Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 248: Worthy Entrance (2)

Lindarion didn’t move. "I said the message was urgent."

"And I’ve relayed that. His Majesty appreciates the concern." Edric clasped his hands in front of him. "But I don’t take messages directly from hooded strangers. I assume you understand."

Lindarion’s jaw tightened. "He needs to hear this in person. Today."

"Then come back with a seal. Or a face."

Ashwing’s voice pressed cold into his mind. "Keep your temper."

Lindarion exhaled once. "It’s a warning."

Edric’s smile widened. "And I’m sure it’s very dramatic. But unless you have standing, I can’t admit you further."

"Standing?" Lindarion’s voice dropped half a step. "That’s what it takes for someone to listen now?"

"In this court? Yes."

Lindarion stepped forward. Not fast. Just enough.

Edric didn’t flinch, but his weight shifted back, subtle, trained. A man used to watching threats from behind polished desks.

"If someone attacks your cities, drains your leylines, poisons your people—will you still be waiting for proper seals?"

Edric’s tone didn’t shift. "Are you threatening this kingdom, or begging it for help?"

That was enough.

Lindarion reached up and pulled his hood back.

No drama.

Just air hitting silver-gold hair and green eyes that burned colder now than they had years ago.

Edric’s breath hitched. The polished composure faltered for half a second.

"You," he said.

Lindarion’s voice didn’t rise.

"You remember now."

"You shouldn’t be here."

—

Edric’s voice wasn’t loud, but the words carried more than protocol.

Lindarion caught it.

Not just annoyance. Disdain. Not because of the message, but because of who he was.

"You recognized me fast enough," Lindarion said. "I expected more delay."

Edric straightened. "You stand out. Even after all this time."

"You mean the ears?"

"I mean the arrogance."

The words hung for a beat too long.

Then Edric’s tone smoothed out again. Almost like a sigh. "I’ll inform the king you’ve arrived. But without context, your sudden presence will raise eyebrows. Especially given... history."

"I’m not here to win a room," Lindarion said. "I’m here to give a warning. You’d do well to get out of the way."

Edric smiled thinly. "That’s not how this works, Prince."

"Then how does it work, exactly?" Lindarion asked. "I show up uninvited. You stall me. Guards arrive. Maybe a polite apology from Leonhardt next week, buried under layers of paperwork and too-late regrets?"

"If you want the king’s audience," Edric replied, tone clipped, "you’ll follow proper channels like everyone else."

"I’m not everyone else."

Edric’s lips twitched, half smile, half sneer. "No, you’re not."

He stepped forward, closing some of the distance, voice lowering.

"Some of us remember the last time an elven prince walked into our court. You stood at that ball, draped in your kingdom’s pride, and vanished years later like a ghost. The only thing that followed was silence."

Ashwing stirred under Lindarion’s coat. "He’s trying to provoke you."

"I know."

Lindarion didn’t flinch. "If your memory’s that good, and you have been digging into me then you’ll know I don’t give warnings twice."

Edric said nothing.

Just studied him again. Measured. Evaluated.

Then turned.

"I’ll check if His Majesty has a moment."

Lindarion didn’t follow. He stayed where he was, arms still crossed, expression unreadable.

The silence in the antechamber stretched thin.

Ashwing’s voice, faint and dry: "He’ll try to delay you again."

"I know."

"You’re still going through that door, aren’t you?"

"Yes."

—

Lindarion stood still for six more seconds.

Then he moved.

Fast. Purposeful. No cloak flourish, no warning.

He turned from the antechamber and walked through the inner arch that Edric had used minutes earlier.

The corridor beyond sloped gently toward the high chamber, floor lined with red stone, the walls etched with the royal sigil of House Valerian.

Two guards stood ahead.

Steel helms. Long cloaks. Decorative halberds braced high like ornament more than threat.

Lindarion didn’t slow.

"Halt," one said, stepping forward.

Lindarion raised one hand.

A quiet snap.

A silver spark snapped from his palm and struck the air, just a ripple. Clean, precise.

The guard’s weapon jumped in his hands like it had suddenly gained weight. His limbs seized for a second. Not paralyzed. Just shocked hard enough to stop thought.

The second guard started to move—

Lindarion stepped close, placed two fingers against the man’s chest plate, and sent a pulse straight through the armor.

The impact was silent.

The man folded backward, unconscious before he hit the wall.

Ashwing’s voice slid through his thoughts. "You said you wouldn’t make a scene."

"I changed my mind."

He kept walking.

Ahead, the final door to the king’s audience hall.

Tall. Gilded. Meant to be opened only from inside, flanked by two more guards already turning toward the sound.

They didn’t get the chance to ask anything.

Lindarion swept his right hand up, and the bolts didn’t leap from his skin. They threaded from the air itself.

Two arcs, low and fast.

The men crumpled instantly.

Not dead. But definitely not standing.

He pressed a palm to the seal. The enchantment resisted for half a second, then cracked under his mana.

The door opened.

King Leonhardt was already on his feet.

Three nobles near the central table turned in confusion.

The guards in the chamber half-raised their weapons.

None acted fast enough.

Lindarion stepped inside.

No hood.

No mask.

No title.

Just a warning that had waited long enough.

"King Leonhardt," he said. "We need to talk."

The room didn’t react right away.

No one knew how to.

The guards hesitated. Nobles froze mid-breath. King Leonhardt’s hand shifted toward the edge of the table, like he couldn’t decide if he should draw a blade or raise a hand.

Lindarion didn’t move.

He wasn’t bluffing. He wasn’t pleading.

He was done waiting.

Leonhardt’s voice broke the pause. "You attacked my guards."

"They tried to stop me."

"You could’ve asked."

"I did."

The king’s brow furrowed, but before he could speak again, heavy footsteps came from behind.

Edric.

His boots echoed across the stone as he entered the chamber at a slow, deliberate pace. He didn’t draw immediately. Not at first.

Just long enough to make it seem like a choice.

Then his hand moved.

Fast.

Steel cleared leather. His blade came up, not toward the guards. Toward Lindarion.

That was the mistake.

Ashwing didn’t growl.

He didn’t warn.

He didn’t ask.

He dropped from Lindarion’s shoulder and hit the floor hard enough to crack tile, and the moment his claws touched ground, his body unfurled.

Wings spread wide.

Legs locked.

Tail lashed out like a whip of iron and slammed into the chamber wall behind them.

The transformation happened mid-step.

One moment: a scaled creature the size of a small hound.

The next: a full-grown dragon, black and ember-gold, crouched low in the king’s audience chamber, wings brushing the ceiling, eyes molten and locked on Edric.

Gasps. A cry from one of the nobles. One guard dropped his weapon.

Lindarion didn’t flinch.

He barely moved.

Edric’s blade stayed raised, but his step froze mid-stride. The light from the chandelier flickered across his face, draining the heat from it.

The dragon stared him down, jaws just slightly parted, heat already rising from his chest.

"Drop it," Lindarion said.

The words weren’t loud.

But they didn’t need to be.

Edric dropped the sword.

It clattered against the floor like punctuation.

Ashwing didn’t move.

Didn’t retract.

He simply remained.

A living wall of heat and power between Lindarion and anything that would dare reach for him again.

Leonhardt swallowed once.

Then finally spoke.

"...You tamed a dragon."

"No," Lindarion said. "He chose me."

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