Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The entrance was hidden beneath a crumbling shrine, long abandoned, its stone figures half-devoured by moss and soot. To any passerby, it was another ruin of the old faith, a place forgotten by all but rats and dust.

But Nysha knew the way. She knelt before the cracked altar, prying loose a stone carved with faded runes. Behind it lay a narrow stairwell, spiraling down into the earth.

"Here," she said, glancing over her shoulder at Lindarion. Her voice was hushed, as though afraid the shadows themselves might overhear. "Few know of this place. It was built before the Saint, before even the city. Old priests used it for rituals, hidden, forbidden things. Now it's mine."

Lindarion adjusted his coat, making sure Zerathis was hidden beneath the dark folds. The faint hum of the blade still pulsed against his ribs, eager, hungry.

He stepped forward without hesitation.

The air grew damp as they descended, smelling of stone, dust, and faint traces of sulfur. Nysha led the way, carrying a small lantern that cast long shadows along the curved walls.

At the bottom stretched a vast chamber, carved from black stone and supported by pillars etched with long-dead script. Broken altars littered the space, their surfaces scarred with grooves where blades had once struck.

"This is where you'll train," Nysha said, setting the lantern on a cracked pedestal. The light flickered, throwing the room into uneven halves of shadow and flame.

Lindarion surveyed the chamber. The weight of age pressed down from every stone, as if the place itself disapproved of his presence. Perfect.

He drew Zerathis.

The blade sang as it left its sheath, a low vibration that echoed through the cavern. Nysha shivered visibly, though whether from fear or awe she didn't say.

The sword's surface gleamed with unnatural darkness, not a reflection of the lantern's glow but an inversion of it, as if it drank the light whole.

Lindarion raised it, his grip tightening. The hum thrummed up his arm, into his chest, matching the beat of his heart.

"Careful," Nysha said softly. "That blade… it's alive. It doesn't just cut. It devours."

He ignored her warning.

With a single swing, he cleaved the air.

The ground before him split in a jagged line, stone tearing apart as though the blade had sliced reality itself. Dust and shards rained down, the sound reverberating like thunder in the enclosed space.

Nysha gasped, covering her mouth.

Lindarion lowered the blade slowly. His breathing quickened. The taste of power lingered on his tongue, bitter and electric.

Zerathis whispered in his mind, not words, but a sensation: hunger.

He swung again. This time, a pillar crumbled, collapsing in half as if it had been cleaved by a god's hand.

"Enough!" Nysha cried, darting forward. She grabbed his arm, the one holding the sword. Her fingers trembled against the steel of his vambrace. "If you keep going, this whole chamber will fall on us!"

Lindarion's gaze remained fixed on the blade, its faint hum echoing inside him like a heartbeat. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered it.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of his ragged breaths.

Nysha released his arm and stepped back, her face pale. "You scare me," she admitted, her voice little more than a whisper. "That sword scares me."

He said nothing. His eyes lingered on the black edge of Zerathis. In his hand, it felt right — as though it had always been waiting for him.

–

In the corner of the chamber, a small movement stirred.

Ashwing.

The dragon had shrunk into his lizard form, his scales dull to blend into the shadows. Until now, he had remained curled against the wall, watching in silence. But as Lindarion sheathed the blade, Ashwing trotted forward, tail flicking.

To Lindarion's surprise, the creature didn't come to him.

Instead, it padded straight toward Nysha.

She blinked, startled, as the small lizard climbed into her lap uninvited, curling into a coil of dark scales against her robes.

"What—?" she began, stiff.

Ashwing's tail thumped once against her leg, then he settled, his red eyes half-closing in satisfaction.

Nysha stared down at him, bewildered. "Is… is he—sleeping?"

Lindarion frowned, crossing his arms. "He doesn't sleep on anyone."

"Well, he does now." Carefully, awkwardly, Nysha raised her hand and brushed her fingers along the creature's head. Ashwing let out a faint rumble, not quite a purr, but close enough.

Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "Traitor."

At that, Ashwing flicked an ear but didn't move. His body rose and fell with slow, steady breaths, as if he'd found the safest place in the world.

Nysha's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Maybe he just has better judgment than you."

Lindarion didn't answer, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

–

They spent hours in the chamber.

Lindarion swung the blade again and again, learning the way it cut, the way it responded to his will. Each strike was different, sometimes clean, sometimes violent, sometimes pulling more power than he'd meant to give.

Nysha watched from the edge, murmuring in her strange tongue when sparks of corrupted energy crackled too close to her lantern. More than once she stopped him, forcing him to sit, to breathe, to drink bitter draughts of herbs she brewed from the satchel she always carried.

When exhaustion finally dragged him down, he collapsed against the wall, sweat running in rivulets down his face. His chest heaved, muscles trembling from the effort.

Zerathis lay across his knees, faintly pulsing, as if pleased.

Nysha sat across from him, Ashwing still nestled in her lap. Her gaze lingered on the sword, her brows furrowed.

"That blade," she said at last, breaking the silence. "It isn't of this world."

Lindarion's eyes flicked open. "No."

"Then why does it answer to you?"

He exhaled, staring at the ceiling. "Because it was given to me."

"By who?"

He didn't answer.

Nysha studied him for a long moment, but whatever she saw in his expression made her sigh instead of pressing further. She stroked Ashwing's scales absently, her movements slow, soothing.

For a while, the chamber was silent except for the flicker of the lantern and the faint, steady hum of Zerathis.

Then Lindarion spoke again, his voice low, almost to himself. "The Saint won't beat me again."

Nysha's hand froze on Ashwing's head. She looked at him, worry shadowing her red eyes. "You still don't understand, do you? He isn't just a man. He's something more. Fighting him again now would be suicide."

Lindarion's jaw tightened. He raised his gaze, eyes burning in the dim light. "Then I'll train until it isn't."

The conviction in his voice sent a chill through her.

Nysha glanced down at Ashwing, who had curled deeper into her lap, his tail draped lazily over her arm. For the first time, she wondered if the dragon trusted her not because she was safe, but because he knew Lindarion wouldn't listen to reason.

Someone had to.

–

By the time they left the chamber, the first light of dawn crept into the sky above the ruined shrine. The city beyond was waking, smoke rising from chimneys, voices stirring in the distance.

Lindarion pulled his coat tighter, concealing Zerathis. Ashwing, still small, remained curled on Nysha's shoulder, his eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.

Nysha adjusted her robes, glancing at him sidelong. "Promise me one thing."

"What."

"Don't fight the Saint again. Not yet."

Lindarion didn't answer. His silence stretched, sharp as the blade hidden beneath his coat.

Finally, he spoke, his voice like iron. "When the time comes, he dies."

Nysha closed her eyes, exhaling a long breath. Ashwing's tail thumped lightly against her neck as if to echo her unspoken thought.

'The time may come sooner than either of us are ready for.'