Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

He hadn't opened his eyes yet.

Couldn't.

The darkness hadn't let him go.

Even though the pressure had faded, even though his body had returned, some part of him was still floating, not through void this time, but through something denser.

Memory.

It arrived without permission.

And without mercy.

—

A sky split in half.

Not by storm. Not by spell. By rupture.

Cracks, glowing like magma, cut across the clouds. Fire rained sideways. Buildings collapsed in silence, like they were ashamed to exist under such light.

The world screamed.

Not people. Not beasts.

The world.

Mana fields surged with red light, core structures shattered. Wind did not move. It howled. Entire forests wilted like paper soaked in blood.

And standing in the center—

A silhouette.

No face. No name.

Only motion.

The world burned around him. Not because he wanted it.

Because he was awake.

And something had failed.

Lindarion saw his own hands in the memory.

Burned.

Bleeding.

Still reaching toward a figure that couldn't be saved.

—

Then the vision shattered.

Not ended.

Cut.

Because the future had forced itself through.

He blinked, and suddenly—

He was standing on marble.

Not stone.

Marble so polished it reflected the sky.

The sky above was not day.

It was not night.

It was something older.

And in front of him, floating, barely taller than his waist, was Nytheris.

Her wings fluttered like glass spun through wind. Each one iridescent and sharp. Her hair flowed down in coils of pale gold, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Her dress shimmered with embroidered vines, the sigil of Eldorath burning faintly at her chest like an oath that never ended.

Her eyes, ageless, met his.

"You should not be here," she said.

Her voice wasn't musical. It wasn't childish. It was exhausted.

Not from time.

From remembering too much of it.

"I'm going to be," Lindarion answered.

"You haven't made it yet."

"But I will."

She hovered closer.

Didn't flap.

Didn't fly.

She just moved, and the world let her.

Behind her, something loomed.

Not in shape. In pressure.

Lindarion could feel it.

The core.

Eldorath's hidden center. The thing none of the libraries ever mentioned. Not because it was forgotten.

Because it was deliberately unwritten.

"You've seen it," Nytheris said.

He nodded.

"Ouroboros sent you."

"He showed me what's coming."

Her wings beat once, just once, and the temperature changed.

"I have watched over this place for more lifetimes than your bloodline can name," she said. "I was here when the first elven war ended in ash. I stood above the Heartspire when your father was still swearing his first oaths. But I have never feared anything like what sleeps beneath me."

"What is it?" Lindarion asked.

She looked over her shoulder.

Toward the sealed platform of raw crystal behind her. It pulsed with slow light.

"Something older than mana," she whispered. "Something that knows what we are before we're born."

He felt that land in his spine.

Nytheris turned back to him.

"You are not strong enough to face it."

"Yet," he said.

She blinked once.

A slow, sad motion.

"And if you never are?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then. "Then I buy enough time for someone else to be."

She looked at him longer.

Not unkindly.

Just completely.

"I hope," she said, "you are wrong."

—

And then—

He woke.

—

The chamber ceiling loomed above. Stone. Silent. Real.

Lindarion lay on the floor, one arm outstretched, breath shallow. His throat was dry.

He sat up slowly.

The others were asleep still, most of them. Erebus was watching. Quiet. Still. A shadow that didn't blink.

Lindarion met his gaze.

Said nothing.

Just stood.

And for the first time since they'd entered this place—

He felt the clock begin to tick.

—

The air in the chamber didn't feel the same.

Not because it had changed.

Because he had.

Lindarion stood over the cracked floor where the rune had consumed him moments ago. His palm still tingled from contact.

The echo of Ouroboros's voice hadn't faded, but it no longer rang—it sat heavy in his chest, like a coin swallowed.

He turned away from the glyph.

The others were still scattered around the chamber, resting, healing, barely breathing evenly.

They needed more time.

He didn't have it.

He crossed the chamber in silence.

Erebus leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, one boot braced on a raised stone, half in sleep.

Not quite slumped, not quite alert, just still. Like a predator between decisions.

Lindarion didn't hesitate.

He kicked the stone under Erebus's heel.

Erebus's eyes opened.

Cold.

Sharp.

Focused in an instant.

"You're awake," he said, voice like torn gravel.

"So are you," Lindarion replied. "Good."

Erebus didn't move.

Didn't ask.

Just waited.

Lindarion's voice was flat. "We're leaving."

Erebus tilted his head. "Where."

"Vaeloria. Eldorath."

Erebus blinked once. "The capital."

"No," Lindarion said. "The throne."

That landed.

Even Erebus's stillness shifted.

"You want to go home."

"I want to speak to my father."

"At dawn?"

"Before it."

"Why now?" Erebus asked.

Lindarion's jaw tensed. "Because something's waking. And if Eldrin Sunblade is still king of Eldorath, he's going to need to know before the sky breaks open."

Erebus pushed off the wall.

No argument.

No comment.

Just a quiet assessment as he studied Lindarion's posture.

"You saw something."

"I did."

"What was it?"

"Something worse than I thought."

Erebus nodded once.

Then. "The others?"

"They stay. Lira leads. I'll send word."

Erebus raised a brow. "And they'll follow her?"

"They'd be stupid not to."

He turned toward the exit.

Ashwing was waiting above, he could feel the pressure of the dragon's mana already.

Erebus fell in step beside him.

Still quiet.

But no longer passive.

"You're not just running to your father, are you?" he asked.

"No," Lindarion said. "I'm warning him."

"And if he doesn't listen?"

Lindarion's answer was immediate.

"Then I take the crown and warn the kingdom myself."

They didn't speak again until the sky opened above.

The mountains groaned beneath their boots, dew freezing under the night wind.

Ashwing stirred on the ledge, wings curled, eyes already glowing faintly with recognition.

The dragon rose as soon as Lindarion stepped into the clearing.

Not playful.

Not eager.

Just ready.

Lindarion climbed first, pressing a palm to the creature's flank. Ashwing rumbled low in his chest. Not a greeting. An agreement.

Erebus vaulted up behind him, silent, clean, precise.

"Route?" he asked.

"Direct," Lindarion said.

"Stealth?"

"If we're lucky."

"Prepared for luck to fail?"

"Always."

Ashwing crouched.

The wind shifted.

And then they launched.

The cliff vanished under them in one heartbeat.

The horizon stretched open, and Lindarion didn't look back.