Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 723: Sponsor

The morning light in Arcania’s inner ward always arrived with an air of deliberate majesty—soft, gold-dusted, and polished by runes that ensured it never felt too sharp. It flooded the grand dining hall through tall aether-glass windows, washing over the polished silverware and cascading across the white-onyx floor like water made of sunlight.

Lucavion arrived first.

Of course he did.

He always did.

He sat with one leg crossed over the other, already halfway through his tea—today, a sharper blend, something that bit the tongue and didn’t apologize. His breakfast remained untouched. He had no appetite for food when the day promised far richer indulgences.

Elayne entered next—silent as always, her presence so soft it barely displaced air. She took her seat diagonally across from Lucavion, giving only the faintest glance of acknowledgment. She didn’t ask if he’d already reviewed his offers.

She knew he had.

Caeden and Mireilla followed soon after, arriving almost together. Mireilla was already muttering something under her breath about etiquette being just a polite excuse to test which of them would bow first, while Caeden calmly adjusted the cuffs of his coat, every inch the knight he refused to be defined by.

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Toven.

Dragging his heels. Rubbing his eyes. His hair an uneven crown of unbrushed defiance.

"I overslept," he mumbled, flopping into the seat between Mireilla and Caeden.

"You’re thirty minutes early," Caeden said mildly.

"...I meant emotionally," Toven muttered.

Lucavion sipped his tea again. "Try sleeping with the weight of four imperial houses deciding whether they want your head polished or plated. Works wonders on the nerves."

Toven blinked. "Wait. You got four?"

Lucavion smirked, didn’t answer.

Mireilla set her cup down a little too firmly. "I got one," she muttered. "Just one."

Caeden gave a low sound—something between sympathy and mild surprise. "Only one?"

She rolled her eyes. "The Circle of Western Defense. Military board. Which makes sense, I suppose. I’ve got the face of a soldier and the tact of a falling axe."

Lucavion glanced sideways at her. "I’ve seen falling axes with more subtlety."

She didn’t dignify that with a glare. Just flicked a piece of fruit from her plate toward his cup. He caught it midair without even looking, dropped it beside his saucer.

"Still," Caeden said, tapping thoughtfully at the glyph hovering near his shoulder. "That’s not a bad sponsor. They’re efficient. Clean. Not a political snake pit."

"You’re just saying that because they offered you something," Toven said.

Caeden gave a mild shrug. "Two things. One from them, one from the House of Quiren."

Lucavion arched an eyebrow. "Quiren? That’s rare."

Caeden nodded. "They don’t usually sponsor outsiders. But I suspect they’re trying to rebuild favor after that scandal last year."

Elayne lifted her gaze from her tea just slightly. "You mean the one where their heir set fire to a duel court and blamed it on a spirit fox?"

Toven blinked. "Wait, that was a scandal? I thought that was a folk tale."

Lucavion gave a quiet chuckle. "No, that was very real. And very expensive."

"I’d rather deal with scandal than flattery," Mireilla muttered. "At least scandal burns fast."

"I got three offers," Toven said suddenly, trying not to sound too pleased about it. "One from the Crimson Lamp Consortium—"

"Smugglers," Caeden said flatly.

"—one from the Vynari Archive—"

"Book smugglers."

"—and one from the Night Ember Circle."

Everyone paused.

"Assassins?" Lucavion asked, tilting his head.

"No, no," Toven said quickly. "They’re more like... flame dancers?"

Mireilla stared at him.

"So... assassins with flair," Lucavion concluded. "They’re trying to recruit you?"

"I think they liked my fireballs," Toven said defensively.

"Or they think you’d explode well under pressure," Mireilla offered.

Before he could reply, the doors opened—smooth, quiet, deliberate.

Kaleran entered.

His coat was darker than usual, the etched silver trim catching the morning light in cold flickers. He walked with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, posture exact.

"Schedules," he said without pleasantries. "You’ve each been assigned order of meetings based on the priority and scope of your accepted sponsor list. You’ll have an hour between each. If you miss a time, the meeting is forfeit—no exceptions."

He gestured, and five crystalline glyphs hovered midair—color-coded, shifting slowly with embedded sigils of noble houses and faction banners.

"You are permitted one escort from the Academy, should you choose to take one. Otherwise, you’ll be monitored by trace glyph."

Lucavion didn’t even glance at his schedule. He already knew it.

Kaleran’s eyes swept over the table once, pausing half a beat longer on Lucavion than the others.

"Remember: you are not required to accept any offer. This is courtship, not command. But make no mistake—how you walk into these rooms will shape how this city remembers you."

"Then I hope they remember sarcasm and stunning cheekbones," Lucavion muttered into his cup.

"You’re not wrong," Elayne said suddenly, to everyone’s mild surprise. "Presentation is currency."

Lucavion gave a slow nod. "And I’m feeling rather wealthy today."

Mireilla folded her arms. "I’m not wearing lace."

"No one asked you to."

"I saw what was in the wardrobe." She grimaced. "Someone definitely asked me to."

Caeden, with his calm composure, stood first and lifted his glyph. "Well then. Time to dance with lions."

"Have fun," Lucavion said. "Try not to get adopted."

As each of them rose—one by one, gathering their schedules and making final preparations—the morning light curved along the dining hall like it was bowing farewell. The day was waiting.

*****

A man moved through the eastern quarter with a gait too measured to be casual, too relaxed to be parade.

His coat, dark and heavy with silver-thread lining, shifted like water with each step, the hem whispering against the polished stone. He didn’t look like a soldier. And yet every part of him felt like one—carved with discipline, molded in iron.

He wore gloves even in spring.

His hair was dark, cropped short, revealing a face not young, not old. Just worn right—like a blade long-used, long-sharpened, never chipped. His eyes were unreadable beneath a quiet brow, and his lips held a smile that didn’t reach them. People moved aside for him without thinking. Not because they recognized him, but because something told them they should.

As he passed, murmurs drifted in his wake, barely audible.

"An envoy?"

"No... too plain."

"Too still."

His eyes didn’t lift once from the road.

The invitation had been accepted.

That alone should have been enough to end the guessing games. Most of the noble houses had sent their messages adorned in the usual excess—wax seals, lineage stamps, aether-marked lace meant to impress.

But he had brought no scroll, no flourish.

Just a presence.

And that was all that was needed.

The moment the message had returned, bearing Lucavion’s acceptance, a single phrase had echoed in the meeting hall behind the eastern estate walls:

"As it should be."

One did not ignore their house.

Not if they intended to walk long in the capital.

He turned a corner, boots soundless on stone, and let the familiar weight of expectation settle across his shoulders. The empire was watching. The Crown Prince would be watching. And soon, Lucavion himself.

The boy who had broken every convention of the entrance trials. Who had taken the highest score without a patron. Who had factions twisting themselves into knots to secure his favor.

A commoner who had made nobles hold their breath.

And now?

Now, he would speak with him.

Not the Lord. Not a steward.

Him.

He stepped beneath the grand archway of the reserved imperial quarters—polished aether-glass reflecting his figure back at him. For a moment, he looked into his own eyes and saw no vanity there. Only weight. Duty. Calculated necessity.

"Bring him under our wing," the voice had commanded.

He had bowed without hesitation.

Not because he feared the one who gave the order.

But because he agreed.

A thread of wind stirred his coat as the reinforced doors ahead pulsed with recognition, parting for his arrival. The air within shimmered faintly with ambient mana. Neutral space. No political ties within these walls—only conversation.

Only leverage.

He crossed the threshold.

And as the door slid shut behind him, the seal upon his chest caught the light—

A blade of crimson wrapped in silver thorns.

House Varenth.

And he—Ser Khaedren Varn, the Thorn of the Eastern March—had come not to test the waters.

But to claim what was already his.