Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

She fell back a pace, dragging her hand across the ground like a painter with a brush. Another line of water whipped upward, this one thinner, sharper.

He ducked and pushed forward another two steps.

The distance closed fast.

Enya exhaled sharply, mana shifting again.

The ground behind her steamed faintly where her heels dragged across the dampened dirt.

But Lindarion didn't go for her arms.

He just raised a hand, then tapped her shoulder with two fingers.

"Out."

She blinked.

Then smiled, barely.

"That fast?"

"You're talented," Lindarion said. "But you're spending too long prepping the field. That kind of strategy works once. After that, anyone faster than you won't give you time to set it up again."

She nodded, brushing her braid back. "Understood."

She stepped away without protest.

More heads turned now.

There were only two left.

One was a heavy-built soldier in heavy greaves. He looked more like a smith than a fighter, his arms thick, his jaw square.

He didn't say anything until he entered the ring.

Then, simply, "Rurik."

Lindarion gave a short nod. "Affinity?"

"Stone."

Lindarion tilted his head slightly.

Earth. But not the same type as Torven from earlier. This was grounded, not shifting or cracking. Pure weight. Anchor.

Rurik didn't posture.

He stomped once.

The ground responded with a ripple, straight lines pushing outward like a low pulse. Not sharp. Not wide. But deep.

Lindarion's knees absorbed the shock, but the balance tilted. The dirt had shifted, just subtly enough to break footing.

He didn't wait.

Rurik slammed a closed fist into the ground, and four stone spikes shot up in an arc.

Lindarion shot backward, lightning crackling once at his heels.

'He's not fast, but he's not trying to be.'

More spikes.

Another tremor.

He leapt again and landed behind the arc.

Rurik turned, slow but certain.

Lindarion raised one hand, no spark, no threat. Just a calm palm held out in signal.

"Done."

Rurik paused. "Why?"

"You'd never hit me. Not unless I let you. But you'd tear apart a formation if they were clustered. You're a formation-breaker, not a duelist."

Rurik blinked, then shrugged. "Fair."

As he left the field, Lindarion caught the quiet murmur of someone on the sidelines say, "He's reading all of them like open books."

He ignored it.

"Last one."

A woman stepped out from the crowd. Short hair. Heavy boots. Her coat was unmarked, no sigils, no crest. She didn't smile, didn't look nervous.

"Name?"

"Talyen."

"Affinity?"

"Wind."

Lindarion narrowed his eyes slightly.

Another wind user.

"Let's begin."

She didn't wait.

A pulse hit his ears before she moved, a micro-burst of wind, shrill and fast. Not for damage, for distraction. A high-frequency shriek that made the crowd wince.

'Auditory attack?'

Smart.

He flinched slightly, covering one side of his face, then caught the second movement, not from her hands—

But from her feet.

She used a concentrated burst at her soles to launch forward in a burst of raw speed.

Wind-assisted dash. Low to the ground.

He didn't step away.

He leaned into it.

And just before she could complete the sweep-kick that followed, he planted one foot, caught her shoulder, and redirected the force behind her.

Talyen stumbled.

Lindarion didn't follow through.

He let her recover.

"You want a rematch?" he asked.

She exhaled. "No."

"You're smart," he said. "And you use your affinity to compensate for reach and strength. You'll do well in recon or skirmish squads. But you'll need to adjust your opening—if that first attack doesn't work, you don't have a second."

She nodded once and stepped back without a word.

That was it.

No applause. Just quiet nods from the watchers.

Ashwing hopped down beside him in smaller form, tail flicking. "Done playing mentor?"

"For now."

He turned to the gathered officers at the field's edge.

"Put Enya, Rurik, and Talyen on rotating duty starting tomorrow. The rest get added to squads based on performance notes."

One of the scribes scribbled quickly, then saluted.

Lindarion didn't say anything else.

He turned, quietly, and walked off the field, shoulders loose, hands in fists.

'Not bad,' he thought. 'They're better than they look.'

But they still had a long way to go.

And he wasn't done testing them yet.

—

The torches were lit early that night.

Dozens lined the outer ridge of the camp, casting flickering halos across armor, cloaks, and tired shoulders.

The soldiers stood in uneven rows, some tall and composed, others with armor buckled loosely or dirt still caked at the knees. Mixed in were healers, scouts, and even a few civilians who had refused to leave.

They waited in a broad semicircle around the raised platform of cut stone and timber. Simple. Nothing ceremonial.

Lindarion stood at the center of it.

No robe. No crest.

Just a travel-stained coat, the collar half-torn from yesterday's fight, his boots still dark with mud.

Ashwing curled behind him in a half-shifted form, long tail resting beside the steps. Quiet, for once.

'Let them listen,' Lindarion thought. 'Not to a prince. Not to a name. Just to someone still standing.'

He stepped forward.

The sound in the camp dropped, voices dying off like wind behind a shut door.

Silence.

Then, finally, he spoke.

Not loud. Just clear.

"I know some of you are wondering who I am to be speaking to you like this. I don't blame you."

He paused. Looked at their faces. Not one pair of eyes looked away.

"I wasn't raised for war. I didn't spend my life studying command. And most of you didn't follow me here because of my name."

Another pause. Someone coughed off to the left.

"But you're here now. I'm here. And what we do next—together—will decide whether this camp survives the next month or not."

He let that sit.

"We've lost cities. Families. We've seen what the enemy really is. They're fast. They're organized. And they don't care who you are. Mage, swordsman, child—it doesn't matter. If you breathe, they'll come for you."

He watched one younger scout near the back shift his stance, like he didn't want to be seen shaking.