Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

'It's the same rhythm.'

The thought refused to go away.

It echoed in the bones behind his skin.

He sat down at the long table and pulled his gloves off, laying them neatly beside a half-burned page. His fingers were steady. Too steady.

He hated that.

Because it meant he wasn't angry enough anymore.

It meant he was used to this.

Used to killing.

Used to finding nothing.

Used to being too late.

'Someone is staying ahead of me.'

And worse—

They weren't running.

They were waiting.

He leaned back, gaze rising toward the dome of shadow above.

Astral space bled through its cracks sometimes. He'd seen it. The way the stars bent just slightly, wrong angles carved into the sky. A reminder that some things watched without form.

But he didn't look away.

He was stronger now.

Faster. Sharper. Tempered.

But he was still one step behind.

And whoever was responsible for this—

They were about to find out what it meant to wake up a dragon and leave no address.

—

"You're pacing again."

The voice wasn't heard so much as felt. A low pulse along the base of Lindarion's spine, barely louder than a thought, but with a distinctly unimpressed cadence.

"I'm not pacing," Lindarion said aloud.

"Your foot's tapping."

He looked down.

It was.

A small, scaled shape uncurled from the top of one of the wall sconces, blackened gold tail twitching, claws retracting from the stone as it stretched like a cat who owned the building.

Ashwing dropped lightly onto the table.

His body, now barely the size of a forearm, glimmered with faint traces of molten red along his spine. His wings were folded tightly against his sides, tail curling into the inkwell before flicking lazily back out.

Lindarion watched him land without comment.

Ashwing cleaned one claw with disinterest.

"You're getting twitchy again," the dragon said through the bond.

"I'm focused."

"You're annoyed."

"Same thing."

Ashwing flicked his tongue. "You're also thinking too hard. Again."

"I just eliminated a trail I've been following for six weeks."

"And you're angry you didn't torture him for answers?"

Lindarion didn't reply.

Ashwing gave a low, mental hum.

"I liked you better when you used to talk before killing people."

"You didn't like me better. You just liked being bigger."

The dragon didn't deny it.

Instead, he leapt to the edge of the table and stared at the sealed scroll, his gaze unblinking.

"It pulses," Ashwing said. "Same frequency as the last one. Same wrongness."

"Can you sense where it leads?"

"Not yet. The seals hold too much of it in. You open it here, we risk contamination."

"I won't."

"Good," Ashwing said. "Because last time we did that, we woke up an entire nest of cursed mages who couldn't die."

"Correction," Lindarion murmured. "They couldn't die until I showed up."

Ashwing stretched again.

Then stilled.

"I dreamt again," he said.

Lindarion's hand paused mid-turn of a page.

"Same place?"

"Yes. Darkness. Endless sky. Chains in the wind."

Ashwing didn't elaborate.

He didn't need to.

Because Lindarion had dreamt it too.

'The rhythm's getting louder,' Lindarion thought. 'Closer.'

"You're not wrong," Ashwing said. "And if I'm dreaming it, someone else probably is too."

Lindarion's gaze shifted toward the scroll again.

Whatever was coming, whatever was hidden behind these fragments and ruins and false clues, it wasn't buried as deep as it once was.

Not anymore.

And this time—

He wouldn't be chasing it.

He'd be waiting for it.

—

Teleportation wasn't meant to feel comfortable.

At least not when it was done properly.

Astral magic was silent and clean, but only if the caster was as focused as the thread they were following. Lindarion didn't use it often for long distances. Too many variables. Too many ways to be wrong by inches.

But this time, everything had pointed to the same mark.

A mana pulse echoing through the western leyline junctions. A pattern buried in the decoded shards from the Valeport scroll. A tremor that didn't belong to natural formations.

So he followed it.

Threaded through the void.

And stepped out—

into stone, and silk, and wealth.

He blinked once.

The teleportation rift closed behind him with barely a whisper.

Ahead of him rose a high curtain of carved marble, embossed with the golden insignia of House Ravaryn, a crescent-moon blade over a lattice of lilies.

The air was clean. Sharp with roses, steel polish, and mana suppression wards humming gently behind the ivy-covered gates.

Ashwing's voice reached him instantly through the bond.

"This isn't a ruin."

"No," Lindarion replied aloud. "It isn't."

He stood on polished granite steps leading down into a symmetrical courtyard flanked by statues of falcons, towers capped in silver, and guards in mirrored armor patrolling without speaking. Too many of them.

None had seen him yet.

"Either you miscast," Ashwing muttered, "or someone's hiding their glyphs very well."

"I don't miscast."

"Then we're trespassing."

Lindarion moved toward the edge of the step. No alarm yet. No ripple of defensive magic. Whoever owned this estate wasn't watching the sky—or didn't think anything could reach them without an invitation.

Ashwing crawled out from Lindarion's collar and slithered down his arm silently, curling around his wrist like a living armband. His scales shimmered to match the color of Lindarion's coat.

"What is this place?" the dragon asked.

Lindarion scanned the walls.

"Duke Ravaryn's summer estate. Eastern border of Caldris."

"A duke?"

"Rich," Lindarion murmured. "Connected. But not magically inclined. Publicly."

Ashwing flicked his tongue.

"Then why does the air here taste like the vault in Solrendel?"

That stopped Lindarion.

He narrowed his eyes.

The breeze drifting from the main courtyard was soft, fragrant with crushed lilac and something… wrong. An undercurrent, faint, like the residue of purified mana that had passed through something it shouldn't have.

"They're hiding something."

"And we're in the middle of it."

At the far end of the courtyard, an ornate door opened.

A man stepped out.

He wore a sleeveless coat of blue velvet trimmed with gold, hair pulled into a sleek knot at the back of his neck, and a smile shaped like it had never quite reached his eyes. Two rings, one black, one emerald, gleamed against his right hand.

The man paused when he saw Lindarion.