis Imperial Academy.

First to matter.

His reflection stared back—sharp cheekbones, honey-gold hair tied precisely, the emerald stitch of his House embroidered into his formal cuffs. It wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough.

Not against the others.

Not against Thalor Draycott, whose lineage ran closer to the Tower than the throne.

Not against Cassiar Vermillion, who wore wealth and rune-mastery like a second skin.

And certainly not against Lucien—the Crown Prince, whose shadow made the sun itself bow.

'But I will stand beside him.'

That was the plan. That was the goal.

D'Rion needed allies, and his family had pinned everything on Caelen becoming more than a name at the bottom of the noble registry. He wasn't here to learn. Not really. He was here to attach himself to power. To become indispensable.

Lucien was that power.

Naturally, his father had made it clear—painfully clear—that their survival as a House depended on alignment.

With the right power.

With Lucien's faction.

"You will attach yourself to the prince's circle," Lord D'Rion had said, voice like iron cooling in frost. "You will be useful. You will be visible. And if you must stain your gloves doing it, then stain them well."

So Caelen had acted.

That was why he'd caused a scene in the Hall.

Not for pride. Not for bruised ego.

But strategy.

That bastard Lucavion—no crest, no lineage, no place—had dared to draw attention. Worse: he'd done it with raw magic, untraceable and unaffiliated. An unaligned element at the center of the court's most watched stage. That was dangerous enough.

But Lucavion hadn't just stolen attention.

He'd committed the one sin you didn't walk away from in Lucien's court.

He'd ignored the Crown Prince.

Dismissed him.

Didn't even look his way.

That silence had been thunder.

And Caelen, watching from the second tier of seats, had felt it—known what it meant. If Lucien was displeased, someone had to carry that displeasure outward. Someone had to act.

So Caelen had.

He'd drawn attention. He'd accused. Pushed forward, loud and righteous, slamming Lucavion with all the weight of decorum and heritage the name D'Rion could muster.

It should have worked.

He should've won.

But—

"Fuck," he muttered, low and venom-laced. "If not for that instructor…"

He clenched his jaw, hand twitching toward the hilt of the ceremonial dagger at his belt—not drawn, not unsheathed, just there, a gesture more habit than threat.

He was not allowed to.

The reprimand had come swift and public. Professor Varnen's voice still rang in his head, clipped and final.

"Further disruptions will be considered obstruction of process."

A slap, in front of the entire Hall.

He'd been forced to step down, to swallow it. Lucavion, untouched, had turned and walked away like none of it had mattered.

Like Caelen didn't matter.

His reflection in the mirror blurred for a moment as his breath fogged the glass. He wiped it clean with the side of his glove.

'He made me look like a fool.'

"Fuck…" Caelen muttered again, sharper now, letting the word cling like soot to the corners of his breath. "If not for that damned instructor—"

"Oh?"

The voice behind him was cool, almost amused in its stillness. "You're talking about me?"

Caelen froze.

His hand, still lingering too close to the dagger at his side, dropped immediately. He turned, slowly—too slowly—and came face to face with the man he'd been cursing under his breath not five seconds prior.

Instructor Theren Malrec.

Not one of the senior deans or titled lecturers. But known.

Feared, even, in the quiet way only truly dangerous men were. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The halls shifted around him.

His attire was precise. Not ostentatious like the artifact-weavers from the Tower's higher branches. No glowing embroidery or enchanted cuffs. Just black—fitted, formal, and utterly unassuming. A silver pin at the collar marked his instructor's rank. The only adornment was a narrow strip of darker fabric that circled both wrists like binding threads.

And yet the mana around him—subtle, contained—was a coil of silent pressure. Suppressed, like a knife wrapped in velvet.

Theren stepped forward. Not rushed. Not looming.

Just closer.

"I must say," he murmured, eyes sharp and cold as riverstone, "for someone so eager to be seen in the Crystal Hall, you're remarkably poor at sensing when someone's already watching you."

Caelen's throat tightened. How the fuck had he gotten behind me?

He swallowed and dipped into a quick bow, hands straight to his sides—too stiff to be natural, too slow to be confident.

"I-it's a misunderstanding, Instructor."

"Oh?" Theren tilted his head, expression unreadable. "And what, precisely, was misunderstood?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Caelen said quickly, his words tripping over one another in an attempt to reach safety before they turned into admissions. "I wasn't cursing you, sir. I meant—"

"Lucavion?" Theren finished, dry.

"Yes!" Caelen seized the word like a lifeline. "That bastard. I was cursing him, not you."

Theren was quiet for a moment.

Just a moment.

And then: "Hmm…"

Not approval. Not agreement. Just… judgment withheld. Hovering like frost on glass.

"I see," Theren said at last, voice a murmur edged in steel.

The quiet hung for a second too long.

Then—"Tell me, Caelen D'Rion…"

His gaze sharpened, flat as glass before it shatters.

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Caelen's stomach turned ice. His mouth opened before his mind could catch up. "P—pardon?"

But his heartbeat was already pounding in his ears, a drumbeat of you said too much, you said too much, you said too much.

Theren didn't raise his voice.

He didn't need to.

"I watched you," he said simply. "Every tick of tension in that hall. Every gesture. Every breath you wasted trying to rise above your station without realizing you hadn't earned it."

Caelen flinched, just barely. The cut wasn't in the volume—it was in the clarity. The precision of a man who had seen students like him a hundred times and forgotten all their names.

"I guess," Theren said, stepping once more into his space, "you're no good at all."

The words weren't loud.

But they echoed.

Caelen stood frozen, too shocked to mask it, the kind of naked, hot shame that didn't stem from being wrong—but from being seen.

And worse: being dismissed.

'I just lost something…' The thought rose unbidden. 'Something I didn't even know I wanted.'

Respect. Opportunity. Or maybe just the attention of someone the others feared.

But before he could speak—before he could throw up some half-forged defense or beg a sliver of ground back—

Theren's voice cut in again, low and sharp.

"Tell me, Caelen," he said. "Do you remember how did Lucavion made himself enemy of His highness?"