Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"Which means someone taught him. Or handed him something they shouldn't have."

He didn't look at Thalor when he said it.

But he didn't need to.

Thalor's lips parted, a breath drawn—but just before a reply could form—

The atmosphere shifted.

Not sharply. Not with fanfare. Just… changed. Like a draft sneaking into a sealed chamber.

Both men felt it.

Thalor straightened slightly.

Rowen's head turned, slow and deliberate.

And there—stepping past the etched columns near the east side of the ballroom, flanked by two junior nobles dressed in quiet finery—was a man they both recognized.

Varen Drakov.

The heir to House Drakov. The blood-rival of the Draykes.

"That is…..Varen Drakov."

The name moved like a slow ripple through the crowd, even if no one dared speak it aloud. He didn't announce himself. He didn't need a fanfare or family seal. His arrival moved air.

Because that was what Varen did.

Where Rowen's presence was pressure—silent, focused, inexorable—Varen's was flame. Not unruly, not wild. Just contained heat. The kind of heat that didn't crackle or roar. It waited. Patiently. Unapologetically.

Thalor's eyes tracked him with a kind of stillness usually reserved for counting detonations.

'What is he doing?'

Varen didn't waste his time with courts unless it served something larger. The Drakovs didn't entangle with pageantry the way the rest of the noble web did. They didn't climb the Tower's gilded staircases or kneel before the Emperor with gloved hands and vows stitched in velvet.

No.

The Drakov family built their own domain—one of steel, of ritual, of ancient fire.

They were Earls, technically. Politically.

But they didn't need the Crown's validation.

Because they had the Silver Flame Sect.

And that meant they had disciples. Devotees. Fighters.

An entire martial network loyal to their bloodline—not out of inheritance, but out of belief.

And in Varen?

They had a dragon in human skin.

"…That guy….."

The words left Rowen's mouth with no emphasis, no urgency—just fact. As if he were naming a natural phenomenon. Like watching a storm roll over a distant hill and saying rain is coming. Though his eyes were indeed narrowed.

Thalor didn't respond.

Not aloud.

His gaze remained fixed on Varen, tracking the heir's path like a scholar tracking a faultline before a quake.

He's not supposed to be here.

Not publicly. Not like this.

Varen Drakov—the so-called "silent dragon" of the Silver Flame Sect—rarely left the compound. He wasn't bred for banquets. He wasn't groomed for etiquette or the Tower's endless spin of political theater. His appearances in imperial court were so few that most nobles had started treating him like a whispered name—an heir in title only. A recluse. A phantom behind sect walls.

But that was the mistake.

Varen didn't show his face because he didn't have to.

And now….

He just chosen to?

Cassiar Vermillion was already watching.

Of course he was.

The moment the air changed—before names were spoken, before eyes turned—Cassiar had leaned just slightly to the left, like a man making room for a shift in gravity. His cravat now hung idly from two fingers, the fabric limp, forgotten.

He gave a quiet, almost delighted chuckle.

"Well, well… he emerges."

His voice didn't rise, but it carried—cutting through the subtle hum of violins and idle conversation like a silk thread drawn taut.

Cassiar tilted his head toward Varen, eyes gleaming with amusement and something sharper—interest, yes, but also that predatory curiosity he always carried around powerful people. Especially the kind who didn't play by rules.

"He's been here since the beginning, you know," Cassiar said, as if sharing gossip he'd stored for precisely this moment. "Quiet little shadow in the corner. Didn't speak. Didn't sip. Didn't so much as blink too loud."

He gave a half-smile, one corner of his mouth lifting.

"But I suppose he was just… waiting for the right kind of fire."

Rowen didn't turn to acknowledge him.

Didn't need to.

He simply scoffed under his breath, the sound dry as sand and twice as cutting. "Of course he was."

That was all.

Because Rowen Drayke didn't need to say more.

Not when it came to Varen.

Not when the tension between them was the kind that didn't need names or dates—just a shared history etched into every look and step.

Cassiar, unbothered, raised an eyebrow. "Still convinced you'd have beaten him if the duel ran ten seconds longer?"

Rowen's eyes flicked toward him—cold, unreadable.

"Didn't need the ten."

A pause.

Then he looked away again.

Cassiar grinned. "Gods, I love this court."

But Thalor…

Thalor said nothing.

Watched the way Varen's footsteps never faltered. Watched how the sea of nobility parted without even realizing they were doing it. Watched how every Tower enchanter and military tactician in the room had subtly shifted—not stepped back, not quite—but braced. The way one braces before a spell detonates.

Varen Drakov was not someone Thalor could maneuver. Not like he could with nobles. Not like he did with the Tower's internal politics or the empire's sanctioned systems.

Varen wasn't bound by imperial etiquette. Rеаd аhеаd аnd gеt updаtеs аt М*V*L*Е*М*Р*Y*R.

He was a sect heir.

They were loyal to conviction.

To power.

And Varen had both.

Which meant—

Thalor's eyes narrowed, breath drawn slow.

He was one of the few pieces on the board Thalor couldn't touch.

Not without consequence.

Not without cost.

'You waited,' Thalor thought. 'You watched the duel. You watched Rowen. Watched me. Watched Lucavion.'

And now, for the first time all night—

You move.

But why?

Cassiar's voice broke back in, lighter now, though still needled.

"Tell me, Thalor," he drawled, absently toying with his rings, "you wouldn't happen to have offered him an artifact too, would you?"

Thalor's head turned.

Not fast. Not careless.

But with that quiet snap of precision, like a blade unsheathed halfway out of reflex.

His eyes locked on Cassiar, and for the first time that evening, the mask slipped—not entirely, but enough.

The corners of his mouth pulled tight.

And when he spoke, the words came laced with quiet venom.

"If you think I hand out stabilized prototypes like wedding favors, then you're either more stupid than you look… or more desperate than you let on."

Cassiar's grin only widened.

"Oh, touchy." He pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. "I was only asking. After all, if I had a line to two prodigies in one evening, I'd be practically glowing with hubris."

Thalor took a step forward—not threatening, but close enough to interrupt the angle of Cassiar's arrogance.

"I don't glow," he said coldly. "I calculate. Which is why I don't spend my evenings baiting dragons with silk and sarcasm."

Cassiar blinked once.

Then gave a slow, appreciative nod. "Hm. There he is."

But Thalor had already looked past him.

And that's when he saw it.

Where Varen Drakov was heading.

Through the parting of robes and the glint of chandeliers, through the eddies of noble conversation and courtly laughter, Varen's steps continued in unflinching silence—straight toward Lucavion.

Rowen noticed it too. His eyes darkened

And Lucavion?

Lucavion had only just turned.

His posture relaxed, but alert—like a musician hearing the shift in tempo before the rest of the room catches up. He stood at the edge of a quiet group, half-listening, half-observing.

But as Varen approached, the space between them began to change.

Not in noise.

But in weight.

Varen stopped two paces in front of him. No words. No gesture. Just presence.

Lucavion's eyes lifted.

Everything in the ballroom receded.

No laughter. No music. No movement.

Only that stare.

Varen's gaze was steady.

Lucavion tilted his head just slightly.

His expression? Calm.

But his eyes?

Amused.

And then—he smiled.

Not wide. Not arrogant.

Just that slanted, insolent curve of the lips that said he saw exactly what kind of game this was—and wasn't impressed by the rules.

"Still the same face?" he said, voice low enough that only Varen would catch it. "Wonder where that fieriness comes from. Certainly not expression."