Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Lindarion suppressed the twitch of a smile. 'Not yet. Watch and listen.'

"I did not come here to be worshipped," Lindarion said aloud. His voice was iron. "Nor to become the Tree's puppet. My purpose has not changed. Maeven remains, and behind him, Dythrael. My father's fate is still uncertain. That is the path before me."

Sylwen's eyes softened at the mention of Eldrin, though her lips pressed thin. "You truly do not know where he is?"

"If I did," Lindarion said, "I would not waste breath in this chamber. He fought Dythrael once. Now whispers reach me of a shadow spreading, of chains tightening around the free peoples. If Eldrin lives, he is bound to that struggle. And if he has fallen…" His jaw clenched. "…then I will finish what he began."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of insects in the walls.

Vaelthorn's gaze hardened. "Do not mistake our hospitality for blindness, Lindarion. What you say, what you are, shakes the balance. Dythrael's hand stirs, yes, but so too does yours. Do you understand how dangerous it is for one blessed by both the World Tree and the Old Affinities to wander unchecked?"

Lindarion's golden eyes flared with a sharp glint. "Unchecked? I did not ask for the Affinities. I did not ask for the Tree. Yet both came. What I ask is for truth. Tell me what you know of my father's last movements."

Sylwen touched her husband's arm again, forestalling his answer. Her voice was lower, smoother, carrying an edge of sorrow. "He came here once, long ago. Not as king, but as a desperate father. He sought answers from the Tree. It did not grant them. He left… diminished." She hesitated, then: "We have not seen him since."

The words struck deeper than Lindarion wished. For a heartbeat, his chest tightened, the memory of Eldrin's hand on his shoulder as a boy, steady, unyielding, flickering in cruel contrast to Sylwen's tone. Diminished.

'That means he's still out there, right?' Ashwing's voice darted in, hopeful, insistent. 'Diminished doesn't mean dead. Dead is dead. Diminished means hurt. Or hiding. Or both.'

'It means nothing certain,' Lindarion answered within, forcing his face to remain carved from stone. 'But we hold to what we can.'

Vaelthorn crossed his arms, bark-like bracers creaking. "The question, Lindarion, is not whether you will chase shadows. It is what you will leave in your wake. You wield powers most cannot name. You carry the blessing of the Tree itself. And you come to us asking for sanctuary, yet speak of war." For more chapters visit N0velFire.ɴet

"I ask not for sanctuary," Lindarion corrected sharply. "I ask for time. Space to plan. My companions need rest. The humans who followed me bleed and starve. If Lorienya closes its gates to us, we march still. But if you open them, we stand stronger against what comes."

The queen's gaze softened slightly, though her words remained measured. "And when you march, where will you go? South, to the fractured lands? East, to the human cities? Or west, into Dythrael's shadow?"

Lindarion's answer came without hesitation. "Wherever Maeven runs. Wherever his leash leads. It will end with Dythrael, no matter how far the path winds."

The chamber thickened with tension.

Sylwen stepped closer, her voice gentler now. "You burn, Prince. I can see it in you. The Tree has fed that fire until it blazes brighter than most can bear. But even the brightest flame consumes its bearer. Do not let vengeance hollow you before your path is complete."

For the first time, Lindarion faltered. Not outwardly, the mask held, but inside, her words scraped against the raw wound he carried. Maeven. Dythrael. Eldrin. The endless list of debts unpaid.

Ashwing wriggled slightly on his shoulder, his small claws clinging tighter. 'Don't listen too much. Flames are good. Flames scare the bad things away. And you've got me. I won't let you burn alone.'

Lindarion's breath left him slowly, controlled, measured. His voice was quiet when he finally answered. "I do not burn for vengeance alone. I burn for what they took. And I will not stop until the taking ends."

The king and queen studied him in silence, as though weighing not just his words but the resonance thrumming faintly through his frame, the undeniable mark of the Tree. Finally, Vaelthorn exhaled, long and heavy, like the groan of an ancient oak.

"You will have your time here," he said at last. "Your people may rest under Lorienya's boughs. None shall harm them. But know this, Lindarion Sunblade: the path you walk does not end with you alone. Every step you take will draw eyes, followers, enemies. When you rise, you do not rise as one man, you rise as a banner. Do not wield that lightly."

Sylwen inclined her head, sealing the words. "And should you need counsel, the Tree has already bound you to us. You will find our doors open."

Lindarion bowed, a motion short and sharp, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Then I will not squander the trust you extend. But do not mistake me, I am no banner. I am a blade. And blades do not bend."

The silence after his words hung like steel in the chamber. Then, slowly, Vaelthorn gestured toward the door. "Go, then. Rest. Gather your strength. The morrow will bring decisions none of us can yet foresee."

Lindarion turned, his steps echoing in the wooden hall. Ashwing leaned close to his ear, his mental voice a hushed giggle. 'You scared them. You really did. Did you see the king's face? He looked like someone chewed his roots.'

'They should be afraid,' Lindarion answered, though a small crack in his composure let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. 'If even kings tremble, perhaps Dythrael will, too.'

But in his chest, beneath the steadiness of his stride, the weight lingered. Not victory. Not reverence. A burden heavier than the Tree's blessing itself, the knowledge that his path was no longer his alone.

Every elf in Lorienya would feel him when he passed. Every ally, every foe.

The blade had been drawn, and there would be no sheathing it.