Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The night deepened. The drills ended, and the soldiers began to rest. Fires crackled at the edges of the clearing, sending thin ribbons of smoke into the air.

Food was passed around, simple fare, but laughter began to ripple among the groups. It was the first time in months that laughter didn’t sound forced.

Lindarion lingered a moment longer before turning toward the path that led up to the higher terraces of Lorienya.

The glow from the World Tree shimmered faintly through the canopy, its light stronger tonight than usual, pulsing in slow, steady waves.

He felt it in his mana core, a resonance that hummed like distant thunder beneath calm waters. The tree was watching. Or perhaps, listening.

He paused beside the roots that coiled across the ground, their surface warm under his hand. For a heartbeat, a memory flickered, the voice of Elyndra, the ancient maker of the Tree, echoing faintly: "The world will always turn toward its light, Lindarion. But the roots... they grow in shadow."

He exhaled slowly and withdrew his hand.

When he returned to his chambers, the forest was quieter. The night-song of Lorienya, the blend of insects, mana streams, and faint whispers of leaves, had softened to a low hum.

He shed his armor, setting it aside, and drew open the window overlooking the forest below. The moonlight painted the treetops in silver.

Ashwing climbed onto the windowsill, tail swishing lazily. "You’re restless again."

"I’m thinking," Lindarion said quietly.

"Same thing."

Lindarion turned his gaze upward. "When I trained under my father, he said peace is only as strong as those willing to defend it. But this peace—" his eyes flicked to the glowing horizon— "feels different. It’s... alive."

Ashwing tilted his head. "The Tree’s doing that, right?"

"Yes," Lindarion murmured. "It protects Lorienya. But I wonder if the Tree’s light hides more than it shields."

Before Ashwing could answer, a soft knock came at the door.

"Enter," Lindarion said.

The door creaked open, revealing Thalan. The Lorienyan teacher looked more composed than during their spar, though a band still wrapped around his wrist where Lindarion had struck him days ago. He bowed respectfully. "Prince Lindarion. I hope I’m not intruding."

"Not at all," Lindarion said, gesturing for him to enter. "You’ve come late."

"I wanted to speak privately," Thalan said. "About the training. And... something else."

Lindarion inclined his head slightly. "Go on."

Thalan hesitated, his expression uncertain. "Some of the elders are uneasy. They say the flow of mana in the southern woods has begun to shift. Subtle, but real. It bends differently when the soldiers train there, as if responding to your presence."

Ashwing perked up. "See? Even the forest notices him."

Lindarion shot the dragon a warning glance, but Thalan’s focus remained grave. "If it were simply the Tree adapting to you, I’d say nothing. But... this feels older. The streams under the ground hum louder each night."

Lindarion’s gaze drifted to the window again, to where the distant forest swayed under the moonlight. "It may be the echo of what’s coming. Power reacts to change. The Tree senses what we do not."

Thalan nodded slowly. "Then you think it’s an omen?"

"I think," Lindarion said, "the world remembers before it warns."

They stood in silence for a while. The air between them carried the faint scent of sap and mana, the breath of living wood. Thalan finally bowed again, deep and formal. "Then we will keep watch, my prince. The soldiers will be ready."

Lindarion’s voice softened. "You’ve done well with them, Thalan. Better than most would."

The teacher’s expression eased slightly, pride flickering through his eyes. "I only followed your example."

When he left, the room felt quieter, almost reverent.

Ashwing stretched across the window ledge. "You think something’s really wrong?"

"I know it," Lindarion said softly. "But not here. Not yet. Lorienya still breathes freely."

"Then why do you look like you’re about to fight a storm?"

Lindarion’s golden eyes reflected the moonlight. "Because the last calm I saw this perfect came before a war."

Ashwing said nothing after that. The night pressed close, full of unseen movement, the hum of life, of magic, of something stirring beyond comprehension. And above it all, the World Tree glowed gently, its roots whispering faint songs to the prince who had become its chosen flame.

Lindarion stood by the window until dawn touched the horizon in pale gold.

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The next day, the training would continue. The soldiers would march stronger, their rhythm steadier. The elves would smile as if peace were eternal. But in the spaces between breaths, the air itself trembled, as though waiting for the first leaf to fall.

The morning after came bright and clear, too clear. The air shimmered faintly, mana dancing like dust motes across sunlight streaming through the canopy.

Birds sang their lilting, otherworldly notes, their calls echoing between the living towers of Lorienya. Yet beneath the sound, beneath the life, there was something faintly off-beat.

Lindarion felt it the moment his boots touched the training grounds.

The mana in the air was heavier, denser, still beautiful, still golden and green, but it pulsed with a rhythm that wasn’t quite natural.

A deeper resonance trembled beneath it, as though the world itself had begun to hum a note no one else could hear.

The soldiers didn’t notice. They were already forming ranks, laughter echoing as they teased one another, the morning light glinting off armor. Lorienyan teachers and human captains barked orders, weapons clashing in a warm, disciplined rhythm.

Only Lindarion stood still.

His gaze flicked to the roots sprawling beneath the training field, the same living veins that ran from the World Tree itself.

They pulsed faintly, their light dimming and brightening in steady intervals. Too steady. Too deliberate.

Ashwing landed on a nearby post, shaking his wings. "You’re doing that thing again. The ’I sense the end of the world’ stare."

Lindarion said nothing. His golden eyes narrowed, tracking the faint shimmer of mana near the edge of the field.

"Don’t pretend you don’t see it," he murmured under his breath.

Ashwing craned his neck, squinting. "See what? All I see are sweaty humans pretending to be elves."

"The distortion," Lindarion said quietly. "Look closer."

For a long moment, the dragon said nothing. Then his tone shifted, lower. "...Oh."

The distortion wasn’t large, just a faint ripple in the air, as if the light itself had bent the wrong way. It wavered near one of the great roots that curved above the training ground like an arch, its edges flickering in and out of sight.

Lindarion moved.