Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The cavern smelled of damp stone and old moss. Faint trickles of water dripped rhythmically somewhere in the dark, echoing like a heartbeat across the cavern walls. Torches guttered in their brackets, their orange light fighting against the endless shadows that seemed to cling to every crevice of the underground refuge.

Lindarion stood in the center of the training circle Nysha had carved into the rock floor, a wide ring etched with runes that glowed faintly whenever mana was stirred. His coat hung from a nearby chair, heavy enough to hide the weapon concealed beneath it. His hand rested on the hilt of that sword now, thumb brushing against the strange dark steel, though he hadn't yet drawn it.

Across from him, Nysha watched with folded arms. Her dark hair was tied back for once, exposing the sharp lines of her face. She looked tired, though not physically, it was the weariness of someone who had been speaking to a wall for too long.

"You're still forcing it," she said at last.

Lindarion didn't look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the shadows that trembled at the edges of the circle. He had been trying to command them again, to summon the same sensation he had touched during his fight with the Sword Saint, the way the world itself seemed to fold when he bent it. But now, they resisted.

"I'm not forcing anything," Lindarion muttered. His tone was clipped, distracted. "I'm controlling them."

"You're not," Nysha said flatly. "You're wrestling them. You can't bend darkness like that. It doesn't answer to force. It slips through your grip, and the harder you grasp, the more you lose."

At his feet, the shadows writhed, a twisting, unstable knot that surged against his will. Lindarion pushed harder, teeth clenched, sweat gathering at his brow. For a moment the circle's runes flared brighter as the shadows lashed up around him like serpents.

Then they snapped free. The torchlight flickered violently, throwing wild shapes across the cavern walls, and the runes dimmed as though exhaling.

Lindarion staggered, panting, hand gripping the sword hilt tightly enough that his knuckles whitened.

Nysha shook her head. "You'll tear yourself apart if you keep doing it like that."

—

A small weight pressed against Lindarion's leg. He glanced down to find Ashwing, in his lizard form, climbing up onto his boot before leaping lightly onto his shoulder. The dragonlet's scales shimmered faintly with embers, his eyes gleaming gold in the dim light.

Ashwing flicked his tongue, then nipped sharply at Lindarion's ear, as though in rebuke.

Lindarion scowled and pushed him off, but the creature twisted midair and landed neatly in Nysha's lap where she had just sat down on a stone bench. She blinked in surprise as Ashwing curled up immediately, his tail flicking against her thigh like a cat's.

"He likes you," she said, dry amusement creeping into her voice.

"He likes food," Lindarion muttered.

Nysha stroked a finger down the dragonlet's back. Ashwing chirped, then pressed his head into her palm. "Mm. No, I think he likes me."

The comment stung more than it should have. Lindarion turned back toward the training circle, jaw tight.

—

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw him. The Sword Saint. The way his blade had moved, too fast, too heavy, too inevitable. The way Lindarion had been crushed beneath it despite all his affinities, despite all his rage. The memory of his body collapsing against the dirt, the taste of blood choking his throat, the sting of humiliation.

He should have won. He should always win.

Instead, he had been dragged away like some broken thing, saved by Nysha's intervention.

The thought made his hands tremble.

"Again," he said, his voice hoarse.

Nysha looked up from Ashwing, frowning. "You're already overusing your mana. You'll burn yourself out."

"I said again."

There was a dangerous edge to his tone now. Nysha studied him for a moment, then sighed, placing Ashwing gently aside. The dragonlet chirped in protest but slunk toward the firepit, curling there instead.

"If you insist," Nysha said. "But this time — listen."

—

She stepped into the circle opposite him, her priestess robes brushing against the faintly glowing runes. Her hands rose, not in aggression but in guidance.

"Darkness isn't a weapon you swing," she said softly. "It's a road. A threshold. A place between places. You're treating it like fire or lightning, but it isn't like them. Stop demanding it obey you. Ask it where it leads."

Her words grated against his pride, but he couldn't deny the truth. The shadows had not once moved the way he wanted them to. They resisted. They mocked him.

"Ask?" Lindarion's voice was thick with disdain. "I don't beg power. I take it."

Nysha shook her head. "That's why you lost."

The words struck deeper than she likely intended. Lindarion's hand twitched toward the sword beneath his coat again, but he forced himself to stop. Instead, he stepped forward.

"Then show me," he said coldly. "If you're so wise, priestess, show me how to ask shadows for obedience."

Her eyes lingered on his for a long, heavy moment. Something unspoken passed between them. Then she nodded once.

"Very well. But if you fail again, you'll listen instead of argue."

—

They began with silence.

Nysha gestured for him to close his eyes, to breathe, to feel the cavern around him. The drip of water. The pulse of torches. The faint scuttle of Ashwing's claws against stone as the dragon shifted by the fire.

"Darkness is not emptiness," she whispered. "It's presence. It's waiting. It sees what you ignore."

Her voice was low, melodic in a way that unsettled him. Not magic, no spell, no chant, but a rhythm that touched the air.

Lindarion let his mana sink outward. The shadows responded at once, writhing against his call. Instinct pushed him to force them down again, to break them into obedience.

"Stop fighting," Nysha said sharply.

His teeth clenched.

"Stop!"

Her voice cracked like a whip. Against his will, his focus slipped. The shadows loosened, no longer straining against his grip but flowing back to the edges of the circle. For the first time, they didn't recoil entirely. They lingered.

Lindarion's heart hammered.

"Now," Nysha said softly. "Don't command. Step into them."

—

Something shifted.

The shadows rippled beneath him, and suddenly the cavern seemed… thinner. The walls bled away into a softer black, as though he were standing in a space layered over the real one. The air grew colder. He could still feel the stone under his boots, but faintly, as though through water.

Nysha's voice was faint now, distant but guiding.

"Do you feel it?"

"…Yes." His own voice sounded hollow.

"This is what you've been crushing without realizing. A threshold. Every shadow is a door. Every darkness a path."

Lindarion's hand trembled against the hilt of his sword. He wasn't walking, and yet he was moving. The cavern stretched impossibly, reshaping itself. One blink, and the training circle was behind him. Another, and he was near the far wall without crossing the distance.

Shadow travel.