Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

They dropped mid-lunge. Mid-scream. Mid-crawl.

One hit the side of a broken cart and shattered like glass.

Ashwing sat down, blinked twice, and sneezed like the moment had gotten too intense for him.

Ren wiped blood from her chin and leaned on her sword. "So. Uh. Lira?"

Lira didn't turn.

Didn't speak.

She just stood there, breathing slow, as the last of the darkness curled back under her skin.

Lindarion exhaled.

Long.

Carefully.

His limbs were trembling now. The divine affinity in him simmered down, leaving his veins feeling like overcooked wires.

'…Remind me to never ask what Tirnaeth trains their kids with. It's probably not schoolwork.'

Ardan stepped out of the smoke, blood on his knuckles, face unreadable. He didn't say a word. Just stared at the empty space where the mage had been.

Meren emerged from behind a splintered wagon and said what everyone else was probably thinking.

"…Did she just unmake a person?"

Ashwing yawned like yes, obviously, and curled up next to Lindarion's boots.

Lira finally turned back toward the group.

Not smiling.

Not tired.

Just done.

She walked past the steaming pit where the mage had been. Past the corpse pile. Past the broken circle of frost and runes.

Right to Lindarion.

She stopped.

Met his eyes.

Then said, voice quiet and clean, "You shouldn't have used your divine affinity."

He blinked.

"You shouldn't have exploded a mage."

"Fair."

She turned and walked off without another word.

Lindarion watched her go, every part of him aching.

Then muttered, "…Definitely need a nap."

And maybe a therapist.

Probably both.

—

The smoke didn't rise anymore.

It hung.

Heavy. Flat. Like the sky was too tired to carry it.

The village had stopped screaming. Which was a blessing. And a problem.

Lindarion stood near what used to be the fountain. Now just stone and memory. Ash clung to his coat like a second skin, the divine fire long gone, but something still buzzing faint behind his ribs. He didn't want to name it. Naming made it real.

Ashwing sat beside him, tail twitching, gaze pinned toward the edge of the woods where monsters had fled, what was left of them. Smoke curled from his nostrils in little annoyed puffs. He hadn't made a noise in ten minutes.

'Probably wondering why the world still exists.'

Lindarion knew the feeling.

Boots crunched behind him. Not fast. Not urgent. Just tired.

Raleth.

He looked worse than before, more blood, more bruises, less pride, but he was still upright, which made him one of the lucky ones. His coat was torn near the collar. His blade had a crack near the hilt.

Lindarion didn't turn.

Raleth didn't force it.

They just stood there.

Two people in the middle of something that looked like victory if you squinted and ignored the corpses.

"…Sixteen dead," Raleth said eventually. Voice low. Flat.

'Could've been more,' Lindarion thought. 'Should've been.'

"Another twelve wounded bad. Two missing. Probably…" He didn't finish.

Lindarion watched the wind fail to move the broken flags. The air smelled like burned iron and wet stone. He'd stopped smelling the rot an hour ago. That scared him more than the monsters.

"I'm sorry," Raleth said after a while.

Lindarion blinked.

"Why?"

"You're a prince. Should've had better than this."

Lindarion snorted. Just once. No humor in it.

"I'm eleven. I think I'm required to have terrible field trips."

Raleth gave a low, dry laugh. Then rubbed a hand over his jaw. The man looked older than he had yesterday. Maybe ten years older.

Behind them, the square was quiet, except for the groaning timbers of a collapsed stable. Someone was trying to salvage planks. Two villagers passed carrying what looked like a body wrapped in wool.

Lindarion's throat tightened.

He didn't say anything.

He couldn't.

Ren sat on a barrel nearby, one leg wrapped in blood-soaked cloth, chewing on something that might've once been jerky. Lira stood near the edge of the well, silent, arms crossed. Ash still clung to the folds of her cloak, like even darkness had limits tonight.

Meren was on the inn porch, sitting next to Ardan, who looked like he'd aged into stone. Neither of them were speaking.

Most of the soldiers were gone. The rest were helping dig.

Lindarion finally spoke again. Quiet. Like he didn't want the village to hear it.

"Was it worth it?"

Raleth didn't ask what he meant.

He just sighed.

"The children are alive. Most of the families. We pushed back something we didn't understand." His gaze stayed fixed on the trees. "For now, yeah. It was."

Lindarion's hand drifted toward the inside of his coat. The divine magic was gone. But his skin still tingled. As if the world was watching now.

Waiting.

He looked at the broken road. The cracked homes. The dark forest beyond.

"…This isn't over."

"No," Raleth said. "It never is."

The wind finally picked up again. Just a little. It caught the edge of the ash, scattered it across the ruined stones like gray snow.

Lindarion didn't flinch.

He just whispered under his breath.

"…I'm going to fix this."

Ashwing looked up.

And for once, didn't sneeze.

—

The air hadn't warmed.

If anything, it felt colder. Not the sharp kind that cuts. The dull kind that settles into your bones and tells them to stop trying.

Lindarion didn't follow Raleth.

Didn't speak to anyone.

He just walked.

Past broken walls and shattered windows. Past ash piles and burned timbers. Past places that still smelled like life and places that didn't smell like anything at all anymore.

Ashwing trailed behind him.

No hops. No chirps. Just slow, even steps, tail dragging through soot.

They reached the northern corner of the square where someone had stacked the bodies. Not a pile. A line. Wrapped in blankets. Covered in cloth. Some burned. Some clean.

Too many.

Lindarion didn't stop.

Not until he saw them.

A group of soldiers. Not ones he knew. Villager militia. Leather armor, no insignia. Dirty and raw from hours of fighting. They moved like men who didn't want to be noticed by the gods.