Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 291: Aftermath (7)

The realization came quiet and sharp.

He stepped carefully through the wreckage, eyes narrowing. There were no drag marks. No trails of blood suggesting someone had crawled or been pulled.

’They moved fast. Clean. They weren’t looking to slaughter everyone. They were looking for someone.’

Ashwing grunted. "You’re thinking what I’m thinking?"

Lindarion didn’t answer.

He was already moving again.

Down the side hall. Up the stairs that led toward the royal wing.

The air shifted here.

Cooler.

And heavier.

His core pulsed once in warning.

It wasn’t pain. Not exhaustion.

It was pressure. The residue of power. Something old. Something that didn’t belong here.

He stopped at the top of the stairs.

The door to his mother’s quarters was hanging by one hinge.

The frame melted slightly on the left.

Inside—

His fists clenched.

More scorch marks.

A wall collapsed inward.

Furniture torn in half or snapped like kindling.

And blood.

Not a pool.

Not fresh.

But sprayed, briefly, violently, and then gone.

Like someone had tried to resist.

He stepped inside fully.

Ashwing didn’t follow.

This wasn’t a room anymore.

It was a memory in ruins.

He bent low, picking something up near the window ledge.

A hairpin.

Simple. Silver. A sunbird engraved on the edge.

He closed his fingers around it.

And stood.

The rest of the room didn’t matter.

She wasn’t here.

He already knew.

’They took her.’

The only question was how.

And why.

Ashwing’s voice came quiet.

"I think they wanted you to find this."

He didn’t respond.

Not out loud.

Just looked at the broken doorway.

And imagined Maeven’s smile behind it.

His core pulsed again.

Not pressure this time.

Not a warning.

Just heat.

Just a flicker.

Like it was waking up.

Just enough to remind him:

There was still something to burn.

—

He stepped past another corpse.

This one was fresh.

Still warm.

A mutant, arms like steel cabling, jaw split down the middle like someone had tried to give it extra fangs. The body was crumpled at the edge of the outer wall, half-buried under a fallen pillar.

Ashwing sniffed once.

"That one didn’t go down easy."

Lindarion didn’t answer.

His boots scuffed along the stone walkway, ash crumbling beneath his soles. He glanced up toward the towers.

Nothing moved.

No birds.

No banners.

Not even wind.

Just the smell, burnt wood, mana discharge, blood. Too much blood.

He moved through the west gate in silence. The portcullis was stuck halfway down, twisted like something had slammed it upward, then tried to bend it back. The edges glowed faintly, traces of fire affinity.

’Ours or theirs?’

He didn’t know.

Didn’t care.

They passed another set of bodies, three elven guards, face-down, backs scorched open. Close-quarters kill.

Another mutant lay farther on, riddled with spears and buried halfway into the wall like someone had refused to let it drop. The spear hafts were cracked. Some burned.

Ashwing walked beside him, claws scraping lightly against the stone.

"Still no one."

Lindarion nodded once.

They stepped through into the second ring, one of the market boulevards. A place that should’ve been crowded with stalls and laughter, people arguing over fruit or fabrics or antique blades from before the split.

Now it was empty.

No people.

No survivors.

Just toppled carts, empty baskets, ash sticking to charred canvas.

And silence.

Not the kind that settled after battle.

The kind that felt deliberate.

Made.

Like something was holding its breath.

Lindarion stopped in the center of the street.

"I don’t like this," Ashwing said, low. "Not just because it’s quiet."

Lindarion’s eyes narrowed.

The city hadn’t been overrun.

It had been emptied.

Deliberately.

’Why leave the bodies behind?’

That didn’t fit. If the attackers wanted to show force, they’d have displayed them. If they wanted to cover it up, they’d have burned them. But this—

Ashwing moved ahead, eyes glowing faintly. "No movement. No mana trails. No footprints in the ash. You’d think they teleported the rest of the city out of here."

"Not possible," Lindarion said.

"Right. Not unless you had a time or space affinity strong enough to bend reality."

Lindarion’s jaw tightened.

That narrowed it down.

He moved again.

They passed the apothecary district, windows shattered, herbs scattered to the wind, shelves snapped like toothpicks. There was a trail of something viscous near the alchemist’s row. Green. Glowing slightly.

He didn’t step in it.

’What were they testing?’

They crossed through another gate.

Deeper now.

Toward the palace interior.

Still no movement.

The gardens were ruined, trees uprooted, fountains cracked. The statue of Elenra, the founder queen, lay split in half down the middle. Her face was buried in a rosebush still smoldering.

Ashwing’s tail twitched. "Someone cleaned up fast. Or wanted it to look like no one ever lived here."

"Doesn’t work," Lindarion muttered. "The blood’s too fresh."

They circled the fountain. It was dry now, the stone base blackened. He stopped and crouched beside it, running his fingers through a smear on the edge.

Not blood.

Not water.

Mana residue.

Tainted.

His fingers came away slick, and the system flickered faintly in the back of his mind, one quiet ping, nothing more.

[Contaminated Field Signature Detected]

[Analyzing...]

Then it vanished again.

No advice.

No warning.

Just confirmation.

Something had been here.

Something it didn’t like.

He stood.

Ashwing circled once. "There’s nothing left."

"There’s something," Lindarion said. "Just not what we want."

A distant clang echoed through the air.

Not close.

Not loud.

Just... deliberate.

Like someone wanted them to follow.

They looked at each other.

Ashwing raised a brow ridge. "Trap?"

"Probably."

"Still going?"

"Obviously."

They turned.

Headed toward the sound.

The air grew colder. Not with temperature. With pressure.

And that silence?

It followed them.

Like a second set of footsteps just a beat behind.

—

The sound came again.

Not metal on metal. Metal on stone. Echoing through the eastern wing like it had no business being heard.

He and Ashwing moved slower now. No more hurried steps. Just deliberate strides through the ruined corridor, past collapsed support beams and shattered stained glass.

Then—

Voices.