Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The commander didn't sit. He didn't offer a chair either.

He just studied Lindarion like a puzzle with half the pieces hidden.

"Let's start simple," Velhart said. "Where were you?"

Lindarion held his gaze.

"I'm back now. That should be enough."

Velhart's brow didn't twitch. "It's not."

"Then adjust your expectations."

Beside him, Lira hadn't moved, but her left hand rested lightly against the leather wrap of her blade. Not posturing. Not nervous. Just ready.

Sylric stood near the door, already halfway into a slouch, arms crossed like he was watching a mildly disappointing stage play.

Velhart didn't raise his voice.

He didn't need to.

"You vanished from an active warzone," the commander said. "The Academy was attacked. Mages died. A couple students vanished. You—a Sunblade—were taken. And now you appear on the back of a beast that shouldn't exist."

Lindarion didn't flinch. "You want a full report, write to my father."

"That's not how this works."

"I'm not under your command."

"You landed in my city."

The words hit harder than the tone did.

Lindarion held his ground. "And I'm leaving again. Soon."

Velhart tilted his head slightly. "Is that a threat?"

"No. It's a promise."

The air between them cooled.

No magic. Just silence with edges.

The commander looked at Lira now. "And your companion?"

"She's with me."

"That wasn't the question."

Lira met his gaze. "You're asking the wrong one."

Her fingers stayed on the blade.

Velhart didn't press further.

Instead, he stepped back from the desk and folded his hands behind his back. "You don't want to tell me where you were. Fine. I'll file the silence."

Lindarion exhaled once, slow. "Then we're done?"

"No. But we're done here."

Velhart turned toward the door. "Your presence will be logged as a formal reappearance. Public announcement pending. You're expected to remain within Eldenholm until your return is processed by the Veldorian court."

Lindarion stepped forward once. "I'm not staying."

Velhart stopped walking.

Then said, without turning, "Then don't get caught."

—

The doors shut behind them with a satisfying finality.

No shouts. No weapons. No demands to stay.

Just polished stone underfoot and the tight weight of unsaid things still stuck to their coats.

Ashwing waited in the square, crouched low under Sylric's illusion. A shimmer clung around his form like heat haze, dampening presence, muting noise. But even blurred, he looked dangerous.

Lindarion exhaled as they stepped back into open air. The frost stung less now.

Lira didn't say anything, but her hand finally dropped away from her blade. A half-step behind, but close.

Sylric stretched like someone who hadn't just been present for a diplomatic breach.

"You've got maybe three hours before someone 'official' decides to invite you to tea," he muttered. "With chains."

"I won't be here by then," Lindarion said.

Sylric's eyebrow arched. "Oh?"

"I'm forming a group."

Sylric gave the kind of slow blink usually reserved for being handed extra paperwork. "Congratulations. You've become an adventurer."

"I'm hunting down the ones who hit Evernight," Lindarion continued. "Who took me. Who sent that Herald."

Lira spoke now. "You already have a group."

He looked at her. "You're staying?"

"I didn't fly back just to sit on a wall."

She said it like it was obvious. And final.

Lindarion's jaw tensed. "Then we'll need more. People who aren't tied to the city. People who can fight."

Sylric looked between them and sighed. "And let me guess. You'd like my help."

"Just enough to avoid a second dragon incident."

"Too late," Sylric muttered. "You already made page one."

He turned, brushing frost off his sleeve. "I'll keep the city off your back. A little. Long enough to vanish without paperwork."

Lindarion nodded once. "That's all I need."

He turned toward Ashwing.

The dragon's head lowered, waiting.

The hunt was starting.

And this time, it was his.

—

Ashwing lowered himself, wings folding tight like he'd memorized the routine.

Lindarion climbed up without speaking. His hand brushed the familiar ridges on the dragon's spine, rough from growth, warm from mana. The heat helped. His thoughts didn't.

Lira swung up behind him, silent as ever. She hadn't asked where they were going. That meant she was coming no matter what.

Sylric climbed last—grumbling, as expected, but didn't hesitate.

Ashwing stirred once, shifting his weight to prepare for lift.

Lindarion stared ahead at the edge of the sky. Then spoke.

"I'm not bringing anyone from the Academy."

Lira didn't answer.

Sylric raised a brow. "Not even the loud ones?"

"No."

He exhaled. The cold left a dull ache in his throat.

"I won't ask people to follow me into something I haven't named yet."

Sylric leaned back slightly. "That's almost noble."

Lindarion ignored the tone.

"There's one," he admitted. "I'm thinking about Luneth."

He didn't say why. He didn't have to.

Sylric's voice dropped. "You think she'll say yes?"

"She wouldn't say anything unless she meant it."

A beat passed.

Then Lindarion turned slightly. "You know people. Fighters. Mages. Quiet ones. Anyone who doesn't ask too many questions."

Sylric scratched his beard. "You want mercenaries?"

"I want survivors."

"I know some," Sylric said. "A few I wouldn't trust with my coat, but maybe with your life."

Lira spoke then, finally. "No names yet."

Lindarion nodded.

They didn't need names.

Not yet.

Ashwing beat his wings once, and they rose into the cold morning air, with nothing below but stone, and nothing ahead but ghosts.

—

The air outside the dormitories bit with clean cold.

Luneth didn't mind it. The frost didn't sting her skin. It grounded her.

She stood beneath the stone arch of the east wall, arms folded, watching pale sunlight catch in the treetops. Most students avoided the perimeter this early. Too cold. Too quiet. Too much stillness.

That was the point.

Her breath left no cloud. She hadn't spoken since dawn.

The footsteps behind her were quiet—too quiet.

Whoever they were, they approached without shoes crunching gravel. No voice. No aura flare. Not a sound beyond shifting cloth.

A hand touched her shoulder.

She didn't think.

She moved.

Her elbow locked, her hip twisted, and in one smooth motion she threw the idiot over her shoulder and into the snow-dusted walkway behind her.

The body hit the ground with a hard grunt.

She stepped back into a stance, ice blooming across her palm.

Then she blinked.

"…Lindarion?"

He groaned into the snow. "Hi."

Lira appeared behind her, arms crossed, unreadable.

Sylric trailed in after, hands in his coat, looking mildly entertained. "Well. That went better than I expected."

Luneth didn't lower her hand. "You snuck up on me…when did you get here?"

"Just now. I was going to say hello," Lindarion muttered, still flat on the ground. "Didn't think you'd weaponize physics."

"You touched my shoulder."

"I'm aware."

Lira offered him a hand. He took it. Begrudgingly.

He brushed snow off his sleeve and looked up at Luneth. "Still sharp."

"You're still bad at introductions."

She finally let the cold dissipate from her hand.

Then, flatly. "What do you want? How come you're here? Where were you?"

Lindarion straightened fully.

This time, when he spoke, it was quieter.

"I need your help."