Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The war tent was the size of a small hall, its frame of ironwood poles covered by taut canvas painted with the crest of the united banners: a golden sun eclipsed by a silver sword. The emblem hung over the center table, embroidered on a cloth heavy with dust and smoke.

Inside, the air was thick with heat. Torches burned along the walls despite the early hour, their flames guttering against the wind that leaked through the seams of the canvas. A dozen men and women sat or stood around the table, each marked by the weight of command.

At the head sat Lord-General Veynar, his steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe knot. His armor bore no ornament, only scars of battles long past. His gaze swept across the assembled leaders like a blade.

To his right leaned Archmage Celinar, wrapped in azure robes heavy with embroidery. His long fingers traced the rim of a goblet, though he hadn't taken a sip. His pale eyes flickered with impatience.

Beside him sat High Inquisitor Marath, his black mantle trimmed with crimson, the symbol of the flame stitched across his chest. His expression was stern, lips pressed in a permanent sneer, as though he were already condemning every soul in the tent.

Others crowded around, dukes, barons, mercenary captains, even a representative from the coastal guilds, their silks starkly out of place among steel and leather.

And yet, despite their rivalries, their disputes, all eyes kept drifting back to the empty seat at the far end of the table.

Lindarion's seat.

The silence clung, stretched taut until Veynar finally broke it.

"He should have returned by now." His voice carried the weight of a verdict.

Marath's lip curled. "If he still lives."

Celinar's head turned sharply. "Watch your tongue, Inquisitor. Lindarion may be young, but his strength exceeds any knight you could name. Do not presume him fallen so lightly."

The inquisitor's eyes gleamed with cold amusement. "And yet he vanishes without word, without sign, leaving his allies blind. Tell me, Archmage, is that the mark of strength? Or folly?"

Murmurs rose among the others.

A baron with a hawkish nose slammed his fist against the table. "My men died for him! We marched when he marched, believing he carried the favor of gods. And now? Nothing. Not a word, not a trace. If he abandoned us—"

"Enough." Veynar's voice cut through the clamor like a drawn blade. The murmurs died, though resentment still seethed in the air.

The general's hands rested flat on the table. "We do not know what became of him. That is the truth. Our scouts searched the valley where his last trail was seen. They found signs of battle, scorched earth, shattered stone. But no body. No weapon. Nothing."

Celinar's brow furrowed. "Which means he lives."

"Or that he was taken," Marath countered.

The merchant guildsman, a plump man in silk, raised a nervous hand. "Taken? By whom? The orcs press our borders, the elves remain aloof in their forests, the dwarves bar their gates. Who has the strength to capture him?"

No one answered at once.

Then Veynar spoke, his voice heavy. "It is not who we know. It is who we do not."

The words fell like a stone in a well, rippling through the chamber. Faces tightened, eyes narrowed. For a moment, the flicker of the torches seemed to dim.

–

The meeting dragged, each faction sharpening its words like knives.

The inquisitor demanded to declare Lindarion a deserter, his position stripped, his name struck from their rolls.

The archmage argued the opposite: that Lindarion's survival was essential, that they must divert scouts, resources, entire battalions if necessary, to track him.

The dukes bickered over land, each wary that the other would exploit Lindarion's absence to seize more ground when the war turned.

Even the mercenary captain, a scarred woman named Ryn, spoke bluntly: "My blades were promised gold for following his banner. No gold, no prince, no deal. If you won't find him, then pay what's owed and we walk."

The tent rang with raised voices, accusations, half-threats.

Veynar alone remained silent, his eyes on the empty chair.

At last he rose, slamming his gauntleted fist against the table. The clang silenced all.

"Enough!" His voice thundered. "You prattle like crows over carrion while the enemy sharpens their axes at our gates. Lindarion's fate is unknown. Until we have proof, he remains our ally, our weapon. Speak ill of him again, and I'll see you on the dueling ground."

Marath's nostrils flared, but he said nothing.

Celinar smirked faintly, satisfied.

The others lowered their gazes, though mutters still ran through the chamber like restless wind.

–

As the council broke, Celinar lingered, watching Veynar with narrow eyes.

"You speak with certainty," the archmage said softly. "Almost as if you know he lives."

Veynar's gaze flicked to him. "I know the kind of man he is. He doesn't die so easily."

Celinar's lips curved, but his eyes remained cold. "Perhaps. But not all deaths are of the body."

Veynar's brow furrowed.

The archmage tapped his staff once against the floor. "If he returns, he may not be the same as when he left. Pray you're ready for that."

With that, Celinar swept from the tent, his robes whispering behind him.

Veynar remained, staring at the empty chair.

The torches hissed. Outside, the camp stirred with the noise of soldiers, smiths, and beasts. Yet in the tent, silence pressed heavy, as though the absence of one man weighed more than an army.

Veynar whispered to himself, a vow no one else would hear.

"Wherever you are, boy… come back. We can't win without you."

–

Far away, beneath the earth of another continent, Lindarion swung Zerathis, his blade cutting through stone and silence alike.

The leaders of men did not know it yet, but when he returned, he would not be the same man they remembered.

—

The underground chamber stank faintly of damp stone and candle smoke. Roots hung from the ceiling like skeletal fingers, twisting between carved pillars that once might have belonged to a temple before the world buried it. The floor had been cleared for training, sand spread in uneven patches over rock, splintered targets leaning against the walls.