Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Minutes passed, maybe hours. He couldn't tell.

When he opened his eyes again, Nysha was slumped beside him, back against the wall, her chest rising and falling with exhaustion. Her hands still glowed faintly, shadows weaving weakly across his wounds.

She noticed his gaze, but didn't meet it. Her voice was low.

"Do you even know what you did to yourself?"

He swallowed, throat raw. "…Won."

Her head snapped toward him, crimson eyes wide with fury.

"You didn't win!" she shouted, the sound echoing harshly in the chamber. "You barely even stood! If this had been the Sword Saint, you'd already be dead. And not even cleanly. He'd have cut you to pieces while the void dragged what was left of you screaming into nothing!"

Her voice broke, trembling.

"And I'd have to watch."

The weight of that hung heavier than any wound.

Lindarion didn't answer. Not because he agreed, but because he couldn't shape the words around the burning in his chest.

—

Ashwing climbed higher onto him, curling around his neck now, nuzzling against his jaw with something that might almost have been tenderness.

Nysha rubbed her sleeve roughly across her face before glaring down at him again.

"You don't understand, do you? You humans—" she bit the word off, sharp, then exhaled through her nose. "You treat power like a ladder. Climb until you fall. But here… here it's different. The shadows don't give. They take. Always. And you're feeding yourself to them piece by piece."

His cracked lips curved faintly.

"Then I'll feed them everything. As long as the last piece is enough to take him down."

Her hand twitched, as though she wanted to hit him again. Instead, she pressed her palm flat against his chest, shadows flowing more gently this time.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter.

"Then I'll make sure you don't burn away before you get there. Even if I have to drag you back from the void myself."

—

The room blurred again. His body was too far gone to hold consciousness much longer.

As he slipped under, he caught fragments: Nysha muttering curses under her breath, her hand steady over his heart. Ashwing's low rumble, more comfort than fury now. The faint, hungry hum of Zerathis, lying discarded just out of reach, its black metal drinking the dim light.

He hated sleeping. Sleep meant weakness. But this time, he let it take him.

Not because he wanted to rest, but because in the darkness between moments, he thought he felt the faintest pull of shadow. Not the void, not the whispers, but something else. A thread of potential.

And for the first time, he wondered if Nysha had been right.

—

When his breathing finally evened, Nysha sagged back fully against the wall, her whole body trembling.

She stared at him for a long while. His chest rising and falling. His blood smeared across her arms. His face pale, lips cracked, yet still set in that same stubborn expression even in sleep.

A laugh tore out of her, bitter, exhausted, halfway to tears.

"You really are insane."

Ashwing's golden eyes met hers. The little dragon blinked slowly, then lowered its head against Lindarion's shoulder, as though agreeing.

Nysha dragged a hand through her hair, then across her face.

She should leave. She should walk away now, before his madness dragged her deeper into danger she hadn't asked for.

But she didn't move.

Instead, she shifted closer, checking his wounds again, coaxing more shadows into sealing them shut.

"Idiot," she whispered, softer this time.

Her crimson eyes lingered on his face until exhaustion claimed her too.

—

Far above the chamber, unnoticed by either of them, the faint ripple of shadow mana drifted outward. It spread like ink in water, crawling through the cracks of the underground and seeping into the night air above.

Somewhere across the continent, eyes sharper than any human's turned toward that pulse.

The Sword Saint stirred from meditation, his hand drifting to his blade.

"Again…" he murmured.

The shadow of a smile touched his lips.

"So, you crawl back to me after all."

—

Lindarion woke to the sound of dripping water.

A steady rhythm, drop after drop, echoing faintly against stone. For a few seconds, he didn't move, eyes half-open, caught between waking and the heaviness that still dragged at his limbs.

The underground chamber was dim, lit only by pale blue stones set into the walls. Their glow was weak, throwing long, wavering shadows across the uneven rock. The air was cool and damp, with the faint metallic tang of earth.

And someone was watching him.

His eyes slid sideways.

Nysha sat nearby, cross-legged, arms folded. Her crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dark, fixed squarely on him. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The weight of her stare was enough to pin him to the cot of rough cloth and straw he'd been laid on.

Ashwing was draped across his chest in lizard form, tail curled under his chin, golden eyes opening slowly as Lindarion stirred. The dragon gave a soft hiss, a low vibration that sounded almost approving, before resettling itself.

Lindarion shifted, tried to sit up. His muscles screamed instantly, every tendon aflame, as though the shadows themselves still gnawed at him. He managed half the motion before Nysha's voice cut the air.

"Don't."

It wasn't a suggestion.

He froze, breath ragged. Her tone carried the kind of finality that dared him to argue.

His lips curled faintly. "Didn't know… I needed your permission to move."

Her head tilted slightly. "If you keep acting like an idiot, you'll die before you can even lift that sword again. So yes, you do."

—

He let his head fall back against the cot, staring at the uneven ceiling.

"You talk a lot for someone who dragged me out instead of leaving me there."

Her crimson eyes narrowed. "Don't flatter yourself. I only saved you because watching someone tear themselves apart with shadows is… unpleasant."

He smirked faintly, though it twisted into a grimace of pain. "Unpleasant. Right."

Her expression didn't shift. She didn't rise to the bait. That annoyed him more than if she'd shouted.

Instead, she unfolded her arms and leaned forward, her voice low but sharp as a blade.

"You want to fight the Sword Saint again, don't you?"

His silence was answer enough.

"Then you'll listen to me," she continued. "You'll stop throwing yourself into shadow like it's a weapon you can just swing until it breaks. Because it won't break. You will."

His jaw tightened. "And what, you'll teach me? Is that it?"

"Yes," she said flatly. "Because if I don't, you'll die. And for some reason, that bothers me."