Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

She glanced sideways at the youngest maid, who clutched her apron like it might shield her from what waited beyond the walls.

"Don't look so pale, Enara," Melion murmured.

"I'm not," the girl lied.

'She's shaking. Too young for this.'

The captain walking ahead, tall, bronze-haired, shield slung tight to his back, didn't speak. Didn't look back. Just kept walking, fast but measured.

Where, exactly, they were leading her, she hadn't asked.

Didn't need to.

She wasn't stupid.

They were evacuating her.

Not officially, of course. No one had said those words. Not with her rank. But she could hear it in how quiet the halls had gone. How fast they moved without sprinting. How the guards never let her out of arm's reach.

And how Eldrin hadn't come back down.

Not since flying skyward with a sword of flame in his hands.

'Idiot. Always the idiot when it mattered.'

She walked faster.

The corridor ended at an older wing. Fewer windows. Fewer tapestries. This part of the estate had been built before she was born, probably before Eldrin, too.

The maidens looked nervous just stepping through it.

But the guards didn't slow.

They reached a vaulted door lined with reinforced bracings. No crest on the arch. Just steel. And two more guards waiting, neither spoke, but one reached for the door latch the second they saw her.

"Queen Melion," one of the handmaidens began behind her, voice tight. "Should we—"

"No," Melion said. "You stay."

"We're under orders to escort—"

"And I'm giving new ones."

She turned.

Met both girls' eyes.

They looked like they might argue, but the weight in her voice was enough. They stopped talking.

She nodded toward the guards. "Get them out of here. Back down the west corridor."

The bronze-haired captain hesitated. Then nodded once. "Yes, my Queen."

The two maids were ushered back the way they came.

The sound of their retreating footsteps echoed too loud.

'Eldrin better not be dead. If he dies before I slap him for this, I'm going to find a way to drag him back.'

She turned back to the door.

The latch clicked.

The metal hinges creaked.

And the guards pushed it open.

A sudden pulse of air swept across her skin. Not wind. Mana pressure, distant but present. Like someone flexing fingers too far away to touch but close enough to feel.

The chamber inside was dark.

Vaulted ceiling. Storage crates. Old war banners folded across the walls. A sealed passage at the far end, rarely used, rarely opened. Just in case.

They were bringing her here because it was one of the few places no one ever looked.

The moment she stepped through the door—

The temperature shifted.

It wasn't cold.

But the light itself dimmed. Not because of clouds. Not because of failing flame.

It just dimmed.

She felt her spine stiffen.

One of the guards whispered, "What was that—"

And then he was there.

Not walking.

Not entering.

Just suddenly standing in the middle of the chamber like he'd always been there.

Like space had forgotten it was empty.

Tall. Unnatural.

Dark hair swept back, skin like moonstone, not sickly, but unliving. The presence hit her like a memory from someone else's nightmare.

Worse still, she knew without being told.

This was no mage.

Not a man.

Not even elf or fae.

Something older.

Melion's hands twitched at her sides.

The guards stepped forward instantly, shields rising.

He didn't even lift a hand.

He just looked at her.

Expression flat.

Eyes dark. Not black. Not red. Just… nothing.

Then he spoke.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

But like someone pulling back the corner of a shroud.

"Queen Melion Sunblade," he said. "You're coming with me."

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Her voice, when it came, was steady. Cold. "You think I'll just walk?"

"No," he said simply. "But I don't care."

Then he raised one finger.

And every candle in the room blinked out at once.

—

Darkness swallowed the room like a tide.

Not slow. Not creeping.

It was just there — complete. Sudden. This version is sourced from MV3L3MPYR.

The air felt thin. Too still. Like the walls themselves had forgotten how to echo.

Melion didn't panic.

She'd been raised better than that. Trained longer than that.

But her hands moved to her sides, not to cast, not to posture, just to feel the familiar weight of the thin-bladed daggers hidden in the pleats of her formal robes. Old habit. Not for battle. For assassination defense. Royal life was never quiet.

'Why is it so quiet now?'

Then it came, not a sound. A snap.

Not the crack of bone.

Just… pressure breaking.

One of the guards to her left made a low noise, barely a grunt, and the sound was cut off as his body folded in on itself, like something had gripped his armor and compressed it in a single breath.

Steel shrieked.

The man's shield dropped. Then his body. Both hit the floor with a sound that didn't match their weight.

Melion didn't speak.

Didn't look away.

'That wasn't fire. That wasn't force. That was space.'

The other two guards shouted, stepping forward with their blades raised, not out of hope, just duty.

He didn't move.

Didn't twitch.

Didn't even gesture.

The ground underneath one of the guards inverted.

No noise.

No warning.

It was just there, one moment the man stood tall, and the next his torso bent backward in a way no living body should. His blade clattered before his mouth even opened to scream.

He never got the chance.

The third lunged.

Didn't hesitate.

His sword arced toward the man's neck, clean and practiced, the kind of strike that should've killed, should've done something.

It never landed.

It never even got close.

The space between them folded.

Folded.

And the man reappeared on the far side of the chamber, still holding the blade, still breathing, but gasping like he'd just been drowned and dropped into his own skin. He staggered sideways, eyes wide.

Melion met his gaze across the room.

She could see it there, no understanding. Just panic. He had no idea what had happened to him. No idea why he was still alive.

No idea how much longer that would last.

"Don't," she said sharply. "Back away—"

Too late.

The man tried to run.

A shadow fell across his chest, not from the ceiling, not from a light.

From nothing.