Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

That made Ashwing's head lift from where he was coiled nearby, eyes flickering with interest. But Lindarion didn't ask anything else. He held out a hand.

The girl passed him the scroll case without a word.

It wasn't sealed with wax. Just wrapped in a deep green ribbon. Familiar fabric. Embroidered faintly with old Sunblade script.

His chest tightened.

Lindarion walked a few paces toward the edge of camp before opening it, away from the eyes that were always watching now.

The scroll inside was folded once, written in a deliberate, firm hand. No wasted words. No flourishes.

He knew it before reading the first line.

His father.

—

Lindarion,

I am alive. I was pulled from the estate at the last moment. I am currently recovering under the care of someone I owe a great deal to.

His name is Vaelion Silverleaf.

Yes, that one.

You may think it odd, but I do not. We all pick our moments to act. His was the right one.

The capital is lost. The royal wing is gone. Your mother… I believe she was taken.

I don't know why. Or by what. But I intend to find out.

You must not act impulsively. I know you. You will want to move. To strike. To bring them all down. But we cannot fight shadows with fire alone.

Keep the camp steady. Speak with strength. Be their spine until I return.

I am proud of you. Always.

— E. Sunblade

—

He stared at the words for a long moment.

The wind moved behind him.

Ashwing stepped closer, lowering his snout near the parchment. "He's alive?"

Lindarion didn't answer.

He read the letter again.

And again.

'Vaelion. Of all people.'

It didn't make sense.

Unless… it did.

He looked up. The sun was just starting to dip beyond the pines.

His father was alive.

His mother… taken.

He folded the scroll slowly and slipped it into his coat.

Then he turned and walked back toward the center of camp.

The next stage would come soon.

And when it did, he'd be ready.

—

Nightfall had settled like ash over the valley.

The campfires glowed in tight circles, voices low, hands busy with sharpening blades or passing bread. The air still held the scent of blood, old, dried, clinging to armor and cloth. It didn't fade anymore.

Lindarion stood near the edge of the command tent, facing the hills beyond. His arms were folded. Not from cold, he didn't feel it tonight, but from pressure coiled behind his ribs.

Ashwing sat curled beside a broken cart, tail twitching.

"You're brooding again," the dragon muttered.

'I'm thinking.'

"Same thing."

Lindarion didn't argue.

Behind him, the tent's flaps rustled. Jaren stepped out, half-buttoned coat, a dull bruise under one eye. He looked at Lindarion for a long beat before speaking.

"You gonna tell me why you called for me and two tacticians at this hour?" the man asked, voice low. "I was two minutes into sleep."

Lindarion didn't look at him. "Because I'm tired of waiting."

Jaren exhaled and scratched the back of his neck. "That's not a plan."

"No. But this is."

He turned and finally faced him.

"There's a chance I can locate their nest."

Jaren blinked. "What? The one you got thrown out of by a portal?"

Lindarion gave a sharp nod. "Yes."

Ashwing's tail stopped moving.

Jaren folded his arms now too. "How?"

Lindarion looked out at the trees again. They stood black and brittle under the stars.

"If they're using some kind of dimensional anchor—something tied to that rune that was shattered—it might've left a residue. A pressure."

"Mana doesn't work that way," Jaren muttered. "Not across distances."

"Normally, no."

Lindarion lifted one hand and let a shimmer of golden energy bloom across his palm. Soft. Warm. But threaded through with something deeper now—older.

"But whatever they summoned… it isn't bound to our rules."

"You're guessing."

"Yes."

"Do you even know what you're looking for?"

"No."

Ashwing gave a dry snort. "You're really selling this plan."

Lindarion glanced back at them. His eyes didn't glow. His voice didn't rise.

But it was firm.

"If there's a distortion left behind, I'll find it. The air, the trees, the stone—everything holds a trace. It's not about seeing it. It's about feeling where it doesn't belong."

Jaren rubbed his jaw, clearly chewing through a dozen protests before he finally said, "And if it leads nowhere?"

"Then we keep searching," Lindarion replied. "But I'd rather chase a shadow than sit still while they do whatever they want."

Silence stretched.

A few crows called from deeper in the woods.

Finally, Jaren nodded. "You'll need someone to keep watch while you're doing your glowing elf meditation or whatever it is."

"I'll take Ashwing."

Ashwing groaned. "Obviously."

Jaren sighed and stepped back toward the tent. "I'll prep scouts. If something shifts, we'll know."

Lindarion gave a short nod.

He waited until the tent flap fell shut again before stepping further out into the tree line.

Not far. Just enough to stand alone.

He exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the dry needles underfoot.

Then he dropped to one knee, placing both palms flat against the ground.

The system didn't move. No text. No hints.

Just silence.

Good.

He didn't need it now.

He closed his eyes, reaching not with his mind—but with his core.

He wasn't pulling mana.

He was listening to it.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt the land respond.

Quiet.

Faint.

But something stirred.

Like a breath that didn't belong in this valley.

Like a current flowing underground, not toward him, but away.

His brow furrowed.

His jaw clenched.

'There you are.'

Not a location.

Not yet.

But a thread.

And he'd follow it.

—

The war tent was already crowded when he stepped in.

Torchlight flickered against hardened leather, polished wood, and tired faces. The air inside was sharp with ink and steel. A table was spread with hand-drawn maps and marking stones. Most of the commanders stood or leaned, too tense to sit. No one was laughing. No one had laughed in days.

Lindarion didn't wait to be acknowledged.