Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 172: Village (2)

Ren looked over at Lindarion. "Well. That went better than I expected."

"You expected pitchforks," he said.

"I still do. I just think they're taking their time."

Ashwing rolled over and thumped his tail twice against the floor. Probably dreaming about claiming someone else's shoes.

Lindarion sat back down.

The bench still hurt.

But the warmth helped.

And for now, no one was bleeding thankfully.

—

Ashwing refused to walk like a normal creature.

There were options. Several of them. Four legs. Two wings. A perfectly fine range of motion across stone and snow.

And yet.

Ashwing was currently riding Lindarion's shoulders like a smug, slightly radioactive scarf.

The tail kept slipping down the back of his coat. The claws were very careful, but not careful enough to avoid making every step feel like a mildly inconvenient acupuncture session. And the breath? Warm. In theory. In practice? Steam directly down his collar.

Lindarion tried not to look like he regretted all his life decisions.

Too late for that.

"Third door past the well," he muttered to himself as they crossed the village square.

A few people looked up from whatever rustic things they were doing, chopping wood, moving crates, pretending not to be eavesdropping and immediately decided today was not the day to get involved with anything involving dragons and royalty.

Wise.

The well was easy to find. It had a crooked bucket, three broken stones, and the unmistakable aura of something that had seen at least one incident involving either a curse or a goat.

Lindarion stopped in front of the third house.

Green lantern, just like the man said.

Which absolutely did not make it look less like a place where someone brewed morally ambiguous potions and offered unsolicited prophecies.

Ashwing sniffed the air, tail flicking. Then let out a small chirp.

"Yeah," Lindarion said, "I'm thrilled too."

He knocked.

The door creaked open slowly. Not dramatically. Just enough to say: someone inside had manners, but not urgency.

Raleth stood in the entryway. Still official. Still bearded. He glanced at Ashwing, then stepped aside without comment.

"Come in."

Lindarion ducked under the low beam and entered. Ashwing hopped off his shoulders and immediately made himself at home by curling up next to the nearest fireplace like he paid taxes here.

The inside of the house was warm, quiet, and lined with old wooden shelves. Some had books. Some had plants.

One had a very organized collection of polished stones that gave off faint hums like they were remembering arguments they'd never win.

Raleth walked to a table and motioned for Lindarion to sit.

He did. Carefully. Mostly because the chair looked like it had been built to handle elderly scholars and not emotionally compromised elves with portable dragons.

"You said if we needed maps," Lindarion began, "this was the place."

Raleth nodded. "I did."

He opened a drawer. Pulled out a scroll.

Unrolled it slowly, smoothing the edges.

The parchment showed the mountain range, sketched in sharp ink lines. Trails, ridges, faded ink marks where someone had updated a path or drawn a little skull.

The usual.

Raleth tapped a spot east of the village.

"This pass will carry you down into the lower valleys. Two days on foot, if you avoid the old mining routes. Bandits sometimes use those."

"Of course they do."

"And if the weather turns again, you'll need to stop here." He tapped another spot. "An outpost. Small. Mostly ruins. But enough shelter to not die."

"Very reassuring."

Raleth looked up. "I assumed sarcasm came with your title."

"It was part of the package," Lindarion said. "Along with the brooding and the ancient trauma."

Ashwing sneezed in agreement.

Raleth did not smile. But he paused for a moment like he was deciding whether to be amused.

"You'll need supplies."

"I figured."

"Your dragon—"

"Still working on boundaries."

"—will need meat."

"Of course he will."

Raleth walked to another cupboard and opened it. Inside were wrapped parcels. He took two and placed them on the table.

"Dried venison. Won't last more than a few days, but it's something."

Lindarion blinked. "You're… giving this to us?"

"You're the prince. And he—" he looked at Ashwing "—is the closest thing we've had to divine entertainment in years."

Ashwing stretched his neck and yawned like he knew exactly how famous he was.

Lindarion stood, taking the scroll and the parcel.

"Thanks. Seriously."

Raleth nodded once. "Don't die in the pass. It reflects badly on local hospitality."

Lindarion smirked. "I'll do my best."

He turned, and Ashwing immediately trotted over, claws clicking neatly on the wood floor like an overly confident lizard with aspirations of nobility.

The wind outside had picked up. Snow swept low across the path. Ashwing blinked once at it, then tucked under Lindarion's coat without asking.

Because privacy was for people without scales, apparently.

He stepped back into the square.

The villagers were still staring.

Lindarion adjusted his scarf. Pulled his hood up. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

"Alright, Ashwing," he muttered. "Let's go explain to the others how we got food, directions, and unofficial approval in under ten minutes."

The dragon purred.

Lindarion kept walking.

Because somehow, he was becoming the kind of person who got things done.

With a dragon.

Against his will.

—

Ashwing trotted ahead like he had errands to run and absolutely no concept of personal danger. His tail swung with the kind of swagger only a creature that had never experienced consequences could muster.

Lindarion followed slowly, scarf pulled low, hood down. The cold had stopped biting and settled for a slow simmer, but the smell of chimney smoke still clung to the edges of the village like someone had tried to mask a funeral with stew.

He took his time.

Not because he was tired, obviously. Definitely not because his legs were starting to feel like they'd been traded out for those stiff mannequin ones used to sell pants in sad stores. No. This was called strategic pacing.

Ashwing sneezed on a snowdrift.

It hissed.

'We'll pretend that was charming.'

They reached the inn again. The sign still swayed, the kind of squeak that implied both weather damage and possible ghosts. He was about to step through the door when a man rounded the corner.

Big guy. Not Ardan big, but the kind of big that came from lifting barrels and holding grudges.

He stopped. Looked Lindarion over.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't have to.

That was the kind of stare you didn't have to translate. It came with years of practice and the subtle grace of a boot to the ribs.

Lindarion adjusted his coat.

"Problem?" he asked.

The man gave him the slow once-over. Took in the cloak, the sword, the posture. Then his gaze landed on the ears.

"Didn't know the tavern let in animals."

Ah. A classic.

Ashwing growled softly. Lindarion laid a hand on his head. Not for comfort. Just in case the dragon decided this was the moment he started eating people.