Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The Lorienyan city was alive with whispers.

High above, bridges of living wood arched between ancient trees, their leaves glimmering faintly with woven runelight. The air carried the faint perfume of blossoms, the ever-present heartbeat of the World Tree somewhere deeper in the forest.

To the elves of this city, such peace was natural, eternal. To the humans huddled below, it was suffocating.

They had been given a clearing at the city's edge, a place where foreign guests might not offend the harmony of elven life.

Tents rose from soil rather than platforms from branches, and even here, warding glyphs glowed faintly in the roots, as if reminding the humans that their welcome was provisional at best.

Lindarion walked among them with deliberate calm. His boots pressed into loam, his shoulders straight despite the ache that never truly left his ribs. The humans looked up at him as he passed, some nodding, some ducking their heads in reverence, others clutching weapons as if they feared they might be cast out before dawn.

They were alive, yes, but they were not safe. Not yet.

"Prince," a voice rasped.

He turned to see Commander Harren approach from the firelight, face lined with exhaustion. Behind him came two others, a woman with streaks of ash still in her hair, and a younger man whose eyes had not yet dimmed despite the horrors they'd seen. All three bowed, though Harren's bow was stiff, the pride of a soldier refusing to break entirely.

"We wished a word," Harren said. His voice was low, cautious. "Before the council speaks its judgment."

Lindarion gestured for them to walk with him, leading them beyond the glow of the fires. Beneath the branches, moonlight sifted through in silver threads.

"What troubles you?" Lindarion asked.

The younger man spoke first, blurting out words like stones tumbling downhill. "They look at us as though we're… diseased. Like we've dragged filth into their perfect city."

The woman laid a hand on his shoulder, but her own eyes burned with the same fear. "If they turn us away, we can't survive another march. Not with what little we have left."

Harren's gaze was steady, hard as iron. "Be honest with us, Prince. Do they mean to grant us sanctuary, or are we to be cast back into the wilds?"

For a moment, Lindarion said nothing. He listened instead to the rustle of leaves, the distant trickle of a stream. The forest felt too alive, too untouched, as though the world above had not burned, had not drowned in blood.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low but sharp, carrying enough weight that even the leaves seemed to hush.

"I cannot promise you the hearts of elves," he said. "Many will see only mortals, fragile, transient, unworthy of their roots. But hear me well: if they deny you sanctuary, they deny me. And I will not be denied."

The younger man's breath caught. The woman blinked rapidly, as though trying to quell the sting of tears. Harren's jaw tightened, but slowly, he bowed his head.

"Then we'll trust in you," the commander said. "Even if the council will not."

They dispersed back to the fires, leaving Lindarion beneath the trees.

He let out a long breath, the weight pressing deeper now that the words had been spoken. They saw him as their anchor, their fire in the dark. If he faltered, they would break. And if the elves rejected them—

"Dangerous words."

Nysha's voice cut through the quiet. She stood at the treeline, crimson eyes faint in the gloom. Shadows coiled lazily around her fingers, like smoke refusing to rise.

"They needed truth," Lindarion said.

"They needed hope. And you gave them both." Her mouth twisted, half-smile, half-snarl. "You'll shatter yourself carrying them."

His gaze lingered on her. "Would you rather I abandon them?"

Nysha stepped closer, shadows trailing like a cloak. "I'd rather you live. Because unlike them, you are not replaceable."

Silence hung, thick as the night air. Her eyes searched his, but Lindarion turned away, unwilling to let her see the crack forming beneath his calm.

From within, a childish voice chirped across his thoughts. They'll listen to you, you know.

"Ashwing," Lindarion murmured in his mind.

'They have to listen,' the little dragon continued, his tone oddly stubborn. 'You're… you. And you don't lie. Not like other people do.'

A faint hum, not of scolding but of comfort, rippled beneath those words. Lindarion almost smiled.

"You think too highly of me," he thought back.

'Nope. I think just right.' Ashwing's mental voice was a little smug. 'Besides, if they don't listen, we'll burn their trees, yeah?'

Lindarion snorted softly, shaking his head. "Not tonight."

The dragon huffed in his mind, but the warmth lingered, childish defiance pushing back against the heaviness.

And then another voice stirred, silk, not fire. Master.

Selene.

He had not called for her, yet she brushed faintly across his thoughts, her tone quiet as moonlight. 'Your heart strains beneath too many weights. Let me hold them for a while.'

"No," he thought firmly. "Rest."

'As you wish.' Her warmth receded, leaving only its echo behind. A reminder, not a presence.

He stood there for a long time, caught between Nysha's bitter honesty, Ashwing's childish faith, and Selene's quiet devotion. Each voice a tether. Each one pulling in a different direction.

Finally, he returned to the clearing. The humans had settled into uneasy rest, though few truly slept. Nysha remained at the edge, watching the tree-bound city with sharp eyes. Lindarion lay with his back to a root, sword across his knees, eyes half-lidded but never fully closed.

He dreamed of his father.

Not of Eldrin's laughter at a festival, nor the firm weight of his hand on his shoulder. He dreamed instead of shadows, Dythrael's mocking voice speaking of a maimed king, a crown broken, a legacy bleeding out in silence.

He woke with his hand clenched so tightly around the hilt that his knuckles burned.

Dawn had come. Light spilled through the canopy in golden ribbons, carrying with it the soft songs of Lorienyan birds. To the elves, it was the beginning of another tranquil day. To Lindarion, it was judgment.

Messengers in green and silver descended into the clearing. Their faces were calm, unreadable.

"The council summons you," one intoned.