Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

She stood over him, trembling. Her hands curled into fists, nails cutting her palms.

"You think power means nothing if you don't die earning it," she hissed. "But tell me, what good is your strength if you vanish into that void and never return? What good will you be to your people then? To yourself? To Ashwing?"

The little dragon growled low in its throat, pressing against Lindarion's chest as though echoing her words.

For a moment, just a moment, doubt flickered in him.

But then the wind shifted, carrying with it a memory: the Sword Saint's blade slicing through his defenses, the humiliation of falling, the helplessness of being too slow, too weak.

The doubt vanished.

"I won't stop," he whispered. "Not until I can step through him the way I step through shadows."

Nysha's expression darkened. She looked at him as though seeing a fire that would burn her alive if she stood too close.

But she didn't turn away.

—

They returned underground. He didn't stop.

For days, maybe weeks, time blurred in the dark, Lindarion repeated the steps. Short distances, long distances, then longer still.

Every failure left him broken, bleeding, barely holding together. Every success carved something deeper into him, something jagged and relentless.

Ashwing grew restless. The little dragon hissed constantly now, pacing, curling tighter against him at night. Nysha spoke less, her silence growing heavier.

But still Lindarion pressed on.

Until one night—

He aimed for the city again. Only this time, when he stepped through, the shadows clung to him. They wouldn't let go.

He staggered, caught between places. His form split again, flickering violently. He saw the chamber, the city, the cliffs, all at once. His chest felt as though a thousand knives were digging through it.

The void whispered to him. Not words, but hunger. It wanted him. It wanted his strength, his rage, his soul.

And for an instant, he almost gave in.

Then Nysha's voice cut through, raw and sharp:

"Lindarion!"

The sound of his name, not as a soldier, not as a weapon, but as a man, dragged him back.

He collapsed onto the chamber floor, gasping, body convulsing with agony. Ashwing shrieked, curling tight against his chest.

Nysha knelt beside him, her voice breaking now. "Enough. You'll kill yourself."

His vision swam. His body shook. But his lips curled into that same, maddening grin.

"Not yet."

—

The chamber stank of iron.

It wasn't blood, not quite. It was the metallic tang of mana overuse, that same smell that clung to scorched steel after a duel. The air was heavy with it, oppressive.

Lindarion stood in the center of the cracked floor, chest bare, his coat discarded across a bench. Sweat dripped in rivers down his skin, and in his hand Zerathis hummed like a living thing.

The blade seemed to thirst for this moment.

Across from him, Nysha adjusted her stance, bare feet sliding across the stone. She hadn't wanted this, she had argued, cursed, even tried to walk away. But he hadn't let her.

"Either you help me control it," he had said, "or I'll do it against the Sword Saint, and then I'll die."

She hated him for that. She hated that he was right.

Now, she faced him, her crimson eyes steady though her heart hammered so violently she was sure he could hear it. She carried no weapon, she didn't need one. Darkness affinity was her blood, her breath, her birthright.

Ashwing, crouched in lizard form at the edge of the chamber, hissed low, restless. The little dragon's tail flicked against the stone with the impatience of a storm about to break.

"Ready?" Lindarion asked, voice rough.

"No," Nysha answered flatly.

But he lunged anyway.

—

He didn't sprint. He vanished.

One blink, and his body melted into shadow. The chamber rippled with the soundless displacement of air, like a candle being snuffed.

Nysha's instincts screamed. She pivoted, throwing up a wall of darkness behind her.

Lindarion burst out of the black just as her veil solidified, Zerathis crashing into it with a shriek like steel on glass. The blade sliced through, but the split-second delay gave her time to twist aside.

His sword cut the air where her throat had been a moment earlier.

Nysha's counter was sharp, a whip of darkness snapping across his side. It struck, burning cold, making his muscles seize.

But he didn't stumble. He stepped again, and vanished.

"Damn you," she hissed, spinning, trying to track the flickers of shadow.

—

He emerged behind her, blade arcing low. She dropped, barely, rolling across the stone. The cut still grazed her shoulder, blood welling dark against her pale skin.

Nysha slammed both hands against the ground, shadows erupting upward like spires. They pierced toward him, jagged and sharp, black spears aiming for his chest.

Lindarion didn't dodge.

He stepped.

The shadows swallowed him, and he reappeared beside her, sword descending. She snarled, throwing a palm out, a blast of darkness forcing him back.

For the first time, he stumbled.

Her breath came ragged, but her voice was steady.

"You think it's just speed," she snapped. "Step, cut, step, cut. But you don't feel what stalks you in between."

He wiped the blood from his mouth where her blast had landed. His grin was wolfish.

"I feel it," he said. "I just don't care."

Her chest tightened. That was what terrified her most, not his strength, not his blade, but his disregard for himself.

—

She went on the offensive.

Darkness surged up around her like a storm, swirling, folding inward before bursting forward as a volley of spears and whips.

Lindarion dove straight through.

Each whip carved into him, shoulders, arms, ribs. Blood sprayed, but his momentum never slowed. He vanished mid-stride, reappearing above her, blade raised high.

Nysha's reflex saved her, barely. She pulled the shadows into a dome, and Zerathis crashed into it like lightning. The impact split stone, shattered the air with sound, and still drove her to her knees beneath the pressure.

His laugh, ragged and wild, echoed inside the dark dome.

"You're too slow."

He vanished again.

The dome cracked. She flung it apart, shadows exploding outward, and twisted—

Too late.

His blade was at her throat.

—

But he stopped.

The edge of Zerathis hovered, trembling faintly from the strain in his arm. His chest heaved, every muscle rigid, his body flickering faintly still between existence and the shadow.

Nysha didn't move. Her breath was shallow, her skin pale, but her eyes locked on his.

"You see?" he rasped. "I can kill like this. He won't see me coming."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She tilted her head, not defiance, not surrender, but something heavier.

"You don't see what I see," she whispered.

His brow furrowed, his blade still raised.