Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

He walked across the training field, boots brushing against grass. The soldiers noticed his approach immediately; conversation ceased, weapons lowered. Even now, weeks after his spar with Thalan, his presence drew silence like gravity.

He knelt beside the root, his fingers brushing its surface. Warm. Alive. But beneath that warmth, a faint vibration thrummed, like a heartbeat out of rhythm.

"Thalan," Lindarion said without looking up.

The Lorienyan teacher hurried forward, staff in hand. "My prince?"

"Has this root always pulsed like this?"

Thalan frowned, lowering himself beside him. He placed his palm against the living wood, and his eyes widened. "No. This is new."

Around them, the air seemed to grow thicker. The faint shimmer of mana brightened for a moment, then dimmed again. Some of the younger soldiers stepped back instinctively.

Ashwing fluttered down to perch on the root itself, tail flicking. "Something’s moving under it."

Lindarion’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Not something. Mana flow." He rose to his feet, eyes narrowing as he stared toward the south. "The streams beneath Lorienya are shifting faster than before."

Thalan’s voice was hushed. "You think it’s connected to what you sensed the other night?"

"I don’t think," Lindarion said. "I know."

Before Thalan could answer, the ground trembled.

It wasn’t much, just a faint quiver, enough to send ripples across the still water at the edge of the training field.

But every elf and human froze instantly, their instincts reacting before their minds caught up. The great roots shuddered faintly, leaves rustling though no wind passed through.

Lindarion’s golden eyes flashed. His mana surged unconsciously, enough to steady those nearest to him. The soldiers blinked, the tremor fading as quickly as it had come.

And then the silence returned, thick, heavy, unnatural.

"Resume your training," Lindarion said after a moment, voice even. "Stay sharp. Nothing leaves this clearing without my order."

Thalan hesitated. "But—"

Lindarion turned slightly, and the look in his eyes silenced the teacher immediately. "If it’s nothing, then I overreacted. If it’s not... you’ll want them ready."

Ashwing hopped up onto his shoulder. "You’re going to the Tree, aren’t you?"

"Yes," Lindarion murmured. "It’s time I asked her directly."

He turned and began walking toward the forest path that led deeper into Lorienya. The sunlight followed him in streaks of gold through the canopy, his white hair gleaming like a streak of frost against the living green.

Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹·𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲·𝗻𝗲𝘁

Behind him, whispers rippled through the soldiers. The tremor had shaken more than the earth, it had stirred the memory of what they’d seen weeks ago: the prince who had stepped from the World Tree, reborn in light.

Now he was going back.

The deeper Lindarion walked into the forest, the quieter it became. The air was thick with mana now, almost visible.

Threads of gold and green danced through the trees, weaving patterns that pulsed in time with his steps. The light of the Tree ahead grew stronger, more insistent.

Ashwing’s voice was soft in his mind. "It’s calling you again."

"Yes," Lindarion said. "But the tone is different this time."

"Different how?"

"It sounds afraid."

They reached the roots that led to the heart of the Tree. The great trunk towered above them, an endless column of living light, its surface rippling like liquid gold.

The doorway that had once opened for him weeks ago stood visible again, though it pulsed erratically now, like a heartbeat struggling to find rhythm.

Lindarion placed his palm against it.

The door parted at his touch, not with the serene grace it once held, but with a flicker of resistance, as though the Tree itself hesitated to let him in.

He stepped through.

The interior was different now. The soft glow that had once filled the chamber was dimmer, shadows creeping along the edges of the vast space.

The streams of mana that wove through the air bent strangely, warping and crossing where they should have flowed smoothly.

And at the center, the golden orb, the guardian of the Tree, flickered weakly.

"Lindarion..." The voice was fainter, thinner than before.

He moved closer, his expression tightening. "What’s happening?"

"The roots... are burdened. The world shifts beneath. Something moves in the deep places, something that does not belong."

Ashwing’s tail lashed. "Something big?"

The orb pulsed faintly. "Older than the mountains. Hungrier than the sea. The balance trembles."

Lindarion’s jaw clenched. "Where?"

The orb dimmed further. "South of here. Beneath the stone valleys. The seals weaken."

Lindarion drew a slow breath, the weight of the words settling over him like frost. "Then it begins."

"Yes," the guardian whispered. "The storm wakes. And the world will look to its flame once more."

The golden light flared weakly, then went out.

Ashwing’s voice was barely a whisper. "That... didn’t sound like a metaphor."

Lindarion’s gaze hardened, the golden light in his irises deepening. "No. It wasn’t."

The corridors of the World Tree pulsed dimly as Lindarion emerged from within. The living wood seemed slower to breathe, its golden hues muted, its whispers hushed. Ashwing perched silently on his shoulder, tail flicking once, twice, no jokes, no complaints. Just thought.

By the time they stepped back into the outer forest, the air had changed again. The birdsong was gone. Even the wind had gone still.

Lindarion’s boots made almost no sound as he crossed the living bridges toward the upper terraces where the council convened.

Every elf he passed paused instinctively and bowed, not out of protocol, but from something older, something inborn. Their gazes followed him, murmurs rising in soft, uncertain threads.

He ignored them. The weight of the guardian’s words still rang behind his eyes. The seals weaken.

The world above Lorienya looked peaceful still, sunlight gleaming through emerald leaves, rivers of mana curling like threads of silk, but beneath that beauty, he could feel it. The rhythm of life itself had changed.

When he reached the council chamber, guards stepped aside without a word. The carved wooden doors, grown rather than built, parted silently to reveal the circular room within, alive with soft green light.

King Vaelthorn Ironbark rose from his seat at once. "Prince Lindarion. You were not summoned, but I sense this is not a social visit."

Queen Sylwen’s eyes, pale and sharp as spring frost, narrowed slightly. "You went to the Tree again."

Lindarion inclined his head, golden hair gleaming faintly. "I did."

He stepped into the chamber’s center. "And it spoke."

The murmurs died instantly. Even the mana-light dimmed, as though the Tree’s will itself listened through him.

Vaelthorn’s tone was measured, but the undercurrent was tight. "Then speak, son of Eldrin. What did the Mother say?"

Lindarion met his gaze. "That something is stirring beneath the land. South of here. Something sealed long ago."

The words hung heavy in the still air.

Thalan, standing near the edge of the chamber as one of the council’s lesser advisors, frowned deeply. "You mean another rift?"

"No." Lindarion’s tone left no room for doubt. "Something older. The Tree’s light falters not from injury, but from pressure. The roots bear a burden they were never meant to hold."