Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

No dramatics. No sneer. Just the name.

He smiled again, this one slower.

"Of course it's him. Couldn't stay away."

The tension in his shoulders eased a little as he straightened fully, brushing back his hair with one casual sweep. His fingertips lingered near the ring at the edge of his coat cuff. A subtle pulse answered him.

"Let's make sure he feels welcome."

He didn't go for an alarm.

Didn't call the guards.

Didn't need to.

Dythrael knew.

He always did.

And Maeven? He had his part to play.

—

He turned back once, just before rounding the next corridor.

Raised his hand to the wall beside him.

Mana crackled beneath his fingertips, barely audible. Not lightning. Not flame. Something older. Carved into the memory of the stone itself.

A hidden seal flared to life, just once. Then vanished.

Behind him, deep in the chamber, the restraints flared again.

Just long enough to snap Luneth off her feet.

She hit the floor hard.

Not enough to kill.

Just enough to break something.

He didn't hear her cry out.

But he knew it landed.

And that was enough.

"Don't worry," Maeven whispered, already walking away. "He'll be here soon."

And maybe, this time, someone would scream.

—

The cave mouth was quiet.

Too quiet.

Lindarion stepped down into the gully first, hand on the hilt of his blade, not drawn yet, but close enough.

Behind him, Sylric adjusted the sleeves of his coat and muttered, "Feels like a party no one invited us to."

Lindarion didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the ridge ahead, where the air shimmered faintly with residual mana. Not natural. Not elemental either. Something warped. Altered. Too clean in places. Too twisted in others.

'That's not a barrier. That's a warning.'

They stepped through it anyway.

And the moment they did, movement echoed from the deeper crevices of the stone. Not just footsteps. Not the scuffle of monsters. Full steps. Boots on gravel. Leather brushing against skin. The unmistakable clink of armor.

Figures emerged from the tunnels ahead.

Five at first.

Then ten.

Then more.

All of them wore what might've once been soldier's gear. Tattered, repurposed. Some had chestplates warped around mutated ribs. Others had bracers melted into their forearms like they'd fused there. They moved like trained fighters. Straight lines. Measured spacing.

But none of them were fully human anymore.

One had an arm that split into too many fingers. Another had a mask grown into his face. A third had white eyes that never blinked. Their skin shimmered faintly, like something beneath the surface didn't know whether it was muscle or magic.

And then the leader stepped forward.

She didn't look like the rest.

She was tall, taller than most elves Lindarion had ever seen. Her skin was pale, not like bone, but like marble under moonlight.

Smooth, glossy, untouched by blood. Wings rose behind her back, broad and delicate, shaped like a butterfly's but laced with black veins that pulsed faintly with violet mana.

Her horns curled back from her head like polished obsidian, curving just enough to graze her collar. Her hair was deep green, almost black, falling in straight lines over her shoulders.

She wore no armor.

Just a robe. Simple. Black. Open at the sides, with strands of runed thread trailing like broken silk from the sleeves.

And her eyes—

Violet. Clear. Focused.

No madness. No bloodlust.

Just authority.

She stopped ten paces ahead of the line.

Smiled faintly.

"Prince Lindarion of Eldorath," she said, voice smooth. "I was told you'd come."

Sylric let out a slow breath beside him. "I don't like that sentence."

Lindarion didn't blink. "You were told by who?"

"By the one who's been waiting."

He didn't respond.

She didn't expect him to.

"I am Velistra. First Brood of the Chrysalis Choir. Warden of the Sixth Convergence. Keeper of the Forgotten Bloom."

She tilted her head slightly, like she was reciting something she didn't particularly enjoy but knew was necessary.

"You can call me Velistra."

Lindarion's grip tightened slightly.

'Sixth Convergence. That's a title. Not a name. Whatever this is—it's bigger than just her.'

He studied her.

She didn't smell like blood. Didn't reek of sulfur or corruption like the others. If anything, the air around her was… clean. Sterile.

Which was worse.

It meant she didn't rot.

She grew.

"You're the one giving orders here?" he asked.

She smiled again, wider now, but not kind. "I speak for the choir. Until Dythrael chooses to speak himself."

Sylric raised an eyebrow. "The 'choir' talks now?"

"They've always spoken," Velistra said. "You just didn't know how to listen."

Lindarion ignored her tone.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Velistra blinked slowly.

"Want? I don't want anything, elf. You're the one who came running after a girl who doesn't belong to you."

Lindarion didn't flinch.

But his shoulders went still.

'So they have her.'

Sylric's eyes narrowed. "Where is she?"

Velistra looked at him like she was bored. "Alive. Useful. But not yours to take."

A few of the mutants behind her chuckled low.

Lindarion didn't move. But fire sparked across his palm.

Just a little.

Enough to change the air.

Velistra's gaze snapped back to him. "Careful, princeling. You'll wake more than ash if you start a fire here."

Lindarion's voice was quiet. "Try me."

The line of mutants raised their weapons.

Blades. Spears. Even one with a chain coiled around his arm like a snake waiting to strike.

Sylric sighed. "You really want to pick a fight now?"

"I want Luneth back."

"And you think this is the way to get her?"

"It's the only way left."

Velistra raised a hand, and the mutants stopped.

She studied him again.

Not like prey.

More like a scholar evaluating a broken rune.

"You're stronger than you were four years ago," she said. "Still not enough."

"Maybe not," Lindarion said. "But you'll bleed first."

Velistra exhaled through her nose.

Then turned.

"Follow, if you want to die faster."

She walked back into the tunnel.

No one stopped them.

No one needed to.

Because both sides knew the same thing:

This wasn't the end of the fight.

It was just the breath before it began.