Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The corridors leading back to the royal wing were quieter now.

Guards posted at intervals kept their hands folded neatly over polished armor. Courtiers whispered without glancing his way. None dared stop him.

Seraphine walked a pace behind.

Her silence wasn't hesitant.

It was respect.

By the time they reached the private wing of the palace, the moon was rising past the high arches of the central courtyard. Its light spilled through the latticed windows, washing the walls in pale blue and silver.

Two guards flanked the doors to the king's inner chamber.

They stepped aside the moment Lindarion stopped before them.

Seraphine stayed back.

He pushed the door open himself.

—

Eldrin was not asleep.

He stood near the edge of a long desk at the far end of the chamber, one hand resting against a scroll, the other cupped near his chin.

A single candle flickered beside a basin of cooling water. Papers lay across the table in perfect, deliberate stacks.

He didn't look up.

"I heard you left the Vault."

"I did."

Silence.

Then, Eldrin's eyes lifted.

"You went further than the Garden."

Lindarion didn't lie.

"I stopped. But not early enough."

Eldrin gave no visible reaction.

He just nodded once.

"Sit," he said.

Lindarion remained standing.

"I want to speak with the council."

This time, the pause came with weight.

Eldrin turned fully now, facing him.

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"They won't like being summoned."

"I won't summon," Lindarion said. "I'll ask."

"That's worse."

Lindarion stepped forward, tone steady. "You said you'd listen."

"I am."

"Then I need them in the same room. Not to reveal everything. Just enough."

Eldrin studied him. His green eyes sharp, unreadable.

"Enough for what."

"To gauge who will stand still when it starts," Lindarion said. "And who will move."

"And if none move?"

"Then they're already part of the problem."

Eldrin leaned slightly back against the desk.

"You're making enemies you don't know yet."

"I already have enemies I do know."

Silence again.

Then—

"You're not ready for war, Lindarion."

"I'm not starting one."

"No," Eldrin said. "You're walking into one already burning."

Lindarion let the words settle.

Then, quietly: "Then I'd rather walk forward."

Eldrin said nothing for a moment longer.

Then he gestured to the candle.

"Dawn. Tomorrow. High Chamber."

"Thank you."

"It's not a favor," the king said. "It's a warning. Use it well."

Lindarion nodded once.

And left without another word.

—

He didn't intend to go to her quarters.

His feet moved without asking.

Not by duty.

Not by strategy.

But because there was one person in Solrendel who had been waiting for him, not watching, not weighing, not doubting, just waiting.

The guards at the upper gallery didn't stop him.

They didn't need to.

Everyone in the palace knew what wing belonged to Queen Melion Sunblade.

He passed under a low arch carved with vines and starlight motifs. The sconces here held no flames, only soft, hovering globes of pale light that followed the rhythm of breath.

The hall smelled like fresh silk, rose pollen, and something softer, lavender maybe, or mint, or the trace of sunlight clinging to soft cloth.

Her door was half open.

And she was standing in the center of the chamber, back turned, gazing out through a latticed balcony where the stars poured over Solrendel like a spilled crown.

She didn't hear him at first.

Then she turned—

And stopped.

Lindarion didn't say anything.

Didn't move.

Neither did she.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

And then—

She walked.

Not fast. Not stiff. Not slow.

Just, deliberately.

Like the moment would break if she moved any other way.

And then she reached him.

And wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

She buried her face against his hair.

And cried.

Not loud. Not wild.

Just steady, as if she had been holding her breath for weeks and finally couldn't anymore.

Lindarion didn't speak.

He let his arms wrap around her waist, awkward at first, then firmer.

She trembled.

He hadn't remembered that.

His mother had always been perfect, smooth, composed, precise. Her hair never out of place. Her voice always measured. Her presence quiet but absolute.

But right now—

She trembled.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should've—someone should've—"

"Don't," he said quietly.

"You were gone." Her fingers curled tighter in the back of his coat. "And no one could find you. Not even your father. Not even the council. Nothing answered. You were just gone."

"I made it back."

"You shouldn't have had to."

He didn't say anything.

Because if he did, he wouldn't stop.

She pulled back just enough to cup his face.

Her hands were warm.

Her eyes were red at the edges, lined with gold like old paintings, shining faintly in the starlight.

"You've grown," she said softly. "Not taller. But here—" she touched his cheek, his temple. "You don't flinch anymore."

Lindarion's jaw clenched.

"I didn't want to grow that way."

"I know."

Her thumb brushed the edge of his brow.

Then she stepped back, just enough to breathe.

"Are you hurt?"

"Not anymore."

"Are you scared?"

"Yes," he said. "But not for me."

She swallowed hard.

"I know you don't want to tell me everything."

"I wish I could."

"Then just… tell me one thing."

"What?"

"Will you be coming back?"

He met her gaze.

"I'll try."

That was enough.

She hugged him again.

And for the first time in days—

He let himself lean into it.

Just a little.

Because no one else knew what it meant to lose something before the world noticed it was gone.

And no one else loved him before the fire started.

—

The guest wing was quiet by design.

No lanterns. No patrols. Just the rustle of velvet-lined drapes and the creak of old stone that remembered every secret it had ever been forced to keep.

Lindarion walked without escort. No guards here. No formality.

Just old shadows.

And one mercenary.

The door to Erebus's chamber was closed, but not locked.

Lindarion knocked once.

Then opened it.

Erebus sat near the center of the room, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, leaning over a low table where a spread of weapons had been laid out in surgical order.

Daggers, twin-bladed hooks, a short chain whip, and a sheathed curved knife he hadn't carried when they first met again.

He didn't look up.

"You're late."

Lindarion stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him.

"Late for what?"

"Late for your own questions."