Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

"You are meant to endure," she whispered. "Nothing more. Nothing less. To endure until the roots that strangle this world are cut away. Whether by your hand… or by the hand of another."

Ashwing's claws dug into his shoulder, and the little dragon whispered in his mind, uneasy. 'I don't like that answer. It sounds like she's saying you're… disposable'.

Lindarion's gaze sharpened, meeting Elyndra's unblinking eyes. "…I won't be anyone's sacrifice. Not yours. Not the Tree's. Not the world's."

The girl's faint smile returned, tinged with sadness. "Then prove it."

The chamber trembled faintly, the orb flaring brighter once again. Roots shifted in the walls, coiling like serpents as if reacting to her words.

"Your path has already begun, Lindarion Sunblade," Elyndra said softly. "But the world will not wait for you to choose. When it calls, you will answer, whether you wish to or not."

Her eyes glowed brighter now, her voice resonant like leaves whispering through endless forests.

"And when that moment comes, you will remember me. You will remember that I was the first to see both halves of you… and not turn away."

The golden light dimmed, softening around them as though the Tree itself wished to listen. Lindarion stood still, shoulders squared, refusing to yield to the weight pressing against him.

Elyndra's gaze, steady and ancient, lingered on him as though she were studying not just the man, but the pieces of fate clinging to his frame.

"You want answers," she said at last, her tone like wind whispering through boughs. "Then let me give you what little I am permitted."

Ashwing leaned forward on Lindarion's shoulder, eyes wide, tail curling tight around his neck. 'Permitted? By who?'

Elyndra walked to the far side of the chamber. With a touch of her fingers, the wall of roots shifted, weaving themselves into shapes, carvings, glowing faintly with living light.

Lindarion's breath caught. They weren't random. They were stories.

Figures half-human, half-dragon, etched into the root's flesh as though the tree itself remembered them. Men and women crowned with scales, wings unfurling behind their backs, eyes glowing like molten gold.

"The Dracyn," Elyndra said softly, brushing her hand across the carvings. "The first children of the dragons and the elves. Born when the world was young, when flame and forest still lived as one. Stronger than either parent, blessed with long lives, and bound to mana like breathing itself."

Her voice grew quiet, almost mournful. "They built sanctuaries beneath the roots. Cities of stone and song. They believed they were eternal."

Lindarion studied the carvings, his silver-gold eyes narrowing. "What happened to them?"

Elyndra's fingers stilled against the wall. She turned slightly, her expression unreadable. "They were hunted. Betrayed. Broken."

The roots shifted again, twisting to show a different image. Shadows, weapons raised, fire engulfing cities. Dracyn figures falling, their wings torn, their bodies crumbling into ash.

"By who?" Lindarion demanded, though part of him already knew.

Elyndra's voice dropped to a whisper. "By those who feared them. By those who wished to control what they could not. By those who chose to erase their memory from history itself."

Ashwing's voice cracked into Lindarion's thoughts, trembling. 'That's… horrible. Lin, do you think—do you think they're all gone?'

Lindarion's jaw tightened. His chest burned with a strange ache, like anger not his own. "…No. Not all of them."

Elyndra turned then, her green eyes piercing, her presence suddenly heavier. "You feel it, don't you? The resonance in your blood. The fragments do not lie."

For a heartbeat, Lindarion couldn't breathe.

He had told no one. Not Nysha, not the humans, not even Ashwing, not the full truth. But Elyndra had named it effortlessly, peeling back layers he had fought to keep hidden.

His voice came out colder than he intended. "So you see me as one of them?"

Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "No. I see you as something born of both past and present. You are not Dracyn, not elf, not dragon. But the Tree chose to show you their memories for a reason. Perhaps because you carry the last echoes of what they were."

The carvings glowed brighter behind her, the figures of the Dracyn seeming almost alive.

"Remember this," she said, stepping closer. "What was erased is not always gone. Some truths linger in the roots, waiting to rise again."

Ashwing whispered in Lindarion's mind, soft but certain. 'Lin… maybe that's why you feel so different. Maybe it's because you're connected to them somehow.'

Lindarion stayed silent, his thoughts a storm.

He had come seeking sanctuary for mortals, answers about his father, clarity about his enemies. But the World Tree was giving him something far heavier: a piece of history buried deep enough to shape his very blood.

And Elyndra, this strange girl bound to the Tree, stood before him as though she had been waiting centuries just to tell him.

The chamber grew still. The golden light no longer felt gentle, it pulsed, alive, as though the Tree itself leaned in to listen.

Elyndra stepped closer to Lindarion, her bare feet leaving faint ripples of light along the roots beneath them. She studied him, the weight of ages in her green eyes.

"You've carried more than most mortals ever should," she said softly. "Bloodlines, burdens, destinies tangled together. You've shouldered despair and yet chosen to rise again. Even so…" She paused, her voice deepening with quiet certainty. "It is not enough."

Lindarion's grip on his sword tightened. "Not enough?"

Her gaze pierced him, calm and unyielding. "Not enough to face what's coming. Not enough to cut through shadows old as the roots of this world. Your enemies are not only Maeven or his master. Dythrael is but one hand reaching for dominion. There are others, older, patient, waiting for the walls to fall."

The words hit like stone. His jaw clenched, but he did not look away. "Then tell me plainly. What are you saying?"

Elyndra raised her hand. Golden light gathered in her palm, a flame that burned without heat. It flickered and swirled, threads of mana weaving themselves into shapes that whispered with power.

"I will bestow strength upon you," she said. "The Tree has chosen you. I cannot ignore its will, nor the resonance I feel in your veins. You are not Dracyn, but you carry enough within you to awaken what lies dormant. If you accept it, I will bind you deeper to this world's lifeblood."