Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The flames still hadn't gone out.

They licked the edges of the ruined plaza, curling up the black stone walls like red vines, hungrily eating through banners and storefronts alike. The people, those who hadn't already fled, were watching from the cracks in the broken buildings. Silent. Frozen.

Lindarion stood in the middle of it all, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breath.

Ashwing circled above in wide, lazy arcs, his wings stirring the clouds and smoke.

The silence was too loud.

He could still feel the demon's blood on his knuckles. Could still hear the sound of broken stone and scattering bones. The pressure in his chest hadn't eased. It just sat there, boiling. Choking him a little more with every heartbeat.

Then—

A voice.

Small.

Trembling.

"Please… stop."

Lindarion's gaze flicked sideways.

A girl had stepped into the plaza.

Young. Barely older than twenty, by elven measure. Her skin was the same muted gray as the rest of the city's people, but her hair was silver-white, tied behind her ears in loose, curling threads. Her eyes were crimson, but softer than the others. Not cold. Not wild.

She wore robes, simple, ceremonial. A cloth sash marked with foreign lettering. One of the priests. A priestess, maybe. Her hands were raised slightly, not in power, but in fear.

He didn't speak.

She stepped closer.

"I know you're angry. I know something terrible happened to you. But the people you're hurting right now—they didn't do it."

Lindarion's jaw clenched.

Ashwing hovered lower above him.

The girl's voice caught. "That demon you fought… he wasn't from here. He wasn't one of ours. He's a warcaller. An invader. Same as you."

Lindarion finally spoke. His voice was flat. "He stood in my way."

"And the children you just burned?" she asked quietly.

His fingers twitched.

He hadn't looked at the rooftops. Not closely. Not during the fight.

He didn't want to.

The girl took another slow step. Not brave. Just desperate.

"This isn't a war camp. It's a city. We have scholars here. Merchants. Families. I grew up in the temple right behind that gate. I've never even held a blade."

Lindarion turned to face her.

His eyes, normally green, were still bleeding faint white at the edges. His mana hadn't calmed. Neither had his temper.

But he didn't lash out.

She stared up at him.

Not challenging.

Just… begging.

"You want to kill soldiers?" she said. "Fine. But if you're just going to destroy everything because you're angry, then you're no different than the monsters you're chasing."

The smoke curled tighter around the plaza.

Wind shifted.

Somewhere, a tower cracked.

Lindarion didn't move. His fingers flexed slightly, then closed into a loose fist at his side.

'What am I doing.'

Ashwing whispered in the back of his mind. "She's not wrong."

'I know.'

"You're not here to destroy the world."

'I know.'

His chest rose and fell once more.

Then he finally lowered his hand.

The air shifted.

The mana pressure dropped, just slightly.

The fire didn't vanish, but it stopped growing.

The girl blinked.

Lindarion turned his head and looked up at Ashwing.

"Get down here."

The dragon's wings beat once. He descended slowly, landing behind his bonded with a low rumble.

The girl flinched back, but didn't run.

Lindarion stepped forward, stopping a few feet in front of her.

"Your name," he said.

She hesitated. "…Nysha."

"Then tell me, Nysha. If I let this city live, who here is going to help me?"

Nysha blinked. "Help you with what?"

"Finding the one who did this."

His voice was low now. Measured. Still dangerous.

"But if I'm not killing the wrong people," he said. "I need to find the right ones."

Nysha swallowed.

"I… I might know someone," she said slowly. "But I can't promise anything."

"Then start there."

She nodded shakily.

And the flames, still licking at the broken plaza stones, finally began to cool.

—

Nysha kept glancing over her shoulder as they walked.

Not because she was afraid Lindarion would stab her in the back, but because every other person in the city looked like they might.

The streets were still half-ruined. Bodies hadn't been cleared. Smoke rolled lazily from collapsed stalls and shattered roofs. No bells rang. No voices called out deals or songs. Just footsteps. Just the sound of Lindarion's boots cracking through the ash.

He didn't speak.

Didn't ask where they were going.

Just followed.

Ashwing stayed small in his coat pocket, pretending to sleep. He wasn't. Lindarion could feel the dragon's mind pressed tight against his own, watching.

'Still burning.'

He was.

Inside.

Hotter than fire. Sharper than lightning. And no amount of mercy had put the rage out yet.

"This is the place," Nysha said, stopping in front of a crooked stone building, wedged between two collapsed towers. A faded red curtain hung across the doorway like it thought it could still act as a door.

"He's a merchant," she added. "Information broker. He hears things. You… should probably let me talk first."

Lindarion didn't answer.

He ducked under the curtain and stepped into the dark.

The room smelled like ink and rot. Shelves stacked with papers and scrolls leaned against the walls at impossible angles. There were no windows, only a single candle flickering near a back desk.

And a man behind it.

Short. Broad. Not demonlike in the obvious ways. Skin gray-blue. Hair slicked back with something that glistened like oil. His eyes flashed red once as he looked up from his ledger.

Then his expression soured.

"No weapons in my—"

Lindarion didn't stop walking.

Didn't slow.

The merchant stepped back from the desk. "Hey—listen—whatever this is, I didn't do it—"

Lindarion grabbed the edge of the table and shoved it aside like it was made of paper.

Scrolls and quills scattered across the floor.

The merchant's mouth opened.

Lindarion hit him.

Just once.

A straight, clean punch to the jaw. Not powered by affinity. Not divine. Just raw force.

The merchant slammed into the wall behind him with a grunt.

"You know who I'm looking for," Lindarion said, voice low and clipped. "You're going to tell me where he went."

The man spat blood.

"What the hell are you talking about—"

Another punch.

He dropped to a knee.