Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

Not trust. Not safety. But peace.

Which was rare enough to feel weird.

Ashwing made a sleepy noise, rolled over, and used Lindarion's thigh as a pillow.

"Comfortable?" Lindarion muttered.

The dragon huffed like he paid rent and deserved more space.

He didn't move him.

Instead, he slid his pack out from under the bench, unlatched one of the smaller flaps, and pulled out the map Raleth had given him earlier. Folded tight. Edges worn like it had lived too many lives in someone's coat pocket.

He ran his fingers along the crease.

Still dry. Still intact.

No hidden curses, no illusions.

He flipped it open slowly. The parchment made a soft crinkle, loud in the quiet.

Lines. Marks. Elevation curves. Notes in faded ink. Most of it legible. Some of it wishful thinking.

He squinted.

Three days east. Two south. Then a river. Then a cliff he was pretty sure had been named something dramatic like "Veilbreaker Ridge," which felt like a bad omen even for this group.

A small red mark hovered near the edge.

Current location.

He tapped it once.

Lira stepped over from the far side. No words. Just looked down at the map like she'd already memorized it three weeks ago.

He pointed. "Trail forks here. Which do we take?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Her eyes flicked across the paper.

Then to the window.

Then back.

"That depends," she said finally. "On whether we want to be seen."

"We're bringing a dragon."

"He can wear a cloak."

Lindarion turned to Ashwing, who was snoring with his feet in the air and one eyelid twitching like he was in a fistfight with a dream.

"Sure. A cloak."

Lira crouched next to him. Not close. Just within the range of useful distance. "Raleth gave you this?"

"Yeah."

"Trustworthy?"

"He didn't try to stab me. That's basically a reference letter these days."

She nodded. "Fair."

He folded the map again. Slid it back into the pack.

Ashwing rolled over and landed halfway in Lindarion's lap. No dignity. Just pure, scaled entitlement.

Lira looked down at the dragon. "You've lost all authority."

"Did I have much here to begin with?"

She almost smiled.

Almost.

Ren slid over, chin resting on her arms. "Are we plotting again? I love plotting."

"No," Lindarion said.

"Yes," Lira said.

"Don't tell her that."

"She's already sitting."

"Still."

Ren beamed. "I knew it."

Ashwing blinked up at them.

Then yawned fire.

Not much.

Just enough to scorch a tiny circle into the bench.

Lindarion stared at it.

Then at Lira.

Then at the ceiling.

"Three more days," he said. "That's all we need to survive."

"You keep saying that," she said.

"It's a motivational chant."

"You're lying to yourself."

"Absolutely."

Ashwing sneezed and curled back into his usual lizard-lump shape.

Lira stood again.

"Get some sleep," she said. "Storm breaks by dawn."

Ren yawned like she was proving a point. "If the roof doesn't blow off first."

"If it does," Lira said, "you'll be the first to know."

She walked off without waiting for a response.

Ren gave Lindarion a slow, exaggerated thumbs up. "She's warming up to you."

"Fantastic," he said, picking up the fire-singed bench piece. "I'll invite her to the dragon's birthday party."

Ashwing made a pleased noise.

Of course he did.

—

The scroll appeared without fanfare. Which was already a problem.

Things that arrived in silence were rarely the kind of things you wanted.

Eldrin Sunblade looked down at the parchment on his desk like it had personally insulted his bloodline. The seal was official, burnt silver with the sigil of the inner court. Faint mana hum. Stable. Not tampered.

Still. He didn't reach for it right away.

The chamber was quiet. Always was. Not out of peace. Out of design. No servants allowed past the outer doors.

No aides unless summoned. Only the guards posted beyond the archways, and even they knew better than to breathe too loud.

This was his new thinking room.

The place where the kingdom was held in place with the weight of a single decision.

And today, apparently, that decision was going to be delivered via enchanted scroll like some overconfident scribe had forgotten who they were addressing.

Eldrin finally picked it up.

Broke the seal with one flick of his fingers.

Unfurled it.

Read it.

Then he didn't move for a full ten seconds.

The only sound was the soft rustle of distant wind against stained glass.

"Alive," he said aloud. Just once. Testing the shape of the word in his mouth.

The scroll said more than that. Safe. Traveling. Accompanied. One dragon. Minor property damage.

'Of course, you're my son after all…'

But the only word that mattered had been the first.

He leaned back in his chair. Not slouching. Just… shifting. The way mountains did when they thought no one was watching.

His eyes skimmed the last few lines again.

No pursuit. No injuries. Unstable traveling companions. Expected.

And a dragon.

'Seriously? A dragon, son?'

He let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh.

Of course his son had found a dragon.

Of course it had imprinted on him.

Of course it was small and a menace and probably setting barns on fire by accident.

Melion would have laughed.

He didn't.

He folded the scroll. Set it down. Pressed two fingers against his temple.

This would complicate things.

Which was saying something, considering Lindarion had already been kidnapped, vanished, possibly tortured, then dropped off the map like a rebellious shooting star.

And now he was in a backwater human village with a dragon and a group of magical misfits pretending they were on a school field trip.

Perfect.

He stood. Slowly. Robes rustling like offended paper.

Walked toward the window.

The light outside was muted. Pale gold through layers of winter cloud. It painted the floor in long, even shadows. Regal. Cold. Familiar.

He didn't say anything else.

Just stood there.

One hand clasped behind his back. The other resting lightly on the hilt of the ceremonial blade he never drew.

Lindarion was alive.

Somewhere out there, his son was walking under a grey sky, probably muttering about mud and responsibility, setting accidental fires, being eleven, being more.

That was enough for now.

Let the court argue. Let the scribes whisper. Let the dragons choose.

He would wait.

And when the boy came home…

Well.

Then they would talk.

Maybe.

If they had time.