The Extra's Rise-Chapter 462: Festival of the Red Sun (2)

Deia Solaryn stood beside her father like a decorative lamp—expensive, well-polished, and entirely for show. The Festival of the Red Sun was in full swing, all firelight and ceremonial fanfare, the kind of event where everyone smiled too much and nobody said what they were actually thinking.

She was the princess of the Palace, which apparently meant she was also property. Important property, yes, but only in the way a ceremonial blade is important—never meant to be drawn, only displayed.

So they made her look the part. The stylists had worked on her like she was a malfunctioning android—adjusting this, smoothing that, painting her up until her own reflection felt like a stranger’s face. Her ceremonial dress, layers upon layers of crimson and gold silk, had been designed specifically for this occasion, each fold and pattern imbued with meaning she had been required to memorize. The jewels at her throat and wrists were ancient relics of the Solaryn line, heavy with both physical and symbolic weight. Even her hair had been sculpted into an elaborate arrangement, golden pins and ruby combs holding it in place so tightly her scalp ached.

She was elegant, poised, and empty. A pretty doll. Ready to be admired, maybe married off, definitely not asked what she actually wanted.

Deia swallowed back her thoughts. The disgust curled in her stomach, but there was no room for rebellion. Not here. Not now. Her father ruled this island with the kind of absolute control only an Immortal-ranker could afford. He didn’t bark orders. He just existed, and everything around him moved into place.

The worst part, she thought as she maintained her perfect posture, was that part of her had become accustomed to it. Sometimes she caught herself taking pride in how well she performed her role—the gracious princess, the perfect daughter. It was a peculiar kind of self-betrayal, to be both cage and captive at once.

She glanced sideways at her father. Still speaking. Something ceremonial, something political. The words passed through her ears without leaving any trace. She had learned early that paying attention to such speeches only made them more unbearable.

She let her gaze drift past the rows of nobles and foreign guests, past the Palace elites with their calculated smiles, past the Academy professors with their scholarly dignity, until it caught—again—on a familiar figure.

Lucifer Windward.

Northern continent royalty, and more importantly, real royalty. His family didn’t pretend to hold power; they were power. According to Alyssara Velcroix—who had a habit of knowing everything she wasn’t supposed to—Lucifer’s family alone could level the Southern Sea Sun Palace if they were in a bad mood and slightly ahead on paperwork.

And yet... he didn’t carry himself like the others. He wasn’t full of the rigid pride and polished arrogance that most high-born guests wore like armor. There was something else. Something quieter. He talked to people like they were people.

Unlike her, he was dressed simply—though his clothes were undoubtedly expensive, they didn’t scream for attention. His blonde hair fell casually across his forehead, and he wore no ornaments save for a single ring that marked his royal status. He didn’t need embellishment to command respect.

Something in her chest tightened as she watched him move through the crowd with easy confidence. Had she ever felt that comfortable in her own skin? That free to simply be, rather than perform?

Deia realized she was staring again. She tensed, glanced at her father—still talking—and slipped away. No one stopped her. Her father didn’t even blink. He never did. Unless it was politically necessary.

She weaved through the crowd, the sheer fabric overlaying her ceremonial dress catching faint sparks of light from the floating orbs above. Several guests attempted to engage her in conversation—the usual flattery and veiled probing for information—but she deflected with practiced ease, the social graces so deeply ingrained she could deploy them without conscious thought.

Eventually, she found Lucifer again, this time walking toward the edge of the courtyard with Seol-ah Moyong beside him. The Moyongs—old family, Eastern continent, dangerous in that quiet, scholarly way. And powerful. At least as powerful as the Palace. Possibly more.

Seol-ah moved with the fluid grace of someone who had spent years training in martial disciplines, though she rarely demonstrated her abilities publicly. Her pale hair was tied back simply, and her ceremonial robes, while elegant, seemed designed for freedom of movement rather than spectacle.

Something about the way they walked—purposeful, slightly hurried—triggered Deia’s instincts. They weren’t simply seeking fresh air or a quieter space. They were going somewhere.

Deia stepped in front of them, her posture regal, her voice sharp.

"What are you two sneaking off to do?" she asked, arms crossed, the heavy bracelets at her wrists clinking softly.

They paused. Lucifer looked surprised. Seol-ah blinked once.

Deia narrowed her golden eyes, an inheritance from her father that she had never quite reconciled with—they were beautiful, yes, but they were also his. A constant reminder of whose she was.

"A secret makeout spot, is it?" she said, more accusation than question, the irreverence in her tone a small rebellion against the formal atmosphere of the Festival.

Seol-ah’s mouth twitched like she was holding back a grimace. Lucifer looked like someone had just accused him of kissing a brick wall.

"No," he said flatly.

"Absolutely not," Seol-ah added, in a tone usually reserved for correcting laboratory errors.

Lucifer leaned in slightly. "We have something important to handle."

Deia raised an eyebrow. "And you’re telling me this because...?" Her tone didn’t quite hide the bitterness. "In case you forgot, I’m the daughter of the man who owns this island. I’m practically part of the décor."

Lucifer met her gaze calmly. "Because I trust you."

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. Simple. Direct. And impossible to ignore.

Deia didn’t answer immediately. Her mind twisted around the statement like it was some kind of puzzle. Trust? That wasn’t a thing people gave her. Not without angles, leverage, plans. But Lucifer had said it so plainly, as if it was obvious.

For a moment, she wanted to walk away. Pretend she hadn’t heard it. Keep playing the part her father wrote for her.

But then again, dolls didn’t get trusted. Dolls didn’t make choices.

"I’m coming with you," she said at last.

Lucifer gave a single nod. Seol-ah didn’t object.

And just like that, Deia Solaryn took her first step off the display shelf.

They moved through the less populated corridors of the Palace, avoiding the main celebratory areas. Deia led them, knowing the secret paths and hidden passages that even most of the Palace staff weren’t aware of. Years of trying to escape her father’s attention had made her intimately familiar with every forgotten corner of the massive structure.

"Where exactly are we going?" she asked as they descended a narrow staircase, the sounds of the Festival fading behind them.

"The central chamber," Seol-ah replied softly. "Beneath the Central Courtyard."

Deia nearly stopped in her tracks. "Those are sealed by royal decree. Even I don’t have access."

"We know," Lucifer said simply.

A thousand questions raced through Deia’s mind, but she asked none of them. Part of her—the proper princess, the dutiful daughter—screamed that she should turn back immediately, that she was betraying her father, her position, everything she was supposed to represent.

But another part, a part she usually kept buried beneath layers of compliance, whispered: Aren’t you curious?

As they walked, Deia found herself increasingly aware of Lucifer’s presence beside her. The steady rhythm of his footsteps, the occasional brush of his sleeve against hers when the corridor narrowed, the scent of something crisp and cool like winter air that seemed to surround him despite the warmth of the Festival night.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked suddenly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

The question caught her off guard. Why was she doing this? Breaking rules she’d never dared break before, risking her father’s displeasure, potentially endangering herself?

"I don’t know," she admitted, surprising herself with the honesty. "I just... needed to."

Lucifer studied her face for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, as if her answer made perfect sense.

A patrol of Palace guards passed by, discussing the Festival duties with bored familiarity. None of them glanced toward the alcove.

When they had passed, Deia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. "They’ll circle back in about ten minutes," she whispered. "We need to move quickly."

As they slipped from the alcove, Lucifer’s hand briefly caught hers, squeezing once in what might have been gratitude or reassurance before letting go. The brief contact sent an unexpected thrill up her arm, leaving her momentarily flustered.

Focus, she chided herself. Whatever this strange feeling was, she could examine it later.

They continued through the Palace’s labyrinthine lower levels, the opulence of the upper floors gradually giving way to more utilitarian designs. The air grew cooler, the lighting dimmer. Few ventured this deep unless they had specific business in the archives or storerooms.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Deia asked as they approached the entrance to the central courtyard.

"Information," Seol-ah said. "About something that happened to a friend."

"Arthur Nightingale," Lucifer added, watching Deia carefully.

The name triggered recognition. "The academy student who went into mana deviation? The one they’re keeping isolated in the medical wing?"

Lucifer nodded. "He found something here. Something important enough that he was willing to fight his way in."

Deia frowned, pieces clicking together in her mind. "The security breach. That was him?"

"Yes," Seol-ah confirmed.

They reached the final corridor leading to the restricted archives. A massive door of black metal stood at the end, inscribed with ancient symbols that pulsed faintly with suppression magic.

"I can’t get you through that," Deia said, eyeing the door warily. "It’s keyed to my father’s mana signature and Alyssara’s."

"We have another way," Lucifer replied, exchanging a glance with Seol-ah.

As they discussed the technical aspects of bypassing the security, Deia found herself watching Lucifer’s profile in the dim light. The determined set of his jaw, the intelligence in his eyes, the way he considered everyone’s input without ego or dismissal—these were qualities she rarely saw in the people who surrounded her father.

And suddenly, a question crashed into her consciousness: Why am I really here?

Was it curiosity? Rebellion? A desire to feel useful for once?

Or was it something else entirely?

Her gaze lingered on Lucifer—on his quiet confidence, his inherent freedom, his ability to choose his own path despite being born to privilege just as she was.

And in that moment, as they prepared to breach one of the most secure locations in the Palace, right under her father’s nose during the most sacred festival of the year, clarity struck Deia with the force of revelation.

It wasn’t about the archives, or Arthur Nightingale, or even the thrill of breaking rules.

It was about what Lucifer represented—the freedom to be more than a carefully arranged piece on someone else’s board. The possibility that she too could make choices that mattered, take risks that weren’t calculated, live a life that wasn’t scripted down to the last gesture.

The realization stole her breath, leaving her momentarily dizzy with its implications. If she could do this—truly do this, not just play at rebellion before returning to her gilded cage—what else might be possible?

What else might she be?

"Deia?" Lucifer’s voice broke through her thoughts. "Are you with us?"

He was looking at her with concern, one hand slightly extended as if ready to steady her if needed. The simple gesture of care, so different from the choreographed courtesies she was accustomed to, made something in her chest constrict painfully.

"Yes," she said, surprised by the strength in her own voice. "I’m with you."

And as Seol-ah began the delicate process of sensing and disrupting the door’s mana patterns, Deia realized with startling clarity that she was standing at a threshold far more significant than the physical one before them.

On one side lay the princess, the ornament, the perfect daughter.

On the other—something unnamed, unscripted, and terrifyingly real.

She didn’t know if what she felt for Lucifer was admiration or the beginning of something deeper, didn’t know if she was capable of truly breaking free of the roles she’d been assigned since birth, didn’t know what awaited them beyond that imposing door.

But for the first time in her carefully managed life, not knowing felt like a beginning rather than a failure.