Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Luneth was awake again, letting Stitch adjust the wrap. She looked tired, but not broken. Her hand still rested near her blade.

Sylric was already fiddling with a new charm.

Erebus… just stood there.

Like he'd never moved.

"You should all rest," Lindarion said.

"Don't need sleep," Sylric muttered.

"You need stillness."

Stitch stood, brushing off his coat. "We set a rotation?"

Lindarion nodded. "Two on watch. Three hours each. We hold the chamber for now. No one moves deeper until we regroup."

They all nodded.

No arguments.

Not this time.

Everyone moved to their corners.

Except Lira.

She remained seated beside him.

"You're not sleeping," she said.

"No."

"Because of what's down there?"

"Because of what's watching," he said.

And neither of them added anything after that.

Not until the darkness settled again.

And the second chamber went quiet.

But not still.

Never still.

—

Lindarion waited until the others slept.

Or at least pretended to.

He didn't blame them. After what they'd faced, monsters carved from void, limbs moving in broken rhythm, a trap built to measure their limits, it was smart to rest.

But something in the chamber wasn't finished.

He felt it.

Not in his mana core.

In the quiet between heartbeats.

The glyph had cracked. Split. Died, maybe. But the fragments hadn't vanished. They'd simply… sunk.

And now the floor was different.

No longer just stone and markings.

It pulsed.

Like a heartbeat slowed beneath ice.

He walked to it alone.

No noise.

Not even from Erebus, who lingered by the door like a shadow that tolerated doors but didn't obey them.

Lindarion stopped at the center.

The cracked rune was dark.

But not gone.

He knelt.

Placed one hand over it.

And felt it breathe back.

There was no sound.

No jolt.

Just an immediate, undeniable change.

Just pressure. Stillness.

And that feeling, one Lindarion had never forgotten, even though it had been years.

It wrapped around him without edges, like the kind of presence that didn't enter a space so much as define it.

Last time it had felt like drowning in ink.

This time, it felt colder.

Like the silence between stars.

He floated, not by will, not by magic. His body wasn't here, not really. His thoughts didn't come one by one. They arrived all at once, layered and stacked. And still, above all that noise, he felt it:

Ouroboros had returned.

Not in words. Not in power. In expectation.

And then, he was no longer alone.

The space around him folded. Not with motion, not even with time. It simply shifted, and suddenly he was no longer adrift. A shape stood ahead, faint at first. Lightless, but unmistakably defined.

It walked, though there was no ground.

It breathed, though there was no air.

And its eyes found Lindarion as if they had never stopped looking.

Hair like bleached silver, cascading to the shoulders in weightless strands. Skin pale as starlight. A high collar folded into an immaculate white cloak that hung from his frame as if stitched from the void itself.

And his eyes—

Pure white. No iris. No shadow. Just depth. Like looking into the heart of a dead star.

He didn't speak. Not at first.

He allowed silence to pass. And Lindarion knew better than to fill it.

Eventually, he stopped walking, though he had never really moved, and looked at him fully.

"You've grown," he said at last.

His voice wasn't loud. It wasn't deep. It had no echo. But it settled in Lindarion's chest like weight. Calm. Certain. Permanent.

"You're late," Lindarion replied.

Ouroboros tilted his head slightly.

"I arrived when I was meant to. You simply survived long enough to meet me again."

It wasn't sarcasm.

It was fact.

Ouroboros didn't waste breath on cruelty. Or praise.

"What is this place?" Lindarion asked, even though he already knew.

"A memory," said Ouroboros. "And a promise. Both still holding."

"Last time, you said I was your disciple. Then you vanished."

"You were a boy learning how to kill. That is not a useful time for prophecy."

Lindarion felt that land a little harder than expected.

He said nothing.

Ouroboros stepped closer.

The whiteness of his eyes dimmed just slightly, as if narrowing in interest. "But now you're standing on the threshold of something that has waited for far longer than you've been breathing."

"The rune," Lindarion said. "The chambers."

"They are pieces. Not the purpose. You've begun to wake a system that predates kingdoms. Predates even the first shaping of the mana lattice."

"So what is it?"

"Prison. Beacon. Puzzle."

"That doesn't help."

"I'm not here to help," Ouroboros said. "I'm here to warn you."

Lindarion's gut twisted at the tone.

It wasn't fear.

But it was very close.

Ouroboros raised one hand. His palm faced downward. The space beneath them shifted, not floor, not platform, just a visual anchor.

An image surfaced.

Mountains.

The same ones they were camped beneath.

But deeper.

Far beneath the glyph.

A void core. Large. Still. Dormant.

Wrapped in carved rings and anchoring seals that shimmered with too much intent.

Lindarion stared at it.

It pulsed once. Even the image made his core ache.

"This is buried beneath the rune's structure?" he asked.

"Not beneath," Ouroboros said. "Inside. The structure is a shell. A distraction. Meant to draw in magic. Meant to feed."

"Feed what?"

"Not what. Who."

The image shifted again.

A shape, coiled in black bone and silver glass. Humanoid. Then not.

A face without features.

A form that flickered between possibilities.

"Someone is being born," Ouroboros said. "Someone made from everything that was sealed away when the world first learned how to lie to itself."

Lindarion clenched his jaw.

"Why me?"

Ouroboros smiled slightly.

"Because you are the first to carry too many truths at once."

"You mean affinities."

"I mean weight," he said. "You were not chosen for your power. You were chosen because no one else could survive your story."

That silenced him.

Not because he agreed.

Because he remembered every step of getting here.

And how none of them had been his to begin with.

"So what now?" he asked.

"You descend," said Ouroboros. "And you decide. You can seal it again. Or you can finish what the others started and unbind it."

"What happens if I choose wrong?"

"There is no wrong," Ouroboros said.

"There is only cost."

His voice grew distant. Not quieter, just more ancient.

"You are no longer the child who begged for mercy in the caves. You are no longer the runaway with fire in his throat. You are the one standing where no one else could reach."

"Then guide me," Lindarion said.

"No," said Ouroboros, gently. "That part of your story is over."

Lindarion felt himself drifting again.

The space began to loosen. Like a breath had ended. Like the moment was no longer allowed to hold him.

Ouroboros raised a hand once more.

Not in farewell.

But in warning.

"Something worse than awakening is coming, Lindarion."

"What?"

"Awareness."

And then everything went black.

Not the void.

Just the return.

His physical body pulled him down like a stone breaking the surface.

He felt air. Pressure. A heartbeat. The cold of the chamber.

He did not open his eyes yet.

Because somewhere inside him—

he was still floating.