Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

"We're not going to stop them with pretty words or old songs. We're going to stop them because we're still here. Because our blood didn't freeze when we saw the sky turn black. Because when the smoke hit our lungs, we kept moving."

He looked to the left, toward the tents where the wounded lay.

"You've already proven you can fight. You've survived the worst week in our history. And I'm telling you now—that wasn't the end. That was just the beginning."

He stepped down one level.

"They think elves are fractured. That we can't unite unless our forests burn. That we fight in circles while they eat our cities."

His voice rose slightly. Not a shout. Just pressure. Weight.

"But they've made a mistake. They lit a fire under the wrong kingdom. And we're not done. Not even close."

He opened one hand, palm up.

"Tomorrow, we train. We scout. We regroup. Some of you will be called to defend. Others to rebuild. Some may not come back. But if you stand with me—if you hold the line—then I promise you this:

We will strike back.

And when we do, we won't be running.

They will."

Silence stretched again.

Then—

A few hands clenched.

A few boots shifted forward.

A voice from the back: "FOR THE SUNBLADE."

Another, louder: "FOR THE COUNCIL."

Then a roar, not polished, not drilled. Just raw.

Elves, tired, wounded, bloodied, raising voices in something close to belief. Some pounded their chests. Some held hands above their heads. A few simply nodded, but didn't look away.

Ashwing stirred behind him, tail curling once.

"That'll do, golden boy," the dragon murmured in his mind.

Lindarion didn't answer.

He just turned from the torchlight and stepped down from the platform.

Back into the dirt.

Back into the fight.

—

Two Days Later

The scouts hadn't come back.

Not from Lorienya.

Not from Sylvarion.

Not from Tirnaeth.

The camp hadn't said it out loud yet, but everyone knew.

Something was wrong.

Lindarion stood near the edge of the western slope, arms folded, watching the clouds crawl past the horizon like they were nervous to get too close. The morning sun tried to push through the overcast but couldn't. It just sat behind it, dull and useless.

Ashwing rested nearby in a coiled half-form, scales dulled to a smoky gray. He hadn't said much either. That was the worst part. The quiet.

No alerts.

No signs.

Just nothing.

"Still no word?" a voice asked behind him.

Lindarion didn't need to turn. "No."

He could feel the weight in Jaren's steps as the man approached. The Blade Commander moved like someone used to walking through fire. Steady. Unimpressed.

He stopped beside him, arms tucked into his coat, eyes scanning the ridgeline.

"They're either dead or hiding," Jaren said eventually. "Neither one makes the next decision easy."

Lindarion's jaw tensed. "We gave them fast mounts. Good maps."

"They didn't take bad roads. That's not what I meant." Jaren paused, then added more quietly, "If the elven kingdoms are ignoring this, or worse—if they've already fallen—then we're going to need a bigger plan."

Lindarion didn't respond.

The wind shifted slightly, warm air rolling up from the south. Not fire-warm. Just earth-warm. The kind that carried the scent of pine and old roots.

He missed that.

He missed home.

"What about the local cells?" Jaren asked.

"We've heard nothing from the valley sentries. East watchtower's holding. For now. They're low on mana reserves and down to two menders."

Jaren sighed. "And the southern post?"

"Overrun. We got four survivors."

"Damn."

They stood in silence again.

A few birds circled the treeline beyond the forward ridge, but they didn't dip. Didn't land. Not even scavengers were brave enough to scrounge near the camp anymore.

"You've been quiet," Jaren said after a moment. "You hiding something?"

Lindarion turned his eyes toward him. "Not yet."

Jaren arched a brow.

Lindarion didn't elaborate. Instead, he looked out again, gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

'Why haven't they come back?'

He wasn't used to waiting. Not like this. He was used to knowing things, even if he couldn't fix them. But this silence, it felt like something pressing its palm down on the world's throat. A warning before the next scream.

Behind him, the camp shifted in small movements.

Tents being reinforced.

Weapons sharpened.

Field cooks ladling thin soup into thicker bowls.

It looked like a functioning military camp.

But it felt like a wounded animal pretending to be alive.

"Any movement from the north?" Lindarion asked.

"Nothing confirmed."

"I want more spotters up on the eastern rise. Full coverage from the cliff edge to the outer glade."

Jaren nodded. "I'll handle it."

He didn't move yet.

Instead, he studied Lindarion for a beat longer. Then, not unkindly, said, "You don't have to carry all of this. There's enough weight here for all of us."

Lindarion didn't respond.

Jaren left.

The clouds pressed lower.

Ashwing finally spoke, voice quieter than usual. "You know they might not come back."

'I know.'

"You gonna wait here anyway?"

'Until I know for sure.'

The dragon was silent for a long stretch.

Then, "You're not your father."

'I'm not trying to be.'

"That's good," Ashwing muttered. "He wouldn't have made it through this."

Lindarion didn't smile. But the corner of his jaw shifted slightly.

He turned from the slope and walked back toward the camp.

There were still weapons to check.

Drills to run.

Messages to write.

He couldn't afford silence anymore.

If the rest of the world had gone quiet—

Then they'd just have to speak louder.

—

The camp's central ridge had grown quieter again. No drills. No horns. Just low voices and the clink of steel. Nothing that demanded urgency. That kind of stillness, it made Lindarion uneasy.

He paced near the mess tents, hands behind his back, eyes flicking toward every runner that crossed the open ground.

Still no scouts.

Still no news from the three kingdoms.

Just quiet.

He didn't like quiet anymore.

"Prince," a young voice called, hesitant but clear.

He turned.

A courier stood there, no older than twenty. One of the camp's internal messengers. Thin build. Dust-streaked boots. She clutched a narrow scroll case like it weighed more than it should.

"Someone just arrived through the southern pass," she said. "Didn't give a name. Left this for you. Said it's urgent."

He narrowed his eyes. "You saw them?"

The girl nodded. "Didn't look like a soldier. More like… a traveler. Wore gray. Barefoot."