Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

At twilight, the city gathered again, soldiers, mages, and artisans alike, in the amphitheater woven around one of the great roots. Lanterns floated among the leaves, lighting faces from every clan. It had been centuries since Lorienya last prepared for war.

Vaelthorn stood to address them, his voice carrying easily. "For too long we have tended our gardens while others bled. But the decay at our borders shows no patience for neutrality. We march not to conquer, but to heal. To reclaim balance."

He turned to Lindarion, who stood a few paces away, the light of the lanterns painting his hair with silver fire. "And the one who will lead this effort is not Lorienyan by birth, but by fate. The World Tree chose him, and through him, we see its will."

The crowd bowed, some in reverence, some in uncertainty, as Lindarion stepped forward.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but absolute. "We are children of light, but light without shadow is blind. I will not ask for blind faith, only courage. When the march begins, remember what you fight for. Not me, not crowns, but the song that once filled this world before it was silenced."

Silence followed, then, slowly, the sound of blades lifted in unison.

Not a cheer, but a promise.

That night, in the high tower overlooking the forges, Nysha found him again, standing alone, watching the stars through the canopy. "Two weeks," she said. "You always choose the hard path."

He didn't turn. "The easy path is the one that ends in ruin."

"You sound like your father."

He smiled faintly. "Then maybe he'd approve."

A pause. Then Nysha asked quietly, "Do you really believe we can win?"

He looked out over the forest, where thousands of lights flickered like a reflection of the stars above. "No," he said honestly. "Not yet. But I believe we can begin."

Ashwing, half-asleep on the balcony rail, cracked one eye open. "You two and your drama," he muttered. "Wake me when we actually start killing things."

Lindarion chuckled softly, the sound rare and quiet. "Rest while you can," he said. "Tomorrow, we start forging destiny."

—

At dawn, the mist still hung low between the roots of the World Tree, pale strands of silver light threading through the morning air. The forges slept, the singing rivers of mana beneath Lorienya hummed faintly, and above it all the canopy whispered in an ancient language, unbroken for millennia.

Lindarion walked the training fields before the horns even sounded. He preferred to see the city waking. The scent of damp bark and glowing sap filled the air, and the forest still clung to its dreams. Only the faintest echoes of steel striking wood disturbed the calm, the early risers, those who could not sleep before battle.

He watched them for a while, quietly, younger elves, barely past their first century, trying to replicate the stances he'd taught the previous morning. Their forms were elegant, but empty, motion without weight. He didn't intervene yet. A sword form learned by repetition is hollow; one learned by failure endures.

Ashwing slithered out of his collar, stretching his small wings. "They're trying, at least," the dragon said between yawns. "You could tell them what they're doing wrong."

"I could," Lindarion murmured. "But they'd remember it less."

"So you're making them suffer?"

"I'm teaching them to think."

"Same thing," Ashwing said, unimpressed.

By the time the sun's first rays reached the lower terraces, the horns began to sound, soft and melodic, calling the Lorienyan divisions to formation. Lines formed quickly, banners unfurling. The colors of the forest rippled in living silk, emerald, bronze, silver, and gold.

Nysha arrived shortly after, cloak fluttering, expression already sharpened for command. "We'll divide drills into three cycles today," she said, glancing at her notes. "Mages with Thalan, blade specialists under Captain Elirian, and the archers—" she turned to Lindarion, "—with you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Archers?"

"You're the only one whose accuracy terrifies me," she said dryly. "It seemed fitting."

Ashwing snickered. "She's not wrong."

Lindarion didn't argue.

The field stretched wide beneath them, bordered by roots thicker than towers. The Lorienyan archers, fifty in number, stood ready, bows carved from living wood that pulsed faintly with light. They bowed when he approached, though their eyes were curious.

Lindarion summoned his own bow from the system's void-space, a dark, shimmering ripple in the air, out of which the weapon slid into existence like something alive. The elves gasped softly; even the air around the bow distorted faintly, as if mana itself bowed to it.

"This bow," Lindarion said, "is not meant for ceremony. It was made for truth."

He walked before the lines, voice calm but cutting through the morning like a blade. "An arrow does not seek blood. It seeks purpose. When you draw, do not aim for the target. Aim for the moment between breath and silence, where the world forgets to move."

He turned, notching an arrow. The target dummies stood across the field, a hundred paces away, half-shrouded in fog. He drew once, and loosed.

The sound was soft, almost delicate.

The arrow didn't strike one target, it struck through six, the air cracking with a faint ripple of pressure before the sound caught up.

No one spoke for several seconds.

Lindarion lowered his bow. "Again," he said simply.

The archers began to fire. Slowly at first, then faster, rhythm forming like a drumbeat. He moved among them, adjusting shoulders, correcting breath, sometimes simply laying a hand on the string to stop a shot before release. "Feel it," he said. "The air's resistance. The mana's hum. If your arrow cannot breathe, it will never fly true." Fınd the newest release on 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩•𝗳𝗂𝗋𝖾•𝕟𝕖𝕥

He could see who understood, and who only copied form.

By midday, the first group was trembling with exhaustion, their fingers blistered, their mana channels trembling from overuse. Lindarion stopped them with a gesture. "Enough. The rest will come tomorrow. A strained bow breaks early, so does a strained will."

As they dispersed, Nysha approached again, tossing him a canteen. "You could've gone easier on them."

"They're not going to fight wooden dummies," he said, drinking. "Better they bleed now than vanish later."

She studied him for a moment, then smirked faintly. "I suppose that's your version of compassion."

He almost smiled back. "It's effectiveness."