Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 292: Captain

Muffled. Half-lost behind a wall of cracked stone.

Ashwing lifted his head. "You hear that?"

Lindarion nodded once.

They stepped over a collapsed archway. The hallway curved, narrowing toward what used to be the Hall of Accord. The ceiling sagged in two places, but the arch at the far end still held.

A flicker of movement.

Steel glinting in torchlight.

He raised a hand.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t call out.

He just stepped forward with Ashwing behind him, boots quiet on dust-covered stone.

Then one of them turned, and spotted him.

"Elven!" the voice barked. A woman’s voice. Not familiar. Sharp. "Hold your fire!"

Weapons lowered.

Half a dozen elves, armored, soot-streaked, battered but alive, stood with blades drawn. Two of them were carrying a stretcher between them. A child, unconscious, lay wrapped in singed robes. Another elf leaned against the wall, bleeding down one arm.

The leader stepped forward.

Not tall, but compact. Sturdy. Her armor bore a red sigil, a phoenix curled in a ring. Her left cheek was scraped raw.

She looked Lindarion up and down once. Eyes paused on Ashwing, then flicked to the broken wall behind them.

"You’re Sunblade," she said.

Lindarion nodded.

"I didn’t think any of the higher houses were left."

"I didn’t think anyone was."

She gave a short breath, close to a laugh. "Guess we’re both wrong."

Ashwing landed beside the stretcher and gave a soft snort. "You’re late."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Your lizard always talk?"

"He’s not a lizard," Lindarion muttered. "And yes."

"I’m Captain Thariel. Seventh Watch. We came back through the mountain route, old tunnels. Figured if anyone was still breathing, they’d be near the center."

"You found anyone else?"

"Two civilians. One’s dead. The other..." She glanced toward the stretcher. "We don’t know."

Lindarion looked over the group. Tired. But trained. Worn thin, but not broken.

"Why are you still here?"

"Because someone has to be," Thariel said. "If they return, there needs to be a record. If they don’t, someone needs to bury what’s left."

’Stubborn. Good.’

He walked past them, eyeing the walls. The corridor didn’t smell of death here. Just smoke. Magic. Pain.

But not recent.

"How long since the attack?"

Thariel followed him. "Less than a day. Maybe sixteen hours."

"They left fast."

"No." She gestured toward the burned stone. "They didn’t leave. They vanished. No trace. Not even mana residue."

"They left residue near the outer ring."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then they wanted us to find it."

Ashwing muttered in Lindarion’s mind. "They’re playing a game. Just not one we know the rules to."

Lindarion stopped at the central stairway. The spires above were scorched. The tower’s top was missing entirely, blown apart in a vertical spiral, like something had ripped upward, not crashed down.

’This wasn’t a siege.’

"Do you know who did this?" Thariel asked.

Lindarion didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t sure.

Not really.

He’d seen power like this in the capital. In that portal. In Dythrael’s eyes.

But why here?

Why now?

He looked at the stretcher again.

The boy twitched once. A spark of golden light flickered near his chest, just for an instant.

Ashwing saw it too.

"Lindarion," he said, low. "That child has a core."

Lindarion moved fast, one knee beside the boy in a blink. He pressed two fingers against the child’s wrist.

The pulse was faint. Unstable.

But definitely alive.

He focused.

Gently.

Just a nudge of divine affinity. Not enough to heal—just enough to stabilize.

The flicker steadied.

Thariel’s eyes widened. "How did you do that?"

"I didn’t," Lindarion said. "He did. He’s not unconscious. He’s shielding."

"That’s not possible. He’s ten."

"Tell that to his core."

Ashwing paced beside the broken wall. "We need to take him out of here."

"We will," Lindarion said. Then stood.

He looked back toward Thariel.

"You said the tunnels you used are still open?"

"Mostly. Some are unstable."

"Good enough."

She tilted her head. "You planning on moving now?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"No," he said. "With all of you."

She hesitated. Then nodded. "Give us fifteen."

"Ten."

She blinked. Then gave a short nod again. "Ten."

—

They checked every room.

Every corridor.

Every balcony, collapsed chamber, shattered vault.

Nothing.

Just the echo of burned stone and silence.

Thariel led them through the southeast wing last. A barracks. Nothing left but snapped spears and armor twisted by heat. One helmet was melted into the floor. Another had vines growing through it, like the forest had started reclaiming what was abandoned.

The boy on the stretcher stirred once.

Then went still again.

No other survivors.

No other bodies.

"That’s all of it," Thariel said quietly, pausing near the broken archway where the wall had once faced east. "We searched the west wing this morning. Same thing."

Lindarion didn’t answer.

He stood near the overlook, one hand resting on the stone railing that was now jagged and half-fallen. Wind tugged at the edge of his coat, bringing with it the bitter scent of smoldered wood and ash.

Below, the outer streets were quiet again.

Still no movement.

Not even scavengers.

’No blood either. It’s like they didn’t die. Just... vanished.’

Ashwing shifted beside him. His wings buzzed in agitation.

"They weren’t after the city," the dragon said in his mind. "They were after a message. One that’s still being written."

’Then they’re going to hate the ending.’

Behind them, the stretcher was being re-secured with tight straps across a thin metal frame. Two of the guards were already adjusting the makeshift harnesses.

The child’s breathing had steadied, barely, but the mana in his chest was unstable, more dense than it should’ve been.

"Captain," Lindarion said without turning.

Thariel stepped forward. "Yeah?"

"You said your path in was through the mountains?"

She nodded. "Through the old bloom tunnels. Forgotten routes. Not wide enough for more than five at a time, and only the north entrance is still navigable. Took us six hours."

"We’re not doing that again."

Ashwing stretched behind him.

Longer.

Taller.

His bones cracked once, then again, expanding, folding outward and upward until the lithe, sharp-winged form of his full size towered over the broken city wall. His scales shimmered in pale gold, reflecting the last dying streaks of sun.