Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Solrendel rose before them like a crown carved into the mountain's bone.

The white towers shimmered under moonlight, spearing up from the city's layered terraces like spears frozen mid-thrust. Veins of soft amber light poured from high windows.

Bridges arced between spires. The ancient trees lining the outer courts sparkled with embedded mana stones that hummed like distant bells.

And still, there was no mistaking the tension growing below.

Elves looked up.

Dozens. Then hundreds.

On balconies. From city walls. Across bridges. Along the sloped avenues.

Their heads tilted skyward with wide, unreadable expressions.

Some reached for their weapons.

Others clutched cloaks tighter around their shoulders.

Because even in Eldorath, especially in Eldorath, a full-grown dragon in flight was no casual thing.

Lindarion saw the moment panic would ripple outward.

He pulled Ashwing's reins slightly, guiding the dragon into a shallower descent, still above the capital, but no longer bearing down like a sword from the sky.

Ashwing obeyed with a low, rumbling snort. The heat beneath Lindarion's legs pulsed with coiled energy.

Erebus grunted behind him. "Any idea how long before they start launching spells?"

"They won't. Not yet."

"Because of you?"

"Because of protocol."

But he wasn't entirely sure.

Ashwing banked gently toward the western quarter, where the outer council towers circled the royal citadel like watchful guards.

And that's when something shifted in the wind.

Not the dragon.

Not the weather.

Something else.

A ripple of presence. Clean. Controlled. Weightless.

And then, out of the sky ahead—

A figure appeared.

She didn't fly like mages flew.

She stood in the air, as if the world had accepted her existence and made space for her.

Her cloak trailed behind her like flowing silverleaf, embroidered with gold filigree.

Her armor, if it could be called that, was layered crystal woven through translucent fabric, ceremonial but laced with mana channels.

Her long black hair rippled behind her in the wind, ornamented with delicate golden cuffs, and her ears, elegantly pointed, finely pierced, held thin chains etched with script only old souls would recognize.

And her eyes—

Green.

Not soft. Not warm.

Sharp.

Like someone who knew the laws and helped write them.

Ashwing stalled mid-air, wings slowing as Lindarion pulled slightly.

Erebus leaned slightly forward. "Friend?"

"No," Lindarion said. "I've never seen her before."

But she'd seen him.

Her eyes fixed on him instantly, no glance for Erebus, no flinch at the dragon.

"Prince Lindarion Sunblade," she said. Her voice carried across the sky with clear, direct resonance. "You were not expected."

Lindarion kept his posture still. "That's usually when I'm most needed."

She didn't smile.

Didn't react.

Only floated slightly closer, arms still at her sides, cloak fluttering.

"My name is Vaerelina Starshade," she said. "Seventh Chair of the Elven High Council. Envoy of Solrendel's Aetheric Court. Guardian of the Western Windline."

Erebus muttered low. "Bit much."

Vaerelina's gaze didn't waver. "Your companion is not registered."

Lindarion kept his voice level. "He's with me."

"That is not sufficient," she replied. "Not when you arrive atop a dragon during closed watch hours."

Lindarion exhaled slowly. "I'm not here for ceremony. I need to see the king. Now."

Her expression didn't flicker. "Your father is not currently receiving anyone. Especially not with escort."

"I'm not a visitor. I'm his son."

"You are a prince," she corrected. "But not exempt."

There was no hostility in her tone.

Just unshakable authority.

Lindarion leaned slightly forward. "I bring warning. From something older than your council seats."

For the first time, her gaze narrowed.

Not in offense.

In interest.

"You speak like a messenger," Vaerelina said, tone cool. "But you wear no seal. And your arrival bears the weight of spectacle."

Lindarion let that hang. He didn't respond immediately. Her words weren't a question. They were pressure.

And he knew how to endure pressure.

"My seal was taken," he said. "During the attack on Evernight."

A flicker passed behind her expression, faint, practiced.

"You were reported missing," she said.

"Not anymore."

"Which raises a question."

"Ask it."

"Where have you been, Prince?"

Lindarion stared at her. The silence stretched, not uncertain, not rude. Measured.

"Nowhere your council keeps records of," he replied.

That changed something.

Not on her face.

In the air around her.

The wind shifted again, ever so slightly. The kind of stillness only elves noticed. Her eyes narrowed. Just slightly.

And then, like a page turned, she nodded.

"You may approach," she said.

"But only you."

Erebus straightened behind him.

"No," Lindarion said. "He comes with me."

Vaerelina's brow didn't twitch. "The palace has protocols."

"And I have no patience for them."

A beat.

Two.

Then, surprisingly, Vaerelina turned in the air.

"Very well. You'll be met by Citadel Guard at the Grand Terrace. Your dragon must remain outside the inner wall."

Lindarion nodded once. "That's fair."

Ashwing responded before Lindarion even gave the command, veering into a slow descent, banking toward the wide platform of pale stone that curved from the palace's north face. Its edge overlooked all of Solrendel.

As they landed, armored figures moved in quickly, half a dozen elves in dark silver plating, spears etched with sun-mark sigils, masks covering their faces but not their eyes.

Ashwing growled low.

Lindarion slid off his back in one clean motion and placed a palm on the dragon's scales.

"Stay," he murmured. "No fire. No teeth. No flying."

Ashwing gave a low snort, teeth bared slightly, not in protest. In restraint.

Erebus landed beside him, silent. His coat was already flapping open, the weight of his chains audible with each step.

Vaerelina descended last, slower now, deliberate. The guards bowed as she approached but didn't move from their post. Their eyes tracked Lindarion more than the dragon.

Not fearful, just tense, calculating. Elves trained to guard royalty knew better than to flinch.

But even they had never been briefed on how to handle a returning prince on dragonback with a mercenary shadow.

Vaerelina gestured toward the inner gate, flanked by columns of pale stone veined with gold.

"This way," she said. "The Grand Hall is active. I will announce you."

"I'll walk myself."

"That's not how it works."

Lindarion didn't answer. He just stepped forward.