Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Sylric turned, clearly expecting that to be the end of the conversation.

It wasn't.

Lindarion stepped forward. "You're coming with us, right?"

Sylric didn't stop walking.

Just kept moving, hands in pockets, posture already slouched like the idea had physically drained him.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

Sylric exhaled. Loudly. "Do I look like I'm dressed for diplomacy?"

"You're wearing pants. That's enough."

Lira crossed her arms. "Is this a normal interaction?"

"Yes," Lindarion said flatly. "Unfortunately."

Sylric paused at the far end of the courtyard, turned around, and blinked once. "I haven't slept in thirty hours. I'm running on tea and resentment. And the last time I stood in front of Veldorian military brass, I ended up teaching ethics to nobles who didn't know what lying was."

"Sounds like you're qualified."

Sylric pointed at him. "I liked you better when you were missing."

Ashwing huffed.

Lindarion didn't smile. "You said it yourself. They'll panic if they don't see me as legitimate. You're the only one here who can stand next to me without needing an introduction."

Sylric stared.

Then, finally, muttered, "This is why I don't leave my bench."

He pulled his coat tighter and walked back.

Didn't say yes.

But he didn't leave again either.

—

Ashwing crouched low as the three of them approached.

Lindarion climbed up first, settling into the familiar groove between wing joints. Lira followed, calm and wordless, sliding in behind him like she'd done it a hundred times.

Sylric just stared at the dragon like it owed him rent.

"I'm not dying for politics," he muttered.

"You won't," Lindarion said.

"I better not," Sylric replied, and climbed up.

Ashwing adjusted his stance slightly. No complaint. Just a quiet snort like he wasn't thrilled about carrying three, but would allow it.

"Barracks," Lindarion said, low. "East ward. Keep low."

Ashwing responded instantly.

One beat of his wings and they were airborne, higher than rooftops, lower than towers. The wind snapped past their shoulders. Eldenholm stretched out beneath them: slate roofs, gray stone, towers like watchful fingers. Market streets were just beginning to stir. A few heads turned.

One person screamed.

"Low profile," Sylric muttered. "Right."

Ashwing banked left.

The eastern quarter came into view fast, uniform buildings, walls squared into clean geometry, and the open courtyard of the city's elite guard post. Red banners hung from stone arches. Three guards stood below, already pointing up.

"No spears," Lindarion muttered.

"They'll probably ask for a meeting first," Lira said.

Ashwing slowed, wings widening. He descended in a sharp spiral, air breaking hard under each controlled stroke.

They landed in the middle of the courtyard.

Clean.

Direct.

Uninvited.

The nearest guard dropped his spear.

The others didn't move.

Not yet.

Lindarion dismounted first.

Kept his voice calm.

"I'm here to report my return," he said. "Lindarion Sunblade. Prince of Eldorath."

The words didn't echo.

But the silence after hit just as hard.

—

Commander Garran Velhart didn't deal in theatrics.

He dealt in walls, rotations, reports, and the irritating certainty that no one ever followed curfew.

So when one of his junior officers burst into his office unannounced, face pale, boots soaked, helmet slightly crooked, he didn't stand up. He didn't even look up.

"You'd better be bleeding," Garran muttered, flipping another requisition form over.

"No, sir. Not me."

He finally glanced up.

The boy was shaking.

Not injured.

Just off.

"Out with it."

"There's… a dragon, sir."

Garran blinked. "A what."

"A dragon, sir. In the courtyard. Landed. Just now."

"You're sure it's not a bard exaggerating something stupid?"

"It spoke, sir."

That got Garran standing.

"Clarify."

"The rider spoke," the officer corrected. "Said he's Lindarion Sunblade. Prince of Eldorath."

Garran stared.

Then crossed the room in three long strides and threw open the shutters.

The courtyard below was not on fire. Which was something. But a massive winged creature crouched in the center, steam rising from its flanks like breath from a forge. Three figures stood beside it.

One of them was blond. Too young. Too calm.

A Sunblade.

Garran's jaw tightened.

He'd read the reports. Evernight's assault. The missing prince. The silence from the elven council. Half the military assumed him dead.

Apparently not.

He turned to the boy. "Assemble senior guard. Quietly. No weapons drawn."

"Sir—"

"Quietly."

"Yes, sir."

As the door shut, Garran stared back out the window.

A dragon.

A prince.

And a hell of a problem.

—

The guards didn't draw steel.

Which was a good start.

They also didn't bow.

Which was better.

The senior one, a clean-shaven man with a heavy scar down his left temple stepped forward, posture tight, voice clipped. "You'll come with us, Prince Lindarion. The Commander will see you now."

Lindarion nodded once. "Lead the way."

No ceremony. No parade. Just boots on stone and silence pressed tight between columns.

Lira walked on his left. Close. Watching the walls. The archways. Every guard they passed.

Sylric walked behind them, already yawning like this was a poorly timed brunch meeting.

The corridor curved inward, warm lamplight flickering against polished floor tile. Everything about the place screamed controlled. Efficient. Quiet power behind stone.

They reached a set of reinforced oak doors. One of the guards rapped twice. No answer. Then pushed them open.

Inside, the room was bare, just a desk, a wall map, and a man standing in front of the window.

He turned.

Broad shoulders. Iron-grey hair pulled back. Uniform crisp. Eyes sharp enough to crack glass.

"Lindarion Sunblade," he said.

Lindarion stepped forward. "Commander."

They stared at each other for a full beat. Then the man spoke again.

"You've caused a stir."

Lindarion kept his voice even. "It wasn't my first choice for reentry."

"And the dragon?"

"His name's Ashwing."

"Of course it is."

The commander's gaze flicked to Lira, then Sylric. He didn't comment.

"You're aware," Garran said slowly, "that showing up unannounced with a full-grown drake in the capital airspace is typically considered hostile?"

"I'm not here to play diplomat," Lindarion said. "I'm here because this is the only place that didn't burn."

That landed harder than he expected.

The room went quiet again.

Then the commander nodded once. Just once.

"Then let's begin."