Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"Tell me, Caelen," Theren said, voice cool, deliberate. "Do you remember how Lucavion made himself an enemy of His Highness?"

The question struck like cold water down the spine.

Caelen blinked. Once. Twice.

He almost replied too quickly, but something in Theren's stillness made him stop. Made him think.

"…He tried to humiliate His Highness," Caelen said at last, his voice quieter now. Less sure.

Theren's gaze didn't change. "How?"

Caelen stiffened. "He—he created a scene. At the banquet, he—he—"

"How did he do that?" Theren asked again, slower this time.

That repetition settled over Caelen like a net.

He closed his mouth.

And for a moment, he saw it again.

The banquet.

The music halting mid-measure. The flicker of heat and dissonance as Lucavion's presence twisted the attention of the room sideways—just enough to draw eyes, just enough to provoke a response.

Then: Lucien's intervention. Cold, flawless, immediate. As always.

The conversation—measured at first. Dismissive, then warning. The crown never raised its voice.

And then Lucavion, nodding once, too calm. Producing something from within his coat.

The recording orb. Small, silver-veined. Activated with a word. Casting a sequence into the air that turned half the nobles pale.

A memory.

A voice—not his.

A conversation.

Unmistakable.

Undeniable.

Proof.

And there had been no refutation.

Because there couldn't be.

Caelen felt the blood drain slightly from his cheeks as the memory locked into place. That moment—the flicker of pause, the weight of silence as every noble recalculated their loyalties in real time. When Lucien's face had hardened—not in fury, but something more dangerous.

Calculation.

"Yes," Theren said, as if he'd seen the memory crawl across Caelen's skin. "Good."

He let the word breathe.

Then came the next question.

"What kind of expression did Lucavion wear when you accused him of cheating?"

Caelen didn't answer at first.

Because he hadn't truly noticed then. Not really. He'd been too caught up in his own words. Too focused on the spectacle of power.

But now, when he rewound it—slowed it down in his mind like a scene under analysis—he saw it.

Lucavion's posture: relaxed. Not dismissive. Not even defensive.

His mouth hadn't even curled.

His hands had stayed in his pockets.

And his eyes—those strange, mismatched eyes—hadn't wavered.

No anger.

No panic.

Just that stillness.

Like someone watching a storm roll in and quietly measuring how long it would take to pass.

"…He didn't flinch," Caelen admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "He wasn't even… surprised."

Theren's silence was not an absence.

It was weight.

Then—

"Exactly."

Theren's voice barely shifted, but something in it turned sharper now—sharper and quieter, like a blade pressed flat to skin.

"Lucavion…" he said, gaze drifting just past Caelen as if examining something in memory, not flesh, "he was already expecting someone like you."

Caelen swallowed hard.

"That scene in the hall—you think it erupted by chance? No. He wanted it. Or rather… he accounted for it. Down to the second. The flare. The silence. The whispers. And your voice—your voice—rising above the crowd to play judge and executioner."

Theren's mouth twitched, not into a smile, but something close to pity. Mocking pity.

"He provoked you. And you fell for it."

Caelen's hands curled at his sides, fingernails biting into silk.

"Do you understand what would have happened," Theren said, "if that instructor—if I—hadn't intervened?"

He didn't wait for Caelen to answer.

"You were already too deep. Too loud. You couldn't back down, not without losing face. So you would have escalated. Demanded proof. Accused him of cheating, of lying, of stealing power beyond his station."

Theren's eyes darkened, not with anger—but inevitability.

"And Lucavion… he would have made you an example."

The word cut deeper than any accusation.

"Because there was no artifact," Theren said, voice dipping lower. "No charm. No hidden device. His readings weren't manipulated. Just… unregistered."

Caelen's voice cracked out before he could think. "Then—why didn't the spheres show anything?"

Silence.

Then a sigh—long, tired, and dripping with disappointment.

"Your lack of intelligence," Theren murmured, "is beginning to irk me."

The words weren't loud.

They didn't need to be.

"You think the affinity spheres are infallible?" he asked, stepping closer again, this time without the soft caution of before. "You think they measure everything? That magic obeys taxonomy like a servant obeys command?"

Caelen didn't answer.

Theren stared him down. "There are paths beyond classification." Theren said, his words cool as slate. "Rare, but not mythical."

He let the weight of that truth settle, then added, almost idly:

"It's happened before. Scattered through the Academy's records like misfiled anomalies."

Caelen's brows knit, his voice rising despite himself. "But—how? He's a commoner."

The word landed with too much certainty. Too much inherited disgust.

Theren didn't answer immediately.

He clicked his tongue once. A soft, low sound. And then gave Caelen a look so flat, so withering, it was almost a mercy.

"…Tch."

The disdain was palpable. Not anger. Worse—disappointment wrapped in exhaustion.

"You still don't understand," Theren said quietly, as though speaking to something beneath Caelen's skin, not just the boy himself.

Caelen opened his mouth.

Theren raised a hand—just two fingers, and the motion stopped him cold.

"There are bloodlines that rot, and bloodlines that sleep," Theren continued. "There are relic paths—lost, suppressed, cursed—awakening in boys who don't know their true names. And there are monsters raised in gutters who learn to walk like kings."

He stepped back. Not out of respect, but distance.

Detachment.

"Now that I've explained myself," he said, "there's only one thing left to say."

Theren's gaze locked onto Caelen like steel drawn across a whetstone.

"Put your ambitions to rest—if they can even be called ambitions."

The words dropped like verdicts.

"You won't be permitted to align yourself with His Highness' faction. You've failed to meet the conditions."

The air left Caelen's lungs in a silent, stunned gasp.

Not because he didn't expect it.

But because hearing it aloud carved something raw out of him.

"You are," Theren finished, "no longer… useful."

Then—nothing.

No gesture of finality. No dramatic turn.

Just a single glance, already moving past him, as if Caelen had never been worth the space to begin with.

And then Instructor Theren Malrec walked out of the chamber.

But Caelen didn't move.

Not at first.

The words hung in the silence like a verdict tolling through a cathedral—no longer useful—and the echo of them carved hollows beneath his ribs.

But ambition was a cruel thing.

And desperation, crueler still.

His foot shifted. His voice, small and scraping, followed.

"Wait," he said. "Please."

Theren didn't stop walking.

"I can fix this," Caelen said, louder now, stepping after him, boots clacking against the polished stone. "I—I acted impulsively, yes. But I can make up for it. I swear it."

No answer.

"I understand now. Lucavion was playing us. Me. I see that. I do. But give me another chance, Instructor—just one. I can be better. I will be better."

Still no answer.

Caelen's voice cracked at the edges as he pressed on, breath hitching with every syllable.

"I can make myself useful again. I'll do anything—anything you need. Just… don't cast me out of this. Please."

It wasn't pride speaking anymore.

It was fear.

The kind that wormed deep behind the sternum, the kind that carried not just personal ruin, but the slow death of a House on his shoulders.

And for the first time in his life, Caelen D'Rion dropped the last pretense of decorum.

"Please don't tell His Highness. Don't tell him I failed. I can prove myself. Let me prove myself."

He didn't see it.

But behind the steady fall of bootsteps, Theren's mouth curled.

Just a little.

No amusement.

No sympathy.

Just confirmation.

It was never about whether Caelen would beg.

Only when.

He stopped walking.

The sound of his boots halting against the floor was like a door closing behind Caelen's pleading.

But he didn't turn around.

He spoke with his back still facing the boy.

"Do not mistake clarity for mercy, Caelen D'Rion," he said.

His voice was soft.

Which made it worse.

"I didn't say you were dismissed. I said you'd failed to meet the conditions. That is not the same."

Caelen blinked, straightening slightly.

"So—then—"

Theren cut across the hope with surgical precision.

"If you want another chance….."