Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

His breath caught, half in awe, half in fury that it had eluded him until now.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the sensation snapped shut. The cavern returned solid. The shadows recoiled, slipping back into their corners.

Lindarion staggered.

Nysha caught his arm, steadying him. "You felt it."

"Yes," Lindarion rasped. His eyes burned with new fire. "And next time… I won't let go."

—

The human camp was never meant to be permanent.

Its palisades of sharpened timber creaked in the wind, its stone watchtowers hastily built with scavenged blocks. Inside sprawled tents, smithies, and barracks cobbled together by necessity, not pride. The ground was scarred where siege engines had once stood, now patched with dirt and gravel.

At its heart lay the command hall, a massive canvas pavilion lined with banners of the four great kingdoms. The colors clashed: the crimson lion of Velrath, the silver stag of Deyros, the sunburst of Halcian, and the black tower of Eryndral. Inside, the generals and magisters sat around an oaken war table littered with maps and tokens.

They argued in low, sharp voices, the air thick with tension.

"Three months without word," said General Corthen of Velrath, a barrel-chested man whose armor gleamed even indoors. He slammed a gauntleted fist against the table. "Three months without Lindarion. Either he's dead, or he's abandoned us. We cannot afford to wait any longer."

"Watch your tongue," snapped Archmagister Ydrien of Eryndral, her robes shimmering faintly with the mark of starlight enchantments. "You speak of the Sword Prince as if he were some common deserter. He has more power in his hand than you have in your entire army. If he has vanished, it is because he has gone where none of us can tread."

"And left us to hold the line," muttered Lord Commander Faylen of Halcian, his thin frame hunched forward. His voice carried a sharp bite despite his frailty. "We are stretched thin, our scouts do not return, and the beasts press harder every week. I will not wager the fate of the continent on the return of one man, however gifted."

"One man?" Ydrien's eyes flared with silver fire. "He is not one man. He is our blade against the dark, chosen by powers you can scarcely comprehend."

"Chosen or not, he bleeds like the rest of us," Corthen growled. "If he were alive, he'd be here."

The argument spiraled louder, hands slamming on wood, voices rising. The guards outside shifted uneasily as the great lords of the human realm bickered like children over scraps.

—

The sound cut through the council like a knife:

A horn, shrill and broken, blasting three short notes. Then another. Then another.

The guards burst into the pavilion, their armor scuffed, breath ragged.

"My lords!" one cried. "The east wall—something's coming! Not beasts, not demons—something else!"

The council erupted into motion. Chairs clattered to the ground, maps scattered. Generals seized helms, magisters drew sigils in the air.

They spilled out into the open night, where the moon hung pale over the camp. Shouts rang from the ramparts. Torches flared along the walls. And beyond the palisade—

Shapes moved.

At first they looked like men. Their outlines were humanoid, their movements jerky, staggering. But as they neared the torchlight, the truth revealed itself.

Their flesh writhed. Muscles bulged in grotesque knots beneath torn skin. Faces twisted half-melted, jaws splitting too wide, eyes glowing with sickly green luminescence. Some had limbs that split into claws or tentacles; others dragged weapons fused to their flesh as though born with them. Their footsteps made no sound, yet the ground quivered with every stride.

Mutants.

Abominations birthed from corrupted mana, rumored to dwell only at the edges of the wastelands. But never this close. Never in such numbers.

Hundreds.

No—thousands.

—

The first wave struck the east palisade with the force of a battering ram. Timber snapped, splinters flying. Guards screamed as claws and tendrils burst through the gaps, dragging men into the dark. Arrows rained down from the wall, but many of the creatures simply absorbed the shafts into their flesh, the wood dissolving as if consumed.

"Hold the line!" roared Corthen, shoving his way to the front. His greatsword flashed in the torchlight as he mounted the wall. With one cleave, he split a mutant's head in two—only for its body to keep moving, flailing blindly until it toppled over the edge.

Ydrien's voice rose in a chantless murmur, her hands weaving light. Orbs of silver rained down upon the creatures, each strike searing through their corrupted flesh. For every one that fell, two more climbed over it.

"Archers! Fire again!"

"Boiling pitch!"

"Get the magisters to the southern flank!"

Orders flew through the night as chaos erupted. The once-stable camp of the human armies had become a battlefield in moments.

—

Back in the command pavilion, those who had not gone to the walls argued again, this time with true fear in their eyes.

"We cannot hold against this!" Faylen shouted, slamming his hand against the war table. His thin frame trembled, but his voice carried. "This is no raid, no probing strike. This is extermination."

"You would have us abandon the camp?" cried Lady Commander Thariel of Deyros, her armor already bloodstained from the first clash. "This fortress is the last foothold between them and our homelands. If we break here, there will be nothing to stop them from flooding across the continent."

"They are already across!" Faylen snapped. "Look at them. Look at their numbers. Even if we hold tonight, tomorrow they will return with twice as many. We cannot fight a tide with a blade."

"Then we find another way," Ydrien hissed, striding back into the tent, her hair wild, blood smeared across her cheek where a mutant's claw had grazed her. "Magic can undo what magic has twisted. There is an origin to this corruption. If Lindarion—"

"Lindarion is gone!" Faylen's voice cracked under the weight of the truth none dared speak. "And every moment we waste clinging to him is another life lost!"

The words hung like smoke in the air. Even those who hated him for saying it could not deny the weight behind them.

—

A terrible sound tore through the night, wood splitting, stone shattering.

The east wall collapsed.

Mutants poured through the breach like water through a broken dam. Guards were trampled underfoot, screams rising in a sick chorus. The beasts moved without strategy, without formation, only hunger and rage.

Corthen roared above them, swinging his blade in arcs that cut down dozens. For a moment, his sheer presence held the tide. But then one of the larger mutants surged forward, towering twice the height of a man, its arms splitting into three, its chest a gaping maw lined with teeth.

It caught Corthen's blade in its many hands and wrenched it aside.

"Archmagister!" Corthen bellowed. "NOW!"

Ydrien thrust her palms forward, silver light spearing through the beast's chest. It howled as the glow tore its flesh apart from within. Yet even as it crumbled, more took its place, crawling over the corpse like carrion.

The humans were being swallowed alive.