Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The next chamber wasn't locked.

Just runed..

Subtle, minimal. A displacement veil layered in old elven notation, sloppy, but enough to trick eyes at a glance. It didn't stop him. His presence slid through it without resistance, absorbed by the folds of darkness riding his skin.

He pressed a palm lightly to the wood.

Listened.

Voices.

Low. Not Caldrisian.

He moved through.

The room beyond was no longer part of the estate's formal structure. This was retrofitted, a long stone gallery beneath the southern tower, repurposed into a workspace.

Crates, mana stabilizers, glowing chains half-wrapped in cloth. Arcane devices too refined for local nobility.

At the far end, two figures.

One was a guard, nervous, underdressed, not magical.

The other—

Lindarion stopped moving.

Not Caldrisian. Not even local.

The man stood near a suspended table, hands gloved in ritual fabric. Dark red. Not mage robes, too tight, too sharp, but covered in stitched glyph-threads from a script Lindarion hadn't seen since Dyrmire.

Hair: pale blond. Eyes: light brown. Skin too pale for the region.

Accent: southern. Near the border of Avenhal, possibly from across the inner sea.

He was humming under his breath.

Calm.

Confident.

Not in a rush.

Lindarion moved closer.

Ashwing's voice hummed at the edge of his thoughts. "Not just a contractor. He knows what this is."

The man snapped his fingers.

A panel on the table lit up, revealing a rune fragment embedded in obsidian, sealed under a translucent crystal dome.

The pattern was exact.

One of the center nodes.

One of the primaries.

The man leaned in.

"Sealing's weak," he said to the guard. "Either your duke's cutting corners or he's too eager to activate."

The guard didn't respond. Just stood still.

"Tell him it needs three more days. If he rushes the next pulse cycle, we lose control."

"I thought the cycle already passed."

"It did. We're preparing the resonance for the next one."

Ashwing pulsed faintly. "They're syncing them."

Lindarion watched.

Still hidden.

Still quiet.

He memorized the sigil burned into the foreign mage's sleeve.

Then turned away.

Slow.

Controlled.

He didn't need to act yet.

Not here.

Not alone.

But now he knew something no one in Caldris should've allowed:

Someone from beyond the sea was building rune structures under noble protection, and the cycle hadn't finished.

It was about to begin.

—

Lindarion moved through the corridor without sound. The shadows that clung to him bent naturally, shifting with each step. It was reflex by now. The use of darkness affinity didn't require thought. It simply obeyed.

The presence of the foreign mage had confirmed what he suspected, but the details, the synchronizing cycle, the sealed primary fragment, meant things were further along than he'd allowed himself to assume.

Whoever was behind this had resources, reach, and no hesitation about using territory like Caldris as staging ground.

And they weren't acting alone.

The staircase curved downward again. He followed it without pause. When he reached the chamber, he dropped the veil of shadow with a single breath and stepped back inside.

The Duke hadn't moved. He was still slumped in the same position, chin tilted awkwardly forward, breath shallow but even.

Lindarion crouched beside him and reached into his coat. A thin silver vial, etched with the mark of the Ouroboros, subtle, more like a scratch than a symbol, was uncorked in one motion. He waved the open neck beneath the Duke's nose.

The man stirred, gagged once, then coughed hard. His head snapped up, eyes wide. He tried to scramble back before realizing he was already cornered.

"Relax," Lindarion said calmly. "If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be speaking."

The Duke blinked, then wiped at his mouth with the back of one trembling hand. "You—what did you—"

"I left you unconscious. Consider it a kindness." Lindarion stood slowly. "Now I want answers. Real ones."

"I told you everything I know," the Duke said. He didn't sound as confident now. "I was paid to let them use the vault. I don't know what they're building."

"Then you're a fool." Lindarion's tone didn't shift. "Because whatever they're building is weeks ahead of schedule."

The Duke's throat worked around a reply, but nothing came out. Eventually he gave up and looked away.

"I saw one of them," Lindarion continued. "Southern accent. Red-threaded coat. They're not Caldrisian. Not even from this continent."

The Duke nodded, slowly. "I wasn't told much. Just that they needed space for equipment. They said it was an 'energy project.' A resonance structure."

"Resonance for what?"

"They didn't tell me."

Lindarion didn't press further. He knew the type. This man had only agreed because he assumed plausible deniability would shield him. It wouldn't.

"You're going to keep your estate under tight lockdown," Lindarion said. "No messages go out. No guests. No changes to your patrols."

The Duke blinked. "You expect me to pretend nothing's happening?"

"I expect you to survive," Lindarion said. "That means doing exactly what I just said."

The Duke didn't respond. Not with words.

Lindarion didn't wait. He turned and walked toward the stairwell. Before he reached it, he paused.

"When the cycle starts pulsing again, they'll return to check the seal. When they do, I'll be watching."

And just before disappearing back into the dark, he added—

"If you try to warn them, I'll find out."

The stairwell swallowed him again.

No more footsteps. No more sound.

Just the quiet certainty of someone who no longer needed permission.

—

The teleportation wasn't instant. Not for Lindarion.

It was deliberate.

He stood in the courtyard outside the estate for a few seconds longer than necessary. One last scan of the walls. No alarms. No magic disturbances. The estate was returning to its rhythm, unaware that the stranger was gone.

When he stepped back into the thread of astral space, the world folded cleanly around him. The stars blinked once.

Then he was home.

The base wasn't grand. Just efficient. Carved into the side of a ridge southeast of Eldenholm's outlands, far enough from official maps that even seasoned scouts passed it without noticing.

The wards flickered once as he passed through the threshold, verifying identity. The outer corridor lit up with a dull white strip along the wall, guiding him toward the main chamber.