Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

No one moved.

The chamber felt colder now.

Not magically.

Not atmospherically.

Politically.

Because in one motion—

Luneth had torn open a truth they'd been trying not to acknowledge.

This wasn't just a prince returning.

This was a center of gravity shifting.

Lindarion finally spoke.

His voice was quiet. Not soft.

Purposefully precise.

"None of this was planned."

"I know," Luneth said, without looking at him. "That's why it works."

Lindarion turned his gaze back to the council.

"I'm leaving Solrendel," he said. "We have more rune sites to investigate. More signs that something ancient is waking. I'll return when I have answers."

"You think we'll just let you vanish again?" Velarien asked.

"I think you'd rather have me disappear than disrupt your next policy review."

"Do not mock the council," Maeralyn snapped.

"I'm not," Lindarion said. "I'm reminding it that the longer you stay here, the more ground you lose."

Darethin took a single step forward.

"This is unprecedented."

"No," Luneth said sharply. "This is overdue."

Then, quietly, to Lindarion:

"Let's go."

He squeezed her hand once before releasing it.

Turned.

And walked out, Luneth at his side, Lira two steps behind.

The doors didn't slam shut.

But the silence they left behind was louder than steel.

—

They didn't go far.

Just to the western garden terrace, past the reach of overhearing ears, where the white stone path forked around a narrow pool lined with mana lilies. The wind here carried more chill than warmth, but Luneth didn't shiver.

She stood at the edge of the water, arms folded, watching the faint ripple from the lilies as they responded to her presence.

Lindarion sat on the edge of the fountain wall, elbows on his knees.

Neither spoke at first.

Then—

"I want you to stay at the academy," he said.

Luneth didn't look at him.

Her voice, when it came, was cold as ever, but there was something tucked behind it now. A question. A wound.

"You're leaving again."

"I have to."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

She turned to face him now, just enough.

Her eyes, always sharp, had dulled slightly. Not from weakness.

From restraint.

"I fought beside you," she said. "I bled beside you."

"I know."

"I faced things no one else saw. I didn't ask for permission."

"And I didn't ask for loyalty," he replied.

"No," she said. "You earned it anyway."

Lindarion looked down at the stone beneath his boots.

He wished it would crack, just a little. Just enough to match how this moment felt.

"I'm not ready to bring others into what's next," he said. "Not you. Not yet."

"You don't think I can handle it."

"I know you can. That's the problem."

A beat.

"You'd follow me anywhere."

Her jaw clenched.

"I would."

"And that would get you killed."

Silence again.

He stood slowly.

Stepped to her side.

"I don't want your death. I want your mind," he said. "Your power. Your clarity. There's no one else I trust to know the truth when it finally reaches the rest of the world. But for that, you need to stay sharp. Stay visible. Stay safe."

"I'm not fragile."

"You're important."

He said it like it was an order.

And she—

didn't argue.

Just looked down once.

Then back at him.

Her fingers brushed his hand.

Not a grasp.

Not a goodbye.

Just a moment of warmth, given without asking.

Then she let go.

"I'll stay," she said quietly.

"But if you don't come back…"

"I will."

She gave a small nod.

"Good."

Because otherwise, she didn't say—

she'd come looking for him again.

—

The royal solar was quiet when Lindarion entered.

No guards posted. No aides shuffling papers. Just the tall windows open to let in the wind, and the faint rustle of golden silk where Queen Melion stood beside the window, hands clasped.

She turned before he could announce himself.

Her eyes were red again.

Not from weeping this time.

From knowing she couldn't.

"You're leaving," she said.

He nodded once.

She crossed the room, slow but without pause, and stopped just before him.

"You won't write."

"No."

"You won't be traced."

"No."

"And you'll be hunted. Again."

He said nothing.

She stepped closer.

And embraced him.

No ceremony.

No pose.

Just mother to son.

Her voice broke against his shoulder. "I wanted to protect you."

"You did."

"No. I wanted to keep you small. Safe. Somewhere I could always reach you."

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

"You raised me to stand alone."

Her smile was sad, but real. "I didn't think you'd do it so well."

He turned as a new set of footsteps entered.

Eldrin.

The King.

No robe. No blade. Just presence.

His eyes scanned Lindarion quickly. Not for injury.

For conviction.

"You could stay."

"I know."

"You could have guards. Authority. Room to operate with full support."

Lindarion shook his head. "I need to do this without the council. Without interference."

Eldrin's expression didn't change.

But the muscles around his jaw flexed once.

Then—

He reached into his coat.

Pulled out a crest. Dark steel, shaped like a broken sun with a single sapphire inset.

He offered it wordlessly.

Lindarion took it.

"The last time that mark was carried," Eldrin said, "the bearer leveled a city to save a child."

Lindarion looked down at it.

"Was it worth it?"

"No one asks that part," his father said.

Then—

He stepped forward.

Placed one hand on his son's shoulder.

And squeezed once.

Not a command.

A farewell.

No throne stood between them now.

Just fire.

And blood.

And legacy.

Lindarion stepped back.

His mother didn't speak again.

She just held his hand for a second longer than she should have.

Then let go.

—

The thief didn't know where the man had come from.

But he knew he was still behind him.

Footsteps, too quiet to track, too steady to outrun, ghosted the edge of every alley as the thief sprinted across the broken cobbles of south Valeport.

His breath came in ragged bursts. His lungs burned. His boots were soaked from cutting through drainage runs that reeked of old wine and piss.

He didn't care.

He just wanted to live.

Don't look back.

He risked it anyway.

Nothing.

Just the corner of a shuttered window swinging on rusted hinges. A shadow by the smithy wall. The faint glint of lamplight through mist.

No figure.

No pursuer.

Still—

He knew.

He ducked beneath a stone arch, half-collapsed and blackened with soot. The fire last month had taken most of the quarter. Good. He needed the ruin. Needed the gaps.

He vaulted over a fallen cart. Crashed into a broken doorframe. Rolled.

Came up hard against a narrow alley wall, chest heaving.

Still nothing behind him.

Gone. He's gone.

He leaned back, laughing, just a little. Just enough to taste it.

Then he heard it.

Not footsteps.

Not breathing.

Just—

A coat.

Fluttering.

Like someone had dropped out of the air.

He spun, dagger out.

"Who the fuck—?!"

But the figure wasn't there.

Until he was.

He dropped from above.

Straight down.

The cloak hit the cobblestone before the boots did.

And then—

A hand closed around the thief's throat.

Not hard.

Just final.

The dagger slipped from his hand before he could think to use it.

And now—

He saw him.

A hood. Dark. Unmoving.

Gloved hands. Silver thread woven into the cuffs.

A cloak too clean for this alley, too quiet for this world.

The thief gasped, tried to squirm, couldn't move.

The grip tightened—only slightly.

Enough to say: don't bother.

Then the figure spoke.

The voice was low. Smooth. Young.

But it didn't feel young.

It felt—

old.

"I warned you once," the voice said.

The thief whimpered. "I didn't—wasn't me, I just—I just took the—"

"You stole a page from the ruins near Dyrmire."

"I didn't know what it was!"

"You did," the voice said. "You sold it to a broker in Eastmoor."

"I didn't—"

The pressure returned.

Not choking.

Just presence.

"You ran."

The thief's legs buckled.

"I always run," he whispered.

The hooded man leaned closer.

"You should've stopped."

And with one smooth motion—

He let go.

The thief collapsed to the stone, coughing, gagging, reaching for the wall like it might forgive him.

The hooded figure didn't move.

He just stood there.

Watching.

The thief risked looking up.

"What… who are you?"

The man's hands reached up.

Pushed the hood back.

And the mist caught on cheekbones sharp as blades. Hair like spun gold fell loose to his shoulders. Pale, angular features, marred only by a thin scar across one brow. His eyes—

not just green.

Glowing.

Like wildfire behind glass.

The thief gasped.

"Y-you're—"

Lindarion Sunblade looked down at him.

"You don't get to say my name."

——End of Volume 2——