Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Ashwing shrank down into his smaller form beside him, tail flicking nervously. "And it's hungry."

The gathered elves murmured uneasily at the sight of the dragon speaking, but Nysha waved them off. "The council will want a full report," she said.

"They'll have it."

He moved past her, cloak trailing faint motes of gold, residual mana from the purification. The guards opened the great doors to the council chamber, and Lindarion entered without waiting to be announced.

Inside, the high hall shimmered with sunlight filtering through the canopy. The floor was living wood, polished to a mirror sheen, its veins glowing faintly with the life of the World Tree.

The thrones of Vaelthorn and Sylwen Ironbark stood beneath the arch of woven roots, their carved surfaces glinting with runes older than recorded history.

Both rulers were present, along with their advisors and several commanders from Lorienya's border guard. Conversation died instantly as Lindarion approached.

"Prince of Eldorath," King Vaelthorn said, his voice even but carrying a shadow of concern. "You left without escort. The forest whispered of disturbance. What did you see?"

Lindarion stopped at the center of the hall. "A line between life and death," he said. "A corruption that devours mana itself. It has reached Lorienya's southern edge, for now, your borders hold, but the land beyond is lost."

Gasps spread through the council. Sylwen leaned forward, her eyes like polished amber. "Are you certain?"

"Yes. I destroyed what I could, but the source lies deeper. It isn't Dythrael's power alone, though his shadow feeds from it. This corruption predates him."

That word, predates, sent a visible ripple of unease through the room.

The king's jaw tightened. "Then it is as the World Tree whispered," he murmured. "Old roots waking beneath younger soil." Chapters fırst released on 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩•𝗳𝗂𝗋𝖾•𝕟𝕖𝕥

Lindarion looked up sharply. "The Tree spoke to you?"

Sylwen nodded. "Not in words. In tremors. In its sap. The guardians feel something stirring far below. But even they do not know what."

The chamber fell silent for a long moment. The air itself seemed to thicken, as if listening.

Lindarion broke the stillness first. "Then we must move south," he said. "Not with scouts this time. With armies. If we wait, the corruption will not stop at your borders, and when it reaches the Tree, not even its light will cleanse it."

Several councilors immediately began speaking at once. "Move an army? Into deathlands?"

"We cannot risk the Tree's wards weakening—"

"He would draw Lorienya into Eldorath's war—"

Lindarion raised one hand, and the room fell quiet again. Golden light flickered faintly at his fingertips, not threatening, but a reminder. "This isn't about kingdoms," he said. "It's about what comes after them. I've seen lands crumble in weeks. Cities turned to silence. Dythrael's prison lies at the heart of that decay. If we cut the corruption at its source, we save more than Lorienya."

The king's gaze sharpened. "You speak of your father."

"And of Luneth Silverleaf," Lindarion answered softly. "They are alive. But if the corruption reaches its peak, not even their mana will survive it."

The mention of Sylvarion's princess caused another murmur.

Sylwen looked between them, her expression conflicted. "Luneth… that child has always been attuned to the winter currents. If she still lives within such a place, her power must be—"

"Dying," Lindarion said. "I felt her mana through the storm. Weak, flickering, but there. She holds on. Waiting."

Silence again, heavier now, personal.

Vaelthorn rose from his throne. "If you march south, you will not march alone."

Sylwen's eyes widened slightly. "Husband—"

He raised a hand. "The World Tree entrusted us with its light. We are not meant to hide behind it while the world rots. Our people were born to heal, not to watch decay from safe branches." He turned to Lindarion. "We will send a contingent, healers, wardens, and the Silver Guard. But Lorienya will not send its full strength unless the Tree itself decrees it."

Lindarion inclined his head. "That is fair."

A pause. Then, softer: "Thank you."

The queen studied him with quiet intensity. "You carry its blessing now," she said. "The Tree chose you. Perhaps that is its decree."

Her words hung in the air long after she spoke them.

When the council dismissed, the hall emptied slowly, voices hushed. Outside, the light was dimmer, the sun veiled by clouds creeping in from the south.

Nysha waited on the terrace, arms crossed. "So?" she asked.

"They'll send help," Lindarion said. "Not enough, but enough to start."

"Then we start."

Ashwing hopped onto the railing, tail curling. "You two sound like you're planning another suicide trip."

"We're planning to save people," Lindarion said. "Including two who won't last the season if we delay."

Nysha's eyes softened briefly. "Luneth."

He didn't answer.

The wind shifted, cool and sharp, carrying scents from the south, ash, metal, and something older, something faintly sweet, like rotting flowers. Lindarion looked toward the horizon. His golden eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the light of the dying day.

"Two months," he said quietly. "That's how long we've been waiting since Dythrael rose. The world doesn't wait that long without paying a price."

Nysha tilted her head. "Then we move soon?"

"Soon," he said. "But not yet. We need to train the soldiers who've come. Lorienyan magic isn't meant for battle, they'll need to learn how to fight corruption, not feed it."

Ashwing groaned. "Training? Again? Why can't you just let me set everything on fire?"

"Because," Lindarion said, half-smiling, "we might need something left to rule over when this is done."

The dragon flicked his tail indignantly. "That's boring."

"Good."

They stood there as the light dimmed, the sky turning from gold to deep violet. Beneath them, the city glowed softly, lanterns of woven roots blooming into light, bridges of silver leaf shining like veins through the forest. The peace was deceptive, but it was peace nonetheless.

For a moment, Lindarion allowed himself to breathe.

Then his gaze drifted again to the horizon, south, always south.

Somewhere beyond that darkness, in the ruined lands between realms, Dythrael waited. Somewhere within that decay, Luneth's frost still lingered. And deeper still, his father's mana pulsed like a fading star.

The thought tightened something in his chest.

Ashwing felt it, even without words. "You're thinking too loud again."

Lindarion exhaled slowly. "Maybe."

"You'll get them back," the dragon said. "You always do."

He didn't answer, but his hand rose, brushing the dragon's scales once, lightly.

Then he turned back toward the heart of the city, where soldiers were gathering on the lower terraces for evening drills. His voice, quiet but firm: "We begin tomorrow."