Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The war had finally ended, and Rackenshore was free to celebrate.

Bright banners of crimson and gold, the colors of the Empire, fluttered from every rooftop and balcony, catching the soft summer breeze that carried the scent of roasting meats and fresh-baked bread.

The central square, usually a place of hurried transactions and wary glances, had become the heart of the festival. Stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their owners shouting to passersby, offering everything from spiced wine to intricate trinkets.

At the center of the square stood a grand statue, newly erected to commemorate the Empire's victory. The figure of a stern-faced Major of the city, sword raised in triumph, loomed over the festivities, a reminder of the price paid for this celebration.

Yet, the people did not shy away from its shadow. Instead, they danced beneath it, children darting through the crowd with laughter that had been absent for far too long.

The streets of Rackenshore buzzed with conversation, the air thick with the sounds of lively chatter and the scent of summer blooms. Farmers and their families filled the square, their faces flushed with the rare joy of peace.

"I tell you, Beric, I haven't seen a haul this good in years," an older man with weathered hands and a broad smile remarked, lifting a mug of spiced wine to his lips. His name was Corwin, a farmer whose fields had been the lifeblood of his family for generations.

"Aye, Corwin," his friend Beric responded, a grin splitting his sun-tanned face. "The land's been good to us, even with the war hanging over our heads. But I won't lie—I'm glad we don't have to send any more of our best crops to the front lines."

Corwin nodded, his expression turning serious for a moment. "We gave what we could, but it's been hard on everyone. My boy, Lyle, he's been worried we'd lose the farm if the taxes kept rising."

Beric clapped Corwin on the back, his voice reassuring. "Well, Lyle can rest easy now. The war's over, and we've got a good harvest ahead of us. We'll fill our own tables before we fill the Empire's stores again."

Nearby, a young woman named Greta, her arms full of vibrant wildflowers, joined the conversation. "It feels strange, doesn't it? Not having to look over our shoulders anymore, worrying if this season's crops will go to our families or the soldiers."

Beric nodded, his gaze drifting to the statue of the Major in the square's center. "We've all made sacrifices, but today… today's different. We can finally enjoy the fruits of our labor."

Greta's eyes sparkled with a mixture of relief and hope. "And we can plan for the future now, plant what we want instead of what's needed for rations. My father's been talking about expanding the orchard—says we might finally be able to afford it."

Corwin chuckled, raising his mug in a toast. "Here's to that, Greta. May your orchards grow as full as your heart."

As the three continued to talk, their voices blending with the general hum of the festival, the crowd's attention was drawn toward the center of the square.

There, atop a small platform draped in the Empire's colors, stood the baron overseeing Rackenshore.

Baron Edris Wyndhall, a man of middle years with a dignified bearing and the crest of his family—a silver tree on a field of green—emblazoned on his chest, raised a hand to the crowd. His presence commanded respect, yet his eyes held a warmth that endeared him to the citizens.

"My friends, my fellow citizens of Rackenshore," Baron Wyndhall began, his voice carrying easily over the gathered throng. "Today, we celebrate not just the Empire's victory but our own. We have endured hardships together—together, we have supported our soldiers and our Empire with the bounty of our lands. And now, we reap the rewards."

The crowd erupted in cheers, the noise a cathartic release after months of tension.

Baron Wyndhall continued, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Let this festival be a reminder that the strength of Rackenshore lies not just in our soil but in our spirit. As we move forward, may our fields grow ever more bountiful, and may our hearts remain ever united."

Corwin, Beric, and Greta joined in the applause, their hands meeting in a shared rhythm of gratitude and hope. Around them, the celebration surged with renewed vigor, the citizens of Rackenshore buoyed by the words of their baron.

"Baron Wyndhall's a good man," Beric said, his voice filled with respect. "He knows what we've been through, and he's stood by us through it all."

Corwin nodded in agreement. "He has. And now we can stand tall, knowing our work has brought us here."

Yet the gaze belonging to Greta was not the same as the others.

It was a little different. There was a small hatred on her face. An expression that many others have missed.

–RING!

But amongst the music and the cheerfulness of the festival, her expression had disappeared without being noticed by anyone at all.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the festival in Rackenshore showed no signs of slowing down.

The music grew louder, the dances more exuberant, and the laughter more uninhibited as the people celebrated the end of their long ordeal.

The stalls were still bustling with activity, though the barrels of spiced wine were rapidly emptying, and the scent of roasted meats mingled with the sweet tang of spilled ale.

Children, tired from hours of play, were now clinging to their parents, their eyelids heavy but their spirits still high.

The more seasoned citizens, too, were beginning to feel the effects of the day's festivities. Many had found their way to the long wooden tables set up in the square, their faces flushed from drink and cheer, sharing stories of past harvests and dreams of a prosperous future.

Yet, amid the revelry, Greta moved quietly, her steps steady and purposeful. She offered polite smiles and nods to those who greeted her, but her mind was elsewhere.

The flicker of hatred that had crossed her face earlier was now buried deep within, hidden behind the practiced calm of someone used to keep her true feelings to herself.

As the night wore on, the festival began to wind down. The music slowed to a softer, more languid pace, and the once-roaring fires in the square burned low.

Drunken voices rose in song, the lyrics slurred and joyous, as groups of friends leaned on one another, staggering through the cobblestone streets toward their homes.

Greta, too, finally turned her steps toward home. Her family's inn, The Verdant Hearth, stood on the edge of the square, a sturdy stone building with warm lights glowing from its windows.

The inn had been in her family for generations, and it was as much a part of Rackenshore as the fields and orchards that surrounded the city.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Greta was greeted by the familiar sounds of her family's bustling establishment. The common room was filled with patrons, many of them regulars, who were either too drunk to find their way home or preferred the company of others to an empty house.

Her mother, a robust woman with a no-nonsense air, was behind the bar, expertly filling mugs of ale while her father moved among the tables, chatting with guests and ensuring everyone was well cared for.

"Greta! There you are," her mother called out as she caught sight of her. "Come and help your father with the guests, will you? It's been a busy night."

Greta moved swiftly through the common room of The Verdant Hearth, balancing trays of ale and plates of steaming food with the practiced ease of someone who had grown up in the bustling inn. The warmth of the hearth fire mixed with the hearty laughter and lively conversations, creating a cozy and welcoming atmosphere.

"Greta, another round here!" called a group of farmers huddled around a table near the fireplace. Their faces were flushed with drink and cheer, and they waved their mugs in the air, signaling their need for more ale.

"Coming right up!" Greta responded with a smile, expertly weaving her way through the crowded room. As she approached the table, she caught snippets of their conversation.

"Did you hear about old man Rake's harvest? Biggest one in years, they say," one of the farmers said, his voice slurred but enthusiastic.

"Aye, I heard. We might finally get some good prices at the market this year," another added, raising his mug in a toast.

Greta set down the fresh mugs of ale, and one of the farmers, a burly man with a bushy beard, gave her a grateful nod. "Thanks, lass. You're a blessing, you are."

She offered a polite smile in return and moved on to the next table, where a group of merchants were engaged in a heated discussion about the best trade routes now that the war was over. The clinking of coins and the rustling of maps punctuated their conversation, and Greta couldn't help but listen in as she served them their drinks.

"The southern pass is open again, but the tolls are higher than ever," one of the merchants complained, shaking his head.

"Better to pay the toll than risk the old forest road," another countered, taking a deep swig of his ale. "Bandits are still lurking there, I hear."

As Greta continued to move through the room, her hands busy but her mind elsewhere, she suddenly felt a shift in the atmosphere.

The lively chatter and laughter seemed to quiet just a bit, as if the very air in the inn had thickened with unspoken tension.

"Ohh…..Lively, isn't it?"

And she heard the voice of someone she disliked from the bottom of her heart.

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