Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Nysha sat on one of the cracked stone benches, her crimson eyes tracking his every movement. She had stopped offering advice hours ago. Her silence was heavier than her words had ever been.

Ashwing, sprawled in lizard form across her lap, lifted his head now and then to hiss softly, sometimes when Lindarion's steps faltered, sometimes when he vanished too long into the black.

And each time Lindarion staggered out of the shadows, bleeding from his nose, veins trembling with mana exhaustion, Nysha would glance at him like a gambler waiting to see whether his next throw would bring ruin or fortune.

He hated that look.

He loved it too.

–

The twentieth attempt of the night left him sprawled across the floor, back arched, muscles seizing. He had crossed the chamber again, silent as death. But when he tried to push further, when he aimed for the stairwell leading out of the underground hall, the shadows had snapped on him like a beast with broken teeth.

He gasped, dragging air into his lungs, chest burning as though he'd swallowed fire. His hands clawed at the stone, the veins on his arms bulging from the strain.

Nysha's voice cut through the ringing in his ears.

"You're not ready for distance."

He pushed himself up anyway, face pale, hair plastered to his brow with sweat. His eyes burned faintly, not the divine glow he had once carried so easily, but something darker now, touched by the void.

"Distance is the point," he rasped. "Crossing this room won't kill the Sword Saint. Crossing a continent might."

Her lips tightened. She shook her head once.

"You want too much too quickly."

He laughed, low, bitter. "You should've seen me the first time I picked up a blade. Same thing. I cut until I couldn't hold the hilt anymore."

Nysha's silence stretched long. She didn't argue further. She knew it wouldn't matter.

–

He rose again, dragging Zerathis upright with him. The cursed blade thrummed faintly, almost hungrily, as though eager for his reckless will.

He closed his eyes. He didn't look at the far wall this time. He didn't focus on the stairwell. He pictured instead the surface above, the ruined city where they'd first landed, the black streets winding between towers of alien stone.

"Through," he whispered, though his lips barely moved.

The shadows answered.

They swarmed, not like obedient servants but like a sea storming over a cliff. They closed around him, pressed against his chest, filled his lungs until he couldn't breathe. He clung to Zerathis, his anchor, his reminder of weight.

Coldness tore at him, ripping flesh from bone, bone from spirit. For an instant he thought his body had been split in half. He screamed, though no sound came, the void swallowed even that.

And then—

He was standing in the city.

The silence was deafening.

The air was sharp and dry, smelling faintly of ash. He staggered forward, boots scuffing against a cracked stone street. He looked down, and saw his own hands flickering, as though his flesh hadn't decided if it wanted to exist here or not.

Nysha's voice echoed behind him.

"Pull back!"

He turned, and saw her shape in the shadows, distorted, reaching toward him. Ashwing's shrill hiss pierced through the void like a needle, sharp enough to jolt him.

He tried to step back, and for a moment, his body split again.

The chamber. The city. Both at once. His skin blistered, cracking with the strain. His heart hammered so violently he thought it would burst.

But then the shadows collapsed, and he fell, hard, back onto the stone floor of the underground chamber.

He coughed, gagging, his whole body trembling. Blood spilled from his nose, his lips, even the corners of his eyes. He curled forward, clutching his chest, gasping like a man dragged out of drowning water.

Nysha crouched in front of him, her pale hands steady against his shoulders. Her voice was firm, but lower, almost shaken.

"You nearly didn't come back."

He laughed, hoarse and broken. "But I did."

–

She didn't move her hands.

"You don't understand. The space between isn't empty. It feeds on you when you linger. If you'd stayed longer…"

Her words trailed off. She didn't need to finish.

Ashwing slithered from her lap, climbing up onto Lindarion's shoulder. The little dragon pressed its scaled head against his jaw, an oddly tender gesture.

Lindarion lifted his bloodied hand, stroking Ashwing's back. "Then I'll just move faster."

Nysha's red eyes narrowed. "Arrogance is the quickest way to be eaten alive."

He met her gaze. His grin was thin, feral. "Arrogance is what gets me through battles I shouldn't win."

For the first time, her composure cracked. Her lips trembled, though only for an instant.

"You'll die if you keep this pace."

His grin didn't fade. "Then I'll die moving forward."

–

He didn't rest.

Hours later, after the pain had dulled to a constant ache, he stood again. His whole body shook, but his will didn't.

This time, he aimed farther. Not the city. Not the surface. He aimed for the cliffs beyond, the jagged ridges they had seen when they first descended.

The shadows swarmed. The cold tore at him.

And he vanished.

–

He reappeared on the cliffs.

The ocean roared far below, black waves crashing against jagged stone. The wind howled, carrying with it the faint sound of screams from the distant city.

His body flickered again, his form unstable. He dropped to his knees, gasping, the taste of iron thick in his mouth.

Ashwing wasn't with him. Nysha wasn't with him. For one terrifying instant, he thought he had left them behind forever.

Then the shadows stirred beside him, and they fell into place, Nysha stepping out as though from a veil, Ashwing clinging to her shoulder, hissing with rage.

She slapped him.

The sound cracked across the cliffside louder than the waves.

"You fool!" Her voice shook now, rage barely covering fear. "You'll tear yourself apart before the Saints ever touch you!"

He spat blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at her with eyes still burning faintly in the dark.

"But it worked."