Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 737: Infuriating Bastard

Chapter 737: Infuriating BastardShe didn’t speak right away.

The cup before her still held its warmth, the faint trail of steam coiling upward like the breath of a thought not yet spoken. But Priscilla Lysandra wasn’t thinking of tea anymore.

She was thinking of threads.

Of questions.

Of the pieces she had spent weeks gathering—scattered, incomplete, but not meaningless.

Reynald Vale.

That name alone had been a riddle. A boy polished like a knight but not born from any court. No family seals. No provincial registration. No service records. She had dug, pressed her informants harder than usual. Still—nothing.

And that silence... it was telling.

Because if she couldn’t find it, it meant someone had buried it.

Which led her back to one person.

Lucien.

Everything about Reynald’s style—his blade art, his presence, even his carefully measured fame—reeked of Lucien’s schemes. His obsession with symbols. With control through spectacle.

And Lucavion?

Lucavion had struck directly at it.

No hesitation.

No pause.

She remembered the words Lucavion had said that day. To the baron, to the boy, to her—words that peeled back the curtain not only on Reynald, but on the very system that had propped him up.

The Baron’s identity, too, had been scrubbed. Erased. No records. No court summons. A man with no history sitting like a prop beneath a stage set by nobility.

Every stone she turned over aligned with his words.

Aligned with him.

But it wasn’t just that he was right.

It was the way he had looked at her, there on the terrace, as if he’d known she would come.

As if every step she’d taken had already been accounted for. Not manipulated—no. Anticipated.

That... that was what unsettled her the most.

’How long has he been planning this?’

’How many pieces has he already placed?’

Finally, she lifted her gaze fully—sharp, unflinching.

"I have questions," she said, voice steady. "Many of them."

Lucavion said nothing.

Just that faint smile again, like a fire waiting for wind.

"Why Reynald Vale?" she asked first. "What did he represent to you?"

A pause.

Then, firmer:

"Who is he?"

Her tone cut sharper now.

"I

’He’s testing me. And he enjoys it too much.’

"You provoke," she continued, her tone laced with frost, "you bait, you deflect. Everything is a game to you. Even this meeting."

Lucavion opened his mouth—perhaps to reply, perhaps to smirk again—but she raised a hand.

And he stopped.

"I am not some noble’s daughter playing at diplomacy," she said softly. "I was not raised to entertain riddles and flattery. I was raised in silence. In scrutiny. In a court where one wrong step erases you."

She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering just enough to press against his ears like a whisper of steel unsheathed.

"I don’t have the luxury of missteps, Lucavion. Not with you. Not with anyone."

The silence after that was cold.

’And yet...’

She didn’t move away.

Didn’t storm out.

Didn’t spit the words she wanted to—because something inside her, something inconvenient and cautious and curious, held her fast.

He had laughed, yes.

He had provoked.

But he’d also listened.

He hadn’t denied her questions.

He hadn’t lied.

He’d danced around them like a snake with a smile—but never once dismissed them.

And the truth?

The truth was far more dangerous than his teasing.

Because part of her understood it.

Part of her recognized the method to his madness.

’He doesn’t say what he means. But he means something.’

And that was worse.

Because if she couldn’t shake him—if she couldn’t silence him—then she would have to endure him.

Which meant—

She might have to understand him.

Priscilla straightened again.

Then, with practiced grace, she sat back down.

Not because she had lost.

But because she had chosen to remain.

Lucavion, to his credit, didn’t gloat.

Not out loud.

But the gleam in his eyes said it all.

She reached for the teacup again.

Took a quiet sip.

Then—

"Ask me a question," she said.

Lucavion blinked.

Priscilla set the cup down gently, her fingers no longer trembling.

"If we’re playing games," she said, "then let’s make it fair."

Her eyes met his—firm, unflinching.

"Your move."