Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Ashwing's voice turned dry. "What now? You gonna punch the sky?"

Lindarion raised a hand.

"No," he said. "I'm going to tear it."

The glow in his palm was subtle, like pulling on invisible threads. His divine affinity sparked faintly at his fingertips, just enough to crack whatever illusion stretched below them.

Ashwing hovered, wings beating low and slow to hold them steady.

The sky didn't tear.

But the air rippled, like a curtain caught in wind, and just for a second, something massive shimmered into view far below.

Stone towers.

Black walls.

Fortress gates. Half-submerged.

Then it vanished again.

"Found it," Lindarion said.

Ashwing didn't reply right away.

Then: "You sure you want to go alone?"

Lindarion nodded. "I have to. We don't know what's inside."

Ashwing began to descend, slow, deliberate. Wind curled through his wings.

Beneath them, the illusion twisted like smoke around glass.

Somewhere below… the real fortress waited.

And inside it, so did the monsters.

And his mother.

And Luneth.

—

The shimmer rippled again below him, thin as mist, stretched like fabric over emptiness.

Lindarion extended his hand.

No build-up. No flare of mana. Just calm fingers pushing into the illusion like it was water.

Then it snapped.

Like glass shattering in silence.

A ripple of soundless pressure rolled out through the ravine. Ashwing flinched mid-air, wings catching an awkward gust.

Below, the fake sky peeled back.

The illusion dissolved in threads of violet static.

Ashwing cursed. "That's not a barrier—"*

"I know," Lindarion said.

Because there was nothing underneath.

No fortress.

No guards.

No gates.

Just more jagged stone. Dead trees rooted into cliff faces. The same twisted terrain they'd flown over a dozen times. But now stripped of lies.

No trail.

No scent.

No sign anyone had ever been here.

The entire fortress, a ghost.

Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "'He said the fortress was buried here.'"

Ashwing hovered silently beside him.

'The priest lied.'

Not just misled, lied.

He'd fought that creature. Risked revealing himself. Burned through energy and time flying out here through storms and blackwater. And all for—

Nothing.

Lindarion's jaw clenched.

The wind pressed harder at their backs, as if mocking them.

Ashwing finally broke the silence. "We should kill him."

"No," Lindarion muttered.

Ashwing blinked. "That's new."

"He's probably dead already."

The dragon tilted his head. "Think he lied because he wanted to?"

Lindarion didn't answer right away. He looked down at the broken ravine.

There were no traces.

Not even a mark where the illusion had held.

"It wasn't his lie," Lindarion said quietly. "Someone put it in him."

Ashwing's tail lashed once through the air. "So we're back to guessing."

"No."

Lindarion reached up, running a hand through his hair, shaking out the weight of dust and travel. "We go back."

"And say what? 'Hey, false lead. Let's go back to losing slowly'?"

Lindarion's voice dropped.

"We tell them this isn't just a war. It's already a trap."

He turned Ashwing with a nudge of his knee.

The dragon coiled midair and shot west, wind roaring past them.

Behind them, the broken illusion stitched back together.

Not perfectly.

Not strong.

But enough to keep the next fool flying blind.

—

They came in low.

No illusions this time.

No cloak.

No hiding.

Ashwing dove straight over the outer spires of the grey-skinned city. His wings flared wide, shadow swallowing rooftops. Lindarion sat silent on his back, hood still drawn, cloak billowing behind him.

His face was calm.

Too calm.

But under his ribs, something was fracturing.

The priest had lied. The illusion had led nowhere. Dythrael and Maeven were still gone. The continent kept swallowing truth after truth, offering nothing in return but fog and silence.

Below, the city stirred.

Gray-skinned demons looked up from their markets and stone balconies, red eyes narrowing in confusion, then fear.

Ashwing didn't wait.

He opened his jaw and screamed—

Not a sound.

But a wave of force.

Buildings cracked. The outer towers shook. A merchant cart flipped end over end as glass shattered through the narrow streets.

One of the guards pointed up and started to shout.

Ashwing torched him mid-sentence.

Not with fire.

With a pulse of raw kinetic force that crushed his body against the wall like a fruit hit by a hammer.

Panic broke like a dam.

Screams. Footfalls. Red eyes blinking in terror as the civilians scrambled—running, fleeing into dark alleyways and homes. Mothers pulling children through cracked doors. Smoke already curling over the rooftops from where Ashwing's tail had lashed down and ripped through a bell tower.

And Lindarion sat there. Still.

Eyes narrowed.

Expression blank.

'You hide. You lie. You send pawns to mislead me and then vanish into shadows.'

The system didn't offer anything now.

Didn't need to.

He knew what to do.

Make noise. Break something until someone who matters comes out to stop you.

Ashwing circled again, wings curling like blades as he dipped low over a square. He opened his mouth once more and this time expelled a whip of pure heat and force. Not fire. Something sharper. The kind of pressure that split stone.

An entire wall collapsed inwards.

More screams.

Lindarion finally stood.

Balanced perfectly on Ashwing's back, wind ripping past his cloak, his hair disheveled and shadowed by the hood.

He amplified his voice, not with mana, but with weight.

Tone.

The sheer presence behind his words.

"BRING ME A LEADER."

It echoed.

Not magically.

Not mystically.

But through air and soul.

A challenge.

A demand.

He raised one hand, faint divine mana flickering behind his knuckles like coals glowing through snow.

More guards spilled from alleyways.

Lindarion didn't even turn his head.

Ashwing landed hard on the square, sending another shockwave through the cobblestones.

"I SAID," Lindarion's voice cut again, low but carrying, "bring me whoever speaks for this place. Now."

One of the demons tried to level a spear.

Ashwing smashed him into the pavement with his wing before he got halfway through the motion.

Lindarion finally pulled his hood back.

Eyes sharp.

Green.

Expression cold.

No more hiding. No more diplomacy.

And not one inch of patience left.