Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 293: Doubts (1)

Lindarion stepped back without fanfare and motioned toward the group. "We fly."

Thariel raised an eyebrow. "All of us?"

"You said the boy doesn’t have long."

She hesitated for a half-second.

Then nodded.

"Alright. We load up."

The elves moved quickly. Efficient. No wasted movement. The stretcher was braced between the curved ridges of Ashwing’s shoulders.

Two of the guards climbed up first. Then Thariel. Lindarion took his place last, just ahead of Ashwing’s left wing joint, fingers braced against a gold-spined ridge.

"You know where their fallback is?" he asked Thariel.

"East. Ravienel Valley. Old hunting forest past the barrier trees. Twenty miles."

"We’ll be there in ten."

Ashwing’s wings snapped once.

The wind kicked off the ground in a burst.

And then they were airborne.

—

The wind over the valley was sharp.

But the sight below was a different world from the one they’d left.

No smoke. No burning.

Tents lined the inner edge of a crescent-shaped forest clearing, a small stream cutting through the center.

Wooden stakes had been driven into the ground hastily. A few mana lanterns glowed faint blue at the perimeter.

No towers. No stone. No banners.

Just makeshift survival.

As they descended, Ashwing spiraled once, slow and wide. A signal. No sudden movement. He landed on the outer edge, clearing space with a rush of wind and crackling wingbeats that sent some of the younger guards scrambling to brace their posts.

Then stillness.

Lindarion hopped down first.

The guards behind him moved with the stretcher, careful and quiet.

Elves began to gather.

A healer ran forward.

No one spoke Lindarion’s name.

But they stared.

Not in awe.

In recognition.

’That’s worse.’

He stepped aside and let the stretcher pass, brushing soot from the side of his coat with a single hand.

His mana core felt heavy, like someone had wound wire around it and pulled tight. The divine affinity still flickered under his skin, but dimly.

"We’ll need another dragon for evac," Thariel said. "There are still a few in the field near Carandel."

"We’ll figure it out," Lindarion muttered. "Later."

She looked at him, then nodded once.

"You’re not going to rest, are you?"

He didn’t answer.

Because they both already knew the answer.

—

The trees thinned.

And the camp unfolded.

Canvas tents, some the deep green of the Sylvarion guard, others patched from whatever scraps had survived the city fires. Stone cooking circles smoked faintly along the outer edge.

Elven soldiers moved in slow patrols, quieter than usual, worn, many wounded, and most walking with the quiet kind of grief that didn’t need to be explained.

Lindarion stepped off Ashwing’s back, boots crunching the dead needles that blanketed the ridge.

The wind shifted.

He took a breath.

’Still air. That’s worse than smoke.’

Ashwing shrank behind him, landing lightly and remaining in a half-size, small enough not to panic the camp but large enough to stay visible at Lindarion’s shoulder.

The dragon’s scales glimmered faintly in the overcast light, eyes scanning the treeline.

No one greeted them.

Not at first.

A few sentries stopped at the sight of Ashwing but didn’t raise weapons. One or two whispered quietly and turned away.

"Guess they didn’t roll out the carpet," Ashwing muttered inside his mind.

’I’m not here for a parade.’

"Sure, but a nod might be nice."

Lindarion kept walking.

No one barred him, but no one saluted either. Not even when they saw his eyes, Sunblade gold, or the sigil stitched into the shoulder of his coat, a fading crest of his house worn into the leather.

’They don’t know if I’m here as a survivor... or as a prince.’

He understood the silence.

He hated it anyway.

—

The center of the camp was a wide clearing framed by two fallen trees and a half-broken statue of Corellian, the old moon-sage.

A table had been assembled from three stone slabs and a long shield, pushed together with maps and scrolls atop it.

Three elves stood in loose formation: one hunched over the edge of the map, one leaning against a spear, and the third pacing slowly in circles.

None of them noticed him right away.

The guards stationed outside did.

"You can’t go in there," one said, stepping forward.

Lindarion didn’t stop walking.

"I’m Prince Lindarion of Solrendel," he said evenly. "I’m here to speak with whoever’s leading this camp."

The guard hesitated. She looked maybe twenty-five, young for an elf, though her armor had scuff marks. Her brow furrowed.

"No one said you were coming."

"No one sent me."

Her eyes flicked to Ashwing, who was now crouched at the edge of the treeline behind him, tail twitching faintly.

"And you’re alone?"

Lindarion didn’t answer.

"Wait here," she said finally, and turned to slip into the tent.

The other guard didn’t relax.

Neither did Lindarion.

—

The tent flap opened again.

A tall elf stepped out, dark-skinned, long silver hair tied back, features sharp as carved ice. He wore travel-worn armor, ceremonial in shape but practical in wear.

A short cloak draped over one shoulder, dark green and navy, with the faint white threads of command rank at the edge.

Lindarion didn’t recognize him.

But the man recognized him.

"Prince Lindarion," he said with a voice like cold riverstone. "I’m Commander Taldris Elaren. You should’ve sent word."

"I didn’t know who’d still be alive," Lindarion replied, blunt.

That earned a small pause.

Then a nod.

Taldris stepped aside. "Come inside."

—

The inside of the strategy tent smelled like damp wood, blood, and old ink. Half the scrolls were sealed. The rest lay open, weighted by stones and empty ration tins.

Three figures turned to face him as he entered.

One was an older woman with a burn scar running down the side of her face—armor scuffed to hell, her sword laid bare on the table’s edge. She gave him a brief glance. No more.

The second, a younger elf with short red hair and a broken arm in a sling, nodded once. "Didn’t think any of the royals made it out."

The third, a scribe or clerk, judging by the ink-stained gloves, gave a low bow but didn’t speak.

Taldris closed the flap behind him.

Lindarion stepped forward.

"Where’s my father?"

None of them answered.

The fire in his stomach flickered hotter.

"I was told Solrendel was attacked. The queen is missing. The king injured. Is he dead?"

Taldris looked toward the map, then back.

"We don’t know. He hasn’t been seen since the capital breach. He held the eastern gates with the First Blades. By the time our messengers got in—"

"—there were no First Blades left," the red-haired elf finished. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

Lindarion didn’t flinch.

He just stared.

And nodded.

’Not dead. Just missing. That’s worse.’