Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The banquet had rebalanced.

Music returned, laughter slowly layered back into conversation, and the polished masks of nobility were once again fitted neatly to their hosts. Waitstaff moved with choreographed grace, trays of crystal glasses weaving between silk-clad guests. What had been sharp tension an hour ago had softened—diffused, like wine after a deep pour.

Thalor, of course, was satisfied.

He walked slowly toward the center of the hall again, robes swaying with his measured pace, a glass of red still untouched in his hand. His fingers traced the rim idly, but his mind was already organizing the next threads—evaluations, impressions, leverage. The duel had done its work.

Yes… it was a draw on paper.

But in truth?

It was placement.

Rowen's contempt still pulsed faintly beneath his forced calm, that much was obvious. He had treated Lucavion like a disruption, not a rival. And yet, now, even in silent denial, he couldn't erase the sound of steel echoing equal.

That mattered.

Lucavion didn't need to win.

He just needed to survive visibly.

And now, he had—twice.

Not just against steel.

But against narrative.

Very good… Thalor thought. The pressure has softened. The court won't reject him now. They might still whisper… but they'll whisper differently.

He was mid-step, eyes already scanning the crowd for the next person to engage, when a voice stopped him.

Sharp. Raw. Singular.

"You…"

It wasn't loud.

But it cut, all the same.

Thalor's foot paused, heel hovering just above the floor as he turned his head slightly. His eyes narrowed—just for a moment. Because the voice hadn't come from someone postured in diplomacy. It hadn't been wrapped in pleasantries.

It wasn't the voice of someone meant to speak just then.

Thalor's turn was slow—graceful, but laced with a stiffness that only surfaced when decorum gave way to distaste.

The voice belonged to a man he knew.

Of course it did.

And of all the names in the Empire's courtly archive, this one was etched in lacquered gold and personal irritation.

Standing with one shoulder cocked lazily against a marble pillar, half-shadowed by the candlelight but fully unaware of any need to dim himself, was Cassiar Vermillion.

The man shimmered.

Not metaphorically—literally.

Gold-threaded embroidery wound across his deep crimson doublet like ivy, catching the light with every subtle breath. Rings adorned each finger, some set with gemstones that hadn't seen sunlight since the founding of the Empire. A heavy chain of polished ivory was looped twice around his neck, each link carved with runes that had no magical effect—only the effect of cost.

First published on M|V|L!EMPYR.

And in his hand?

A black silk cravat. Someone else's, likely. He was absently twirling it between two fingers, spinning it like a noble's idea of boredom.

His smile was the worst part.

Too wide.

Too white.

And too familiar.

Thalor's eyes narrowed a breath further. The wine glass in his hand tilted just slightly, though he still hadn't taken a sip.

"Cassiar," he said evenly.

Cassiar's smile didn't shift—but the weight behind it deepened.

Not malice. Not play.

Just pressure.

The kind of pressure that came from knowing you could—if you wished—tilt the entire room with one phrase. And more importantly, that no one would stop you. Not even Thalor.

Not openly.

Thalor held his silence a moment longer, just enough to remind himself of the stakes. This wasn't one of the barons he could maneuver. Not some court-bought noble fawning for scraps.

Cassiar Vermillion wasn't bred from the spine of Empire like the old guard.

He was bred from the arteries.

Gold. Trade. Artifice.

And lineage just esoteric enough to frighten scholars.

The Vermillion family bore the title of Marquis, yes—but only in name. Their true standing was carved in vaults, in ledgers, in the lattice of influence that fed every corner of Arcanis from beneath. And more than that—

They were rune-blooded.

Descendants of the Rune Masters. Artificers without peer. Their forgecraft helped develop the modern principles behind half the Tower's stabilizers.

And they were Draycott's allies.

More than allies. Partners.

Which meant Thalor couldn't dismiss Cassiar.

Not with words.

Not with disdain.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Cassiar let the silence stretch a second longer before finally pushing off the pillar, the cravat still idly spinning in his hand. His walk was fluid, hips loose, shoulders relaxed—like nothing around him ever required tension.

And yet everything about him dripped with purpose.

"I was watching," he said, as if announcing a divine indulgence. "That little contest of yours. You do love a good curtain call, don't you?"

Thalor took a slow sip of his wine this time. Controlled. Elegant.

"I prefer moments with weight."

Cassiar laughed, soft and amused. "Oh, it had weight, certainly. That boy—Lucavion." He twirled the cravat once, then caught it mid-spin. "He has a lovely way of stealing thunder."

"Only what he earns," Thalor said lightly.

Cassiar's amber eyes flicked to him—sharp now, but not unkind.

"And what exactly are you earning with him, I wonder?"

A simple question.

Cassiar's grin didn't fade—but the angle shifted, the warmth curling into something thinner. Not cruel. Just... inquisitive with teeth.

He took a half-step closer, not to threaten, but to drop the tone of their conversation to something just under the music's veil.

The silk cravat twirled once more in his fingers, lazily coiled and released.

"And that artifact," he said casually, almost too casually, "the one our dear Lucavion carried to your stage…"

His gaze flicked sideways.

"That wasn't just a party trick. That was... crafted. Aligned. Stabilized."

A pause.

"Delicate."

Another pause, sharper this time.

"Expensive."

He turned his full attention to Thalor now—amber eyes shining faintly beneath the chandelier light.

"You wouldn't happen to know where he got something like that, would you?"

The tone was still light. But it felt like a thread dipped in oil.

Because Cassiar knew exactly how many hands it took to make an artifact like that. And more importantly, how many guilds controlled such work.

The implication wasn't loud.

But it was there.

Did you give it to him, Thalor? Did you think we wouldn't notice?

Thalor didn't move. Didn't flinch. But the smile that had hovered along the corners of his mouth now receded into something sharper. Not cold. Just precise.

He met Cassiar's eyes fully for the first time in the conversation, and when he spoke, it was without pretense.

"I'm not a fool," Thalor said, the words low, still, and firm. "Certainly not foolish enough to hand an unsanctioned artifact to someone under Lucien's watch."

Thalor's eyes narrowed—not overtly, but with the kind of micro-shift that said you've crossed the line, even if decorum prevented the words.

Still, he didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

Instead, he tipped his glass back slightly—more gesture than drink—then said, calmly:

"And yet, you ask me that question. When you're the one who'd trade the empire's heirloom if the bid was high enough." He tilted his head. "Remind me—how many artifacts pass through Vermillion channels without being declared to the Tower? Or is that just rumor?"

The jab landed—pointed, laced in velvet—but Cassiar didn't blink.

He grinned instead.

That maddening, infuriating grin of someone who knew exactly how far the leash reached. And that he stood just outside of it.

"Please," Cassiar said, mock-offended. "I only trade in legally sanctioned goods."

He let the silence linger for half a breath.

"Mostly."

Then he stepped closer—just enough for the world around them to blur into background music and wine-slicked laughter. Just enough for his words to dip low, intimate.

"If you can understand how not to antagonize Lucien Drayke with that brain of yours—one that only wakes up for circuits and glyphwork—then surely, I can manage the same."