Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Sylric didn't move right away. He just stood there, staring across the gap like he was trying to figure out if Lindarion was real or just a hallucination brought on by blood loss and sleep deprivation.

Then he swallowed whatever was in his mouth and said, "Well. You're taller."

Lindarion exhaled once through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

"Four years," Sylric added, walking closer now. "No letter. No update. Not even a sarcastic dream message. I thought you were dead."

"You yelled it loud enough when I wasn't."

Sylric gave a short, bitter grin. "Yeah, well, you looked dead."

Lindarion's hand twitched toward another cot, but the patient there was already being treated by a healer. So he let it fall.

Ashwing sniffed the air and muttered, "This is going to be one of those emotional reunion things, isn't it?"

'Keep talking and I'll let him hug me just to spite you.'

Sylric reached him, arms folded now. "What happened to you?"

Lindarion didn't answer right away. He scanned the tent behind Sylric, counting, checking faces, half expecting someone else to appear. Luneth wasn't there.

His chest tightened.

"She's gone," Sylric said quietly. "They took her."

Lindarion's head snapped back to him.

"Who?"

"I don't know." Sylric's voice had dropped lower now. "White-haired bastard. Smiled like he already knew what I'd do before I did it. I tried. I did. He was—fast."

That same pressure from earlier crept back into Lindarion's neck. Not the magical kind. The kind that came with failure.

'They got her. While I was here. Healing burns.'

Sylric watched him. "I thought you were dead. But when I saw him… I knew. Something felt off. He didn't care I was there. He just took her."

"Where?"

"No idea. He vanished before I could move."

Lindarion clenched his jaw. His hands flexed once, then stilled. The divine mana around his palm blinked out.

"How bad is the city?"

Sylric looked toward the smoke on the horizon. "You ever see a map torn in half? It's like that. And the part we're standing on's still burning."

Lindarion turned toward the trees. The firelight was low now, but it flickered enough to show how deep the damage went.

And Luneth was gone.

"I need to move," he said.

Sylric stepped beside him. "Where?"

"Back in."

Sylric didn't argue. "Then I'm coming."

Lindarion gave him a glance. "You're still limping."

"Good thing I don't need both legs to yell at you."

Ashwing muttered something about old people and martyr complexes, but Lindarion didn't hear it clearly.

He was already moving again.

—

They didn't waste time.

The edges of the forest still crackled with burnt wood. Most of the soldiers had moved back to reinforce the fallback line. Only a few lingered at the treeline, nervous, tired, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. No one stopped Lindarion as he passed. No one dared.

Sylric fell into step beside him, breathing harder than he used to. "You still using that crazy lightning technique?"

"When needed."

"And the fire affinity?"

"I have more..."

Sylric raised a brow. "More?"

"Void. Blood. Astral. Divine. Time. Darkness. Ice. Water. Lightning. Fire."

Sylric tripped over his own feet.

"I'm sorry—what?"

Lindarion didn't stop walking.

Ashwing chimed in. "He's a magical abomination. Get used to it."

They reached the edge of the ruins. Smoke curled through shattered pillars, and the stone streets were stained dark in long streaks, blood, ash, and something else. Something that shimmered faintly under moonlight.

Lindarion slowed. His hand lifted. Not for mana. Just to listen.

A breath.

Then—

Movement.

From the alley to the left, two figures stumbled out. Not soldiers. Not citizens.

Mutants.

Twisted, half-human things with skin stretched over protruding cores, bone-plated arms, and glowing veins that pulsed like they were pumping liquid fire.

One of them saw them.

It hissed.

The other lunged.

Lindarion's fingers twitched.

No fire this time.

Just lightning.

A single bolt lanced from his hand to the creature's chest.

It spasmed mid-air and slammed backward into the wall with a wet crack.

Sylric pulled a small dagger from his belt and waited, but the second mutant didn't move.

It stared at Lindarion, tilted its head, like it almost recognized him.

Then it ran.

Back into the ruins.

Sylric didn't chase. "That wasn't a scout."

"No," Lindarion said quietly. "It was a messenger."

"Think it's going to tell your new fan club you're back?"

"I hope so."

They moved again.

—

The courtyard was half-buried in rubble now. The place where he'd first fought Maeven. Where Dythrael had appeared. Where the seal had broken.

Lindarion stepped carefully over a shattered arch and knelt beside the old impact crater where he'd landed earlier.

Ashwing curled around his arm.

Sylric looked around. "You still think we're getting her back?"

"I don't think," Lindarion said. "I'm going to."

Sylric didn't argue. He just crouched beside a scorched mark in the stone. "There was a portal here."

"I know."

"But it's not active anymore."

"I know."

"So how the hell do you plan to follow them?"

Lindarion's hand hovered over the burn mark.

He didn't move it.

Didn't cast anything.

Just listened.

To the residue.

To the echoes.

And deep in the stone, something replied.

Faint. Old.

A rune fragment. Not fully erased.

Ashwing's voice tightened. "That's the same signature."

'Same as the Valeport site.'

Lindarion stood slowly.

He looked at Sylric.

"We're not tracking the person. We're tracking the seal system itself."

Sylric frowned. "That's not how portals work."

"It is now."

Because whoever these people were, whoever had taken Luneth, who had built the rune circle across the continent, they weren't using normal magic. They weren't even playing by the same rules anymore.

But he knew the feel of that echo now.

And he wouldn't lose her.

Not like this.

He stepped forward again.

Eyes narrowing.

Hands steady.

The pulse was faint, buried under mana debris and magical clutter. But it was there.

A thread.

And this time—

He would follow it.