Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Lira sat beside the map and began replicating the ring on another piece of parchment.

Her strokes were fast. Sharp. Confident.

She didn't hesitate once.

Lindarion watched the lines build outward.

And something clicked.

"The chamber had twelve doors."

"Yes," Lira said, not looking up.

"This is one-twelfth of something," he said. "Not just structurally. Functionally."

Lira nodded. "Each door leads to a different segment. But the rune… the rune connects them."

Sylric rubbed his jaw. "We're inside a conduit."

"More than that," Lira said. "A core. And cores aren't made for storage. They're made for conversion."

Lindarion's stomach tightened slightly.

"Mana?"

"Or worse," Lira replied. "Soul, essence, history. Take your pick. This thing's old enough to mean whatever it wants."

"And the void affinity?"

Lira's hand paused. "That's the language it speaks in."

That felt right.

Lindarion hadn't accessed his fire affinity inside.

Not even divine.

Only void.

The shard hadn't called to power.

It had called to absence.

To silence.

To erasure.

Stitch cleared his throat. "So what's the next step?"

"We go back," Lindarion said.

Lira looked up. "Not yet."

"Why?"

"Because we haven't solved the first pattern."

She stood, dusted her gloves, and pointed to one edge of the drawing.

"This segment is too clean. Too consistent. It's not reactive."

"You think it's fake?"

"I think it's a mask."

Sylric sighed. "We're going to have to break the floor, aren't we?"

"No," Lira said. "We're going to have to trick it."

"How?"

She looked at Lindarion.

"You've been the key so far. We use you again."

"Use me to do what?"

"Misalign the field."

Stitch whistled low. "That's dangerous."

"So is guessing."

Luneth stepped forward. "We do it together."

Lindarion looked at her. "You felt it too, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what's waiting if we're wrong."

"I do."

He held her gaze.

Then nodded once.

"Tomorrow," he said. "We go again."

No one disagreed.

The wind picked up slightly.

Carrying cold, old air.

—

Camp was quiet.

Not asleep. Just still.

People sharpened blades. Rolled bedrolls. Whispered over maps with tired eyes. No laughter. No stories.

This wasn't the kind of camp where people bonded. This was the kind where everyone waited for the next mistake.

Lindarion sat by the ledge where the mountain opened to the north. The wind came in slow, curling like breath across the ridge.

Ashwing lay coiled above the high rocks, dozing with one eye half open.

He didn't turn when he heard the footsteps.

But he said, "Figured it'd be you."

Lira sat beside him, one knee up, forearm resting on it. She didn't reply right away.

Just looked out into the dark.

"You shouldn't have asked Erebus to come," she said finally.

"Probably not."

"He's dangerous."

"So am I."

"That's different."

"How?"

She turned her head slightly. "You're still human about it."

He didn't answer. Not for a while.

Then: "He taught me how to kill without thinking."

"I can tell."

"Good," he said.

"You shouldn't be proud of that."

"I'm not."

"Then why say it?"

"Because I'm not ashamed of it either."

The wind shifted.

She didn't move. "That's worse."

He turned toward her now.

"I needed him," he said. "Back then. No one else would've trained me. No one else knew how to teach someone like me. With too much magic, too many affinities, too much to hide."

"Too much fear," she added.

He blinked.

Then nodded.

"Yeah."

They sat with that for a while.

Then she said, "He beat you?"

"First day."

"Why didn't you kill him after?"

"I wanted to," he said. "Every day."

"And now?"

"I don't need to. That's worse for him."

Lira exhaled softly through her nose.

Not approval.

But understanding.

"You're not like him," she said.

"I was."

"Not anymore."

"Why?"

"Because if you were, you'd be down there alone."

He didn't reply.

He didn't need to.

She looked away again.

"To people like Erebus," she said, "killing is the end of a sentence."

"And to you?"

"It's a pause."

That made him pause.

Lira glanced sideways.

"I've done worse things than you," she said. "But I never let it rewrite who I am."

"And who are you?"

Her gaze didn't falter. "Someone who makes sure people like you don't forget the difference."

He smiled once.

It didn't last long.

But it was real.

"I don't forget," he said.

"Good."

They sat there for another few minutes.

Not saying anything.

Just letting the night settle around them like the edge of a blade that hadn't cut yet.

Then he stood.

"We go at first light."

She stood too.

"No mistakes."

"No promises."

They didn't look back when they left the ridge.

—

The group gathered early.

No words.

No briefings.

Just movement.

They were already armored. Already aware. Already afraid in the right way.

Lindarion took point again. Lira and Luneth at either side. Erebus in the shadow behind them. Sylric and Stitch bringing the rear.

They reached the chamber.

Twelve doors still stood.

The third still pulsed faintly. Brighter now. Like it had been watching.

Lindarion stepped forward.

The passage opened.

This time, the floor lit up under his steps.

And the void welcomed him back.

The path curved downward. Again.

Same as before, black stone beneath, nothing beyond the edge. Like walking on a thread pulled tight between stars.

The second chamber didn't open suddenly.

It emerged.

First a haze, then a ceiling too tall for scale, then the faint outline of walls that curved back into darkness.

Lindarion stepped forward.

His boots clicked against a new surface, smooth, matte, frictionless. Like polished obsidian sanded to silence.

Then the symbols appeared.

Not runes. Not writing.

Just marks. Burned into the floor. Deep grooves, like someone had carved them with a blade wider than a hand and hot enough to cauterize time.

Lira crouched to trace one.

Her fingers hovered. Didn't touch.

"These were cut after the room was sealed," she said.

"How can you tell?" Stitch asked.

"They're too angry."

Lindarion looked around.

Twelve patterns. One for each door, maybe.

Or something else.