Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The room felt colder.

He hated her tone, the certainty, the implication that he needed saving. He'd survived alone, bled alone, fought gods and demons alike. He didn't need her pity, her lectures, her rules.

And yet…

The memory of stepping between shadows, of his body nearly tearing apart, of her hands dragging him back when he could no longer stand, it all sat too vividly in his mind.

Ashwing shifted against him, pressing its warm little body tighter to his chest, as though echoing the truth he didn't want to admit.

Nysha's gaze never wavered.

"You're not strong enough yet," she said quietly. "And if you keep pretending you are, you'll never get the chance to be."

—

She rose, brushing dust from her simple dark clothes, and gestured toward the far wall where shadows pooled thickly in a corner.

"Get up."

Lindarion's brow arched. "I thought you just told me not to move."

Her lips twitched in the faintest ghost of a smile. "I changed my mind. If you're well enough to argue, you're well enough to stand."

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright. Pain lanced through his chest and arms, but he shoved it aside. Ashwing hissed in protest as he pushed the dragon off, the little creature hopping indignantly onto the stone floor.

Step by step, he staggered toward the wall. Every movement sent tremors of weakness through his limbs, his vision swimming, but he refused to stumble.

Nysha waited, arms folded again.

"Now," she said, "touch the shadow."

He glanced at her. "That's it? Touch it?"

"Yes. And this time, don't try to rip it open and throw yourself through. Just feel it."

His fingers flexed. He raised one hand and pressed it into the pool of darkness.

The cold hit instantly, not the biting pain of his earlier steps, but a subtler, creeping chill. It wrapped around his skin, threading into his flesh, into the bones beneath. It whispered, as it always whispered. Promises of strength, of shortcuts, of power for nothing but the smallest cost.

Lindarion's instinct was to push harder. To seize it. To bend it.

But Nysha's voice cut through the haze.

"Stop fighting it. That's why it tears you apart. The shadow isn't a door to kick down, it's a current. Step with it, not against it."

His jaw clenched.

He closed his eyes, focusing. Letting the cold seep in without forcing it further. The whisper grew louder, the void's pull insistent, eager. But for once, he didn't shove. He listened.

And slowly… the shadow shifted.

Not violently, not hungrily, but like a stream, parting slightly around his hand. A thread of connection instead of a gash.

He opened his eyes. His hand was still there, skin darkened slightly by the lingering stain of shadow, but whole. No blood. No tearing.

Nysha's lips curved in a faint smile.

"Better. You're not hopeless after all."

—

His teeth bared faintly. "Don't talk down to me."

She rolled her eyes. "You'd prefer I let you bleed out on the floor?"

"Yes," he snapped, "if it means I don't need a demon priestess lecturing me like a child."

Her eyes flashed, crimson burning brighter.

"Then act like more than a child," she retorted. "You think you're the only one who's ever clawed for power beyond their body's limit? The only one who's ever been broken by shadows? You're nothing new. But you might be something more, if you stop being so damn stubborn."

The silence after her words was sharp.

Ashwing clicked its tongue, tail flicking, gaze shifting between the two of them.

Lindarion turned away first, staring at his hand in the shadow.

"…Show me," he muttered.

Nysha blinked. "What?"

"Show me," he repeated, louder this time. His voice was rough, pride sharp in it still, but undeniable. "If you think I'm doing it wrong, then show me."

—

Nysha stepped forward, lifting her own hand.

Her fingers brushed the same shadow, and instantly it bent around her like a living thing. It curled lovingly across her skin, slipping up her wrist, weaving around her like strands of silk.

No tearing. No resistance. Only harmony.

Her crimson eyes flicked toward him, cold and knowing.

"This is what it looks like when the shadow accepts you. Not when you try to beat it into submission."

He stared, jaw tight, frustration and envy burning hot in his chest.

He hated how easily it obeyed her. How natural she made it look.

But he also couldn't look away.

—

When she finally pulled her hand back, the shadows dissolved like smoke, leaving her skin unmarked.

Lindarion flexed his fingers again, the faint stain of shadow still clinging.

"Fine," he said at last, his voice low, like gravel grinding. "Teach me."

Nysha's expression shifted, not triumph, not smugness. Something softer. Something almost relieved.

"Good."

She stepped back, gesturing toward the pool once more.

"Then we start again."

—

The great hall of Lord Kaelith's estate was a cavern of polished black stone. Pillars rose like spears toward the high arched ceiling, each etched with twisting demonic runes that glowed faintly in blood-red light. Curtains of thick, dark velvet framed narrow windows, though little sunlight ever pierced the perpetual haze above the demonic continent. The air smelled faintly of iron and old incense, sharp and cloying.

It was here the Sword Saint knelt.

His body was still wrapped in bandages beneath his armor, hidden by the gleaming plates of blackened steel. The fight had left its mark on him, more deeply than he cared to admit.

He had won, yes, but not without cost. His sword arm still ached with phantom weight from the foreign blade it had clashed against. His ribs bore cracks that had not yet healed. And his dreams… his dreams still replayed the boy's face, shrouded in shadow, eyes like cold stars.

The boy he had defeated.

The boy who should not have been able to stand against him at all.

At the far end of the hall, seated upon a raised dais of black stone, his master regarded him with detached interest.

Lord Kaelith.

The noble was draped in layered robes of midnight silk, embroidered with sigils of crimson and silver thread.

His horns curved elegantly back from his brow, polished like obsidian, and his eyes glowed a deep violet that seemed to strip the soul bare. He sat at ease, fingers lightly tapping the armrest of his throne, as though the affairs of the continent were little more than an idle game.

"Report."

The single word rolled across the chamber, calm but heavy.