Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

That night, Lorienya dreamed.

Every elf, from the youngest child to the oldest warden, felt it: a wind that wasn't wind, a light that wasn't light, moving through their dreams. It carried whispers, fragments of song, fragments of prophecy.

In the dream, they saw a figure walking through fire and frost alike, his shadow trailing gold and black in equal measure. Behind him walked armies of every race, and before him burned a sky torn open like a wound.

When the dream faded, they woke with the taste of mana on their tongues, and the certainty that something vast had begun.

Lindarion stood at the highest terrace, sleepless, watching the horizon as the world tree's roots glowed faintly behind him.

The wind rose again, soft and cold, brushing through his white hair.

[System Notification: Main Quest Updated.]

[Objective: Breach Dythrael's Domain.]

[Sub-Objective: Rescue Targets — "Eldrin" and "Luneth Silverleaf."] ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩✶𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚✶𝕟𝕖𝕥

[Status: Active.]

His golden eyes flared once, briefly, like twin suns in the dark.

And for the first time since the fall of Eldorath, the prince smiled, not in joy, but in resolve.

The age of waiting was over.

The march would begin.

The following morning, Lorienya stirred to motion.

From the upper spires to the rootbound terraces, the sound of hammers and song blended, smiths reforging silversteel, healers weaving protective sigils into armor, young mages testing their focus under the guidance of veterans.

The air itself shimmered faintly; mana was alive again, restless, responding to the call of purpose.

At the heart of it all, Lindarion stood upon the south platform, overlooking the sprawling training grounds carved into the roots of the World Tree.

The fields had been expanded overnight, elves worked with living wood, coaxing branches and vines into archways, bleachers, and sparring enclosures.

He had seen battlefields shaped by iron and blood, but never one shaped by song.

Ashwing hovered above him, wings flicking lazily, eyes scanning the movement below. "I've never seen elves train this fast," the dragon murmured. "Usually you people spend a century arguing over where to put a tent."

Lindarion's lips curved faintly. "Necessity is the best negotiator."

"Necessity, or you terrifying everyone into obedience?"

"Whichever works."

The dragon snorted. "Fair."

Below, the morning drills began. Lines of Lorienyan soldiers stood in ordered rows, most wore light armor of woven barksteel, silver trim etched with runes that glowed when their mana stirred.

At each formation's head stood a warden-captain, their cloaks dyed in shades of the forest: deep green, twilight blue, amber-gold.

Lindarion descended the spiral ramp to the training field, the murmurs quieting as he passed.

Thalan, the teacher he had sparred weeks before, was already there, speaking to a circle of young recruits. He looked up when Lindarion approached and gave a small bow, respect, but also familiarity now. "Your Highness," he greeted. "I've restructured the training as you suggested. We're focusing on resistance and rhythm, not power. The recruits will learn to contain mana, not release it."

"Good," Lindarion said. "A corrupted field devours wild mana. Control is survival."

Thalan nodded, then gestured toward a group at the far end of the yard. "We've also begun integrating the healers into combat groups. They're not used to offensive formations, but some show promise."

Lindarion followed his gaze. The healers, robed in white and green, moved in pairs with swords of crystal sapwood, their steps measured but precise. One among them, a young elf with silver hair and calm eyes, caught his attention. Her mana pulse was steady, unusually balanced for her age.

"Who is she?" he asked quietly.

"Lyriel," Thalan said. "Apprentice to the High Healer. She volunteered for frontline duty."

"Keep her close," Lindarion murmured. "She may prove vital."

By midday, the camp's rhythm changed from drills to coordination. Lorienya's commanders gathered beneath the great canopy hall, an open structure woven from the World Tree's roots, sunlight streaming through natural skylights.

Maps covered the central table, drawn on living bark, marked with shifting runes. The borders of Lorienya, Sylvarion, and Eldorath glowed in faint colors. Beyond them stretched the south, a blank expanse where the corruption had erased all meaning.

Nysha leaned against a pillar, arms folded, crimson eyes tracing the runes. "We can't march through the deadlands without anchor points," she said. "The terrain's unstable. Mana collapses there."

Thalan added, "If we move too fast, we risk exhaustion. Our energy drains twice as quickly in corrupted air."

Lindarion stood silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the map. Then he reached forward, touching a rune near the southernmost line. His finger left a faint trail of light.

"This," he said. "The old waystation of Merion Vale. It was built before the Age of Silence. The corruption hasn't reached it fully, not yet. We'll make it our first outpost."

One of the captains frowned. "That's nearly forty leagues through tainted land."

"Yes," Lindarion said. "And we'll need allies beyond our borders. Sylvarion will answer the call, Luneth's people will not ignore this threat."

A murmur passed through the table.

Nysha gave him a look. "You're assuming they still have the strength to send anyone."

"They will," Lindarion said quietly. "Or I'll remind them what their princess is worth."

The room went still at that, but no one argued.

He turned to Thalan. "Form three divisions. One for purification, one for reconnaissance, and one for support. We march in two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Thalan repeated, startled. "That's barely enough time—"

"It's all we have," Lindarion said, golden eyes glinting. "Every day we delay, the corruption spreads another mile. We fight time as much as shadow."

Later that afternoon, the city's forge terraces blazed with heat. Elven smiths shaped weapons from living alloys, silverleaf blades that hummed when drawn, bows strung with threads of light. Mana-thread weavers worked beside them, chanting runes of resilience into armor.

Lindarion moved through the forges like a ghost, not to inspect, but to listen. Each blade sang differently; he could sense which ones would endure battle and which would shatter under stress.

His connection to mana, the gift of the World Tree, made every vibration, every flaw, resonate in his bones.

One smith, a burly elf named Aereth, looked up from his anvil. "Your Highness," he said gruffly, wiping sweat from his brow. "This batch of coresteel won't hold enchantment past the second cycle. The metal itself rejects the binding."

Lindarion placed his palm above the blade. Gold light flickered, and the metal sang, high and clear, its discord fading into harmony.

"Now it will," he said softly.

Aereth stared at him, then bowed deeply. "We are honored, my prince."

Lindarion didn't answer. He had already moved to the next forge.