Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

"Yeah, that's the one. The one you never talk about but keep seeing every time you look at the snow."

Lindarion's jaw flexed slightly. "She doesn't belong in a place like Dythrael's prison."

"Neither does your mother." Dıscover more novels at 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦•𝘯𝘦𝘵

"No," Lindarion said quietly. "Neither of them do."

The fire popped. Sparks lifted and vanished into the night.

Across the camp, soldiers murmured in low voices. Some were Lorienyan elves, others human officers who had followed him since the fall of Eldorath.

They were hardened now, far from the clean-armored ideal of royal legions, but there was pride in them still. Lindarion had earned that. Not with speeches, but with presence.

Nysha approached silently from the dark, her crimson eyes glinting faintly. "Perimeter secure," she said. "The men will rest in shifts. Scouts report movement near the river, nothing close yet."

Lindarion nodded once. "Good. Keep two wings ready before dawn."

She lingered a moment longer, studying him. "You haven't slept."

"I'll rest after we cross the border."

"That could take days."

He looked at her then, not sharp, not dismissive, but tired in a way that only those who carried kingdoms inside their chest could be tired. "I don't need days."

Nysha's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing more. She turned and left him in silence.

Ashwing stretched, yawning. "You really should sleep, you know. You get that weird look when you stay up too long. The one that makes people nervous."

"People are always nervous."

"Well, yeah. You glow now."

Lindarion almost smiled. "You make that sound like an accusation."

"It is. You didn't glow before you got tree-blessed. Now you do. It's suspicious."

He crouched slightly, resting one hand on the dragon's scaled head. "If I start glowing too brightly, you'll tell me?"

"I'll bite your hand off."

"Fair enough."

The air had cooled. The sound of cicadas and distant night-birds filled the dark edges of the clearing. For a moment, the world seemed still, quiet enough that Lindarion could almost pretend the south wasn't waiting, that the rot hadn't spread, that Dythrael's shadow wasn't thickening beyond the horizon.

He looked upward. The stars above Lorienya were different, older, brighter, as though they remembered a time before gods walked and wars tore through realms. Beneath their light, the faint shimmer of mana flowed across the leaves like a soft river of gold.

"I grew up thinking the stars were constant," Lindarion said absently.

Ashwing cracked an eye open. "And now?"

"Now I think they just move slower than we do."

"That's… actually kind of poetic. Gross."

Lindarion smirked faintly. "Go to sleep, Ashwing."

The dragon curled tighter, muttering, "Fine. But if we get attacked by demons in the middle of the night, it's your fault."

He didn't respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the southern dark, where the wind no longer carried forest song, where the mists of corruption began. Somewhere beyond those mists lay the ruins of Eldorath's citadel… and the prisons of Dythrael.

He could almost see them, Luneth behind walls of frost, her silver hair dulled by shadow, her expression calm even as the world bent around her. His mother, perhaps trapped deeper still, somewhere beneath the fortress that now pulsed with black flame.

A chill passed through him, faint but unmistakable, a ripple in the air that brushed against his mana core.

Ashwing's eyes snapped open instantly. "You felt that too."

"Yes."

It wasn't strong, not yet. But it was familiar, the same pulse he had felt two months ago when Dythrael's revival tore through the veil.

Lindarion stood, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The camp behind him was calm, unaware. He watched the distant darkness a long while before he finally said, almost to himself, "We're running out of time."

Ashwing's tail twitched. "Then we fly faster."

He looked down at the dragon, small, fierce, ever unafraid, and nodded once. "At first light."

The forest wind shifted, cool and solemn, brushing through his hair. The fires burned low, one by one, until the camp fell into quiet.

Lindarion remained standing long after, golden eyes reflecting the distant shimmer of stars, a prince in exile, a weapon of peace, a shadow born of light, waiting for dawn to call him southward.

The first light of dawn broke through the canopy in ribbons of gold and silver, spilling warmth over the sleeping camp. Dew glistened on the roots and leaves, shimmering like glass.

Birds stirred, their songs weaving through the branches above, but beneath that melody was another sound, the low hum of power gathering.

Lindarion stood at the edge of the glade, cloak drawn tight, armor dim under the rising sun. Ashwing crouched before him, scales dark as midnight yet faintly luminous, pulsing with mana. The dragon had grown restless all night, wings twitching even in his smaller form.

When the first true ray of sunlight touched the clearing, Ashwing's body shifted, bones stretching, scales expanding, shadows blooming outward in ripples of heat. In moments, the small creature was gone, replaced by a sleek, four-winged dragon, his eyes burning with molten gold.

Lindarion stepped forward without hesitation. One smooth motion, a hand to the creature's neck, a breath shared, and then he vaulted onto Ashwing's back.

The wind broke as the dragon leapt skyward.

The forest fell away beneath them. Vast treetops rippled like green seas, their leaves flashing gold in the morning light.

Lorienya spread out endlessly below, rivers threading through moss and stone, ancient trees spiraling toward the sky. The World Tree stood far to the north, its crown piercing the clouds, radiating calm.

For a moment, it was beautiful enough to make him forget what lay beyond.

Ashwing's voice thrummed through his mind, rougher now, deeper. "You sure we're going alone again?"

"Yes." The air rushed around Lindarion's words, cool and sharp. "This isn't a battle. It's a question."

"A question?"

"I need to see what's happening with my own eyes before I send anyone else south."

Ashwing's wings spread wider, the air bending under their strength. "Then hold on, princeling. Let's see how far the rot has crept."

They flew.