Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Messengers sprinted between the council leaders, faces pale, shouting half-coherent reports:

"The north gate—breached!"

"Supplies burning—!"

"They're in the barracks—!"

Everywhere at once, the mutants struck. The defenders were outnumbered five to one, and for every creature cut down, two more seemed to claw out of the darkness.

And somewhere beyond the chaos, unseen yet felt, pulsed a greater presence. A rhythm of corruption, like a heartbeat too vast to belong to any single creature. Something was guiding them. Something was watching.

—

At last, Faylen's voice broke through the chaos:

"We cannot hold. We must retreat. Take who we can and fall back to the western ridges. If we delay longer, we lose everyone."

"You would doom the rest," Thariel spat.

"I would save those we can."

The council fractured further, half shouting to hold, half screaming to flee. In the end, their words meant nothing.

Because the walls were falling.

Because the camp was already lost.

And because, whether they admitted it or not, every one of them knew—

Lindarion was not here.

And without him, the tide was breaking.

—

Smoke rose like a second dawn.

The once-proud banners of the human coalition now burned in tatters across the shattered walls. The eastern palisade was gone, the barracks gutted, the supply tents reduced to smoldering ash. Screams had dwindled into silence, leaving only the crunch of mutant limbs dragging corpses into the night.

And through it all, the humans fled.

Not in columns, not in order, but in scattered bands, stumbling through firelit alleys as commanders barked hoarse orders. Those who survived the first breach now clutched what they could carry: half-empty quivers, bloodstained blades, wounded comrades dragged by one arm.

The camp was lost. The council knew it.

The soldiers knew it.

Even the air knew it.

—

Archmagister Ydrien staggered beside General Corthen as they led a column through the western gate, its hinges torn from the first strike. Ydrien's robes were scorched, her silver hair tangled with ash, her face smeared with sweat and blood. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion. She had burned through more mana in one night than in entire campaigns.

"Fall back to the ridges," Corthen barked, his voice ragged, eyes wild. His greatsword was chipped, caked in gore. "Get to the ridges!"

"No." Ydrien spat blood, clutching her side where a claw had raked her flesh. "The ridges are too open. They'll run us down before dawn. We need… underground. Somewhere to hide."

"You want to burrow like rats?" Corthen snarled.

"I want to survive," Ydrien snapped, her voice cutting sharper than his blade. "Unless you'd prefer to die here swinging for your pride while the last hope of men burns."

Before Corthen could answer, a messenger stumbled into them, armor cracked, face pale. "Magister! General! The north flank collapsed—they're everywhere. The—" He broke off, coughing blood, before collapsing dead at their feet.

Corthen's jaw tightened. He looked out over the camp one last time, his eyes blazing with fury, and shame. Then he spat into the dirt.

"Underground it is."

—

The retreat was chaos.

Not every soldier knew of the tunnels. They had been dug months before, meant as emergency storage for supplies, hidden caches for weapons and grain in case of siege. Narrow, damp, unlit, no one imagined the army itself would be forced to crawl into them like worms.

"Keep moving!" barked Thariel of Deyros, her armor cracked but her voice steady. She guided a line of wounded through a half-buried stairwell, her shield raised overhead as stones fell from the collapsing entry. "One at a time—hurry!"

Soldiers stumbled down, their faces hollow with shock. Some wept openly. Others clutched bloodied comrades too far gone to breathe. The tunnels swallowed them in silence, the stench of earth and damp pressing close.

Above, the sky burned red with fire.

Below, the whispers of defeat spread like disease.

—

Not all made it down.

General Corthen stood at the western breach with a line of Velrath soldiers, his greatsword flashing as mutants surged toward the stairwell. His armor was half shattered, his breath ragged, but his roar carried above the screams:

"HOLD! HOLD UNTIL THE LAST!"

The mutants came like water. One lunged, its jaws stretching unnaturally wide, and Corthen split it from skull to chest. Another clawed his leg, tearing metal and flesh, he swung back, severing its arm. Blood poured from his wounds, but he did not falter.

"GO!" he bellowed at the last soldiers vanishing down the stairs. "Tell them Corthen held the gate! Tell them—"

A mass of claws and tendrils struck him at once, dragging him to the ground. He vanished beneath them. His roar cut short.

The last defenders sealed the gate with rubble and flame, leaving his body behind.

The tunnels fell silent but for the echo of screams above.

—

The survivors gathered in the largest cavern, a hollowed chamber lit by sputtering torches. The council, what remained of it, stood in the center, their faces drawn and pale.

Lord Commander Faylen leaned on a staff, his once-pristine robes smeared with dirt. His voice carried, brittle and cutting:

"This is what comes of waiting. This is what comes of clinging to one man, to one myth, while the world burns. Now we sit beneath the earth, our armies broken, our supplies gone, while the enemy feasts on our dead above."

Ydrien's voice was hoarse, but her glare could still sear stone. "And what would you have done differently? Thrown your men against a tide that cannot be cut? Fled sooner, and lost even more to the open night? If Lindarion were here—"

"HE ISN'T!" Faylen's shout echoed through the cavern, silencing even the wounded groans. "He is gone. Whether dead or abandoned us, it matters not. He is not here. And we bleed for it."

Silence stretched. Faces turned toward him, some in agreement, some in quiet horror.

Lady Thariel slammed her shield into the ground. "Then we make do without him. We are not children waiting for a father's return. We are soldiers, lords, magisters. If the Sword Prince will not stand with us, then we stand ourselves."

Her words struck sparks, but few flames caught. Too many eyes stared at the dirt, hollow and empty.