Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Like the foundations of the palace had listened and paused.

Eldrin's brow didn't crease. He didn't scoff. But his green eyes cooled.

"Nytheris does not receive unannounced," he said.

"She already has."

Eldrin's fingers folded tighter. Just slightly.

"You've seen her recently?"

"Yes."

"When."

"Somewhere no one else was looking."

A long pause.

Then.

"She appeared to you willingly?"

"I didn't summon her."

"No one can."

"I know."

The weight between them thickened. Not with mistrust. But with memory.

Eldrin said nothing for a moment longer. His eyes flicked to Seraphine, just once.

She stepped forward, close enough for only the three of them to hear.

"If Nytheris has spoken," she said quietly, "then the Core may be—"

"Quiet," Eldrin said. Not unkind. But final.

He turned his gaze back to Lindarion.

"You will speak to no one else. Not the council. Not the guard. Not the court."

"I had no intention of speaking to any of them."

"And this man—" Eldrin motioned faintly toward Erebus. "—he stays out of the inner sanctum."

Lindarion didn't argue.

He turned his head. "Erebus."

The mercenary gave the faintest nod and stepped back.

"You'll wait for me in the western wing."

Erebus didn't respond.

He just vanished into one of the outer halls like a ghost who'd left the body behind.

Eldrin finally stepped down from the dais.

Only one step.

But the motion still felt like gravity had shifted to meet it.

"You will be escorted to the Vault," he said. "Seraphine will accompany you."

"No others," Lindarion said.

"No others," Eldrin echoed.

Then he paused.

Looked at him one last time, not as king.

As something else.

"There is still time to walk away from this."

Lindarion looked back.

And said nothing.

Because they both knew—

That time had already passed.

—

The palace gates closed behind them with no sound.

Seraphine didn't speak.

She walked ahead of him, as she always had in this city, the sound of her armor sharp against the marble.

Her sword hilt tapped once against her shoulder guard with every third step. Her stride was exact. Controlled. But not slow.

Lindarion followed without needing to ask where they were going.

He already remembered.

You couldn't live in Solrendel without knowing where the Core was.

Not officially, of course. The building in the city's center was spoken of as a ceremonial vault, ancestral record keep, eternal flame memorial, temple of the three dawns. No one agreed. No one asked.

Everyone simply accepted that you didn't walk too close.

It stood at the heart of the city like a spine of light, straight, seamless, white-veined grown upward in a smooth ring. No windows. No guards visible outside now. But every elf in Eldorath knew the truth.

It watched back.

As they entered the central ring of Solrendel, a hush swept outward ahead of them. Civilians stepped aside.

Market-goers paused. Soldiers straightened. No one called out.

No one needed to.

Lindarion kept his gaze forward.

Not because of pride.

Because his stomach coiled tighter with every step.

The truth was—

He hadn't been here since he was a kid.

He barely remembered what the Core felt like.

But something inside him did.

And now it wouldn't stop pulling.

—

The entrance was a single arch.

No doors. No guards.

Just a frame of light burned permanently into the stone.

Seraphine didn't slow.

She passed through without hesitation.

Lindarion followed—

And the sound of the city vanished behind them like someone had snuffed it out with a thought.

—

The interior was cold.

But not physically.

Not completely.

It was the kind of cold that lived in bones, in breath, in memory.

The entry chamber was a long, sloped tunnel, downward, carved in a spiral. Seamless white walls hummed faintly with internal mana veins, like living crystal. There were no torches. No enchantments.

The light came from nowhere.

Or everywhere.

Seraphine spoke once, her voice lower now.

"Only the blood of the First House can reach the vault's gate."

"I know."

"It will recognize you."

Lindarion kept walking. "I hope so."

They reached a wide circular landing.

The floor here bore the sigil of the First Flame, an ancient etching of the sun crest breaking through a wall of thorns. A symbol older than war.

And directly ahead stood the gate.

A single white door.

No handle.

No keyhole.

No glyphs.

Just a flat panel at chest height.

Seraphine stepped aside.

"This is as far as I go."

Lindarion didn't answer.

He stepped forward.

The room exhaled.

He raised his hand.

Placed his palm flat against the stone.

For a moment—

Nothing happened.

Then the door pulsed once with light, as if inhaling.

And opened.

No swing.

No creak.

Just movement.

Smooth and final.

Beyond the door, there was no hallway. No antechamber. No runic seal or divine mural carved into the ceiling.

There was green.

The kind of green that didn't belong beneath a city of white stone and crystal towers.

Thick-leaved canopies shimmered overhead, their boughs twisted with gold-veined bark and soft-glowing buds.

Lichen pulsed gently from the trunks, casting layered shadows across moss-covered stones.

A stream curved like a lazy breath through the center of the space, water impossibly clear, yet rippling with a faint violet sheen.

Birdsong echoed from somewhere far away. It shouldn't have been possible. And yet it existed, soft, rhythmic, unconcerned.

Lindarion stepped through the threshold, and the air changed.

It tasted different. Not humid. Not cold. It had the sharpness of ancient mana and the softness of memory.

His boots landed on loam. Not stone.

And the moment the door closed behind him, the illusion of the city vanished completely.

He was inside the Core.

And this, this was its garden.

He hadn't remembered it like this.

Then again, he had been even smaller. That visit had been a blessing in disguise. Back then, the garden had looked like a blurry dream.

Now, it looked like it had been waiting.

Lindarion walked forward.

There was no visible path, but his feet found one.

Not because it was marked.

Because the garden allowed it.

Deeper still, trees grew taller. Their roots tangled together like threads woven into a knot that no blade could undo.

The moss beneath them shimmered with color that had no proper name, neither green nor blue, but some forgotten tone that only things like Nytheris could recognize.

And she was waiting.

Not in a throne.

Not atop a pedestal.

But beneath the tallest tree, seated with her back resting lightly against the trunk.

Her legs were crossed. Wings curled loosely around her shoulders like a shawl. Her face tilted slightly to one side, not asleep, not fully still.

She opened her eyes before he could speak.

"I thought it would take longer," she said.

Her voice wasn't loud. The Garden carried it like a lullaby.

"You knew I'd return," Lindarion said.

"No," she replied. "But I hoped."

He didn't approach immediately.

Instead, he took in the view.

The Core wasn't some crystal engine buried beneath the palace. It was alive. It breathed through this place. Through her. Through every root beneath the soil.

And somewhere inside that—

was the prison.

Nytheris gestured lightly to a stone near her.

Lindarion sat.

Silence passed between them for several long moments. Neither needed to fill it.