Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The demon froze. The crowd shifted uneasily.

She turned back to Lindarion. "You're lucky I still need you."

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a ragged cough, the taste of copper spilling over his tongue. His vision swam again. Somewhere above, the sky was the wrong color, black threaded with crimson veins, pulsing faintly like a living wound.

Hands gripped his arms, too many hands. He tried to jerk free, but his strength was gone.

Nysha's voice followed him as the darkness started to take him again.

"Don't fight it. You're in no shape to move. And if you want to live long enough to kill him next time… you'll listen."

The last thing he saw was Veythar, standing in the distance, sword resting over one shoulder, watching without a word.

And then everything went black.

—

The first thing he noticed was the smell.

Not blood. Not the acrid stench of scorched stone.

Herbs. Dried and hanging from the rafters, the faint aroma of bitter tea beneath them.

He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim amber light spilling from a single oil lamp. The room was small, one bed, a wooden table with mismatched chairs, shelves lined with chipped clay jars and strips of parchment covered in symbols he couldn't read.

The window was shuttered tight, and beyond it, the faint murmur of a city that still breathed.

His body ached. Every movement sent a throb through his ribs and shoulders, but he was no longer bleeding. Bandages wound around his torso, clean but pulled too tight. Whoever had done it knew enough to keep him alive, barely.

"You heal fast," a voice said.

Nysha stepped in from another room, her sleeves rolled up, a half-empty bowl in her hands. No ornate robes now, just a simple grey tunic and trousers, her black hair pulled back in a loose braid.

The only thing that still marked her as a priestess was the silver thread woven into her cuffs.

"You dragged me here," he rasped.

"You're welcome," she replied, setting the bowl down on the table. "And don't flatter yourself. You were heavy. Nearly got myself killed when the guards decided they'd rather finish you off in the street."

His gaze swept over the room again. "You live… here?"

"Not all priestesses have marble halls and gold altars," she said dryly, leaning against the table. "Some of us serve the people directly. This is my district. My home."

He studied her in silence, noting the way she kept her weight on one leg, her arms folded, not defensive, but wary.

"Why?" he finally asked.

"Why save you?" Her lips curled in something between a smirk and a sneer. "Because if you died there, the Sword Saint's victory would have made him untouchable. And because…" she hesitated just enough for him to notice, "…you might still be useful."

"Useful for what?"

"That depends," she said, stepping closer, "on whether you still want the noble's head—or if you're too broken to stand."

Lindarion pushed himself upright, pain flaring through his side. "I can stand."

Nysha tilted her head, watching him with those sharp crimson eyes. "Good. Then eat, rest, and try not to break anything else. This city already thinks you're a monster. No sense proving them right—yet."

Her tone suggested there was far more she wasn't saying, but for now, the steady scrape of her chair against the floor was the only sound left between them.

—

He sat at the table now, the untouched bowl of dark stew cooling in front of him. His appetite hadn't caught up with the rest of him yet.

"You keep dodging it," Lindarion said finally, his voice low. "Where are we, really?"

Nysha was standing by the shuttered window, peeling a strip of dried herb between her fingers. She didn't look at him when she answered.

"You're on the Demonic Continent," she said simply. "The center of it, to be exact—Veythra, the capital city of the Second Dominion."

His eyes narrowed. "Second Dominion?"

She glanced at him now, her tone halfway between a lecture and a warning.

"The continent is carved into four dominions. Each ruled by its own high lord, each constantly trying to prove they're more powerful than the others without sparking all-out war. The First Dominion controls the northern mountains—iron mines, forges, and the best warriors. The Second", she gestured vaguely toward the window, "thrives on trade, smuggling, and information. The Third… well, they like experiments. Blood magic. Things even demons whisper about. And the Fourth Dominion rules the southern wastes, where survival alone makes you dangerous."

"And the Sword Saint?" Lindarion asked.

Nysha's expression hardened. "He's not just a warrior. He's the Second Dominion's enforcer. Their most valuable weapon. No one challenges him and lives, and that was before you made him bleed in front of half the noble district."

Lindarion leaned forward slightly, his gaze unyielding. "So the noble I'm after—he's part of the Second Dominion's ruling class?"

"Yes. Lord Veyras. Controls the trade ports, controls the mercenary guilds, controls almost every coin that changes hands here. The only person he answers to is the Dominion Lord herself—and she likes him."

"And you just let me walk straight into his city?"

"You walked in on your own," Nysha shot back, crossing her arms. "If I'd told you outright what this place was, you'd have attacked it anyway. At least now you've seen for yourself how dangerous it is."

Her gaze lingered on him, sharp and searching. "You really didn't know where you were?"

Lindarion shook his head. "Didn't matter. I was going to find what I needed, no matter where it was."

Nysha's lips curved into the faintest, most humorless smile. "Then welcome to the Demonic Continent, prince. Let's see if you can leave it alive."

—

The silence after her last words hung between them like a drawn blade.

Lindarion sat back in the wooden chair, its legs creaking faintly beneath him. The dim oil lamp above the table cast Nysha's shadow long across the wall, the flickering light tracing the faint gleam of the thin silver circlet she wore, a reminder she wasn't just some street rat.

She turned away from him, methodically arranging bundles of dried herbs on a shelf. The quiet rustle of stems and leaves felt deliberate, like she was giving him time to process.

He didn't need it.

"You still haven't told me why you helped me," he said, his tone like frost.

Nysha's hands paused, but only for a heartbeat. "Because letting you burn down half the city would've gotten me killed along with everyone else in it," she said evenly. "I like breathing. It's a selfish reason."