Reincarnated as an Elf Prince
Chapter 258 - 258: Shaking

The question wasn't heavy.

Wasn't dramatic.

It was a check.

Nayla's eyes didn't even flicker.

"Born ready."

"Not the metaphorical kind," he said. "Not sparring in castles or defending bridges. Real war. One that doesn't care about your title or who gave your last order."

She looked at him.

"I watched my village burn when I was ten. My mom fought with a rake. Dad held a shield that wasn't his. Neither made it. I joined the Blade five years later. Since then, I've been posted to every bad spot this kingdom has. I don't need someone to explain what war looks like."

Lindarion held her gaze.

'She's not lying. Not selling. She just knows.'

Ashwing whispered through the bond, faintly amused. "So… are we recruiting guards now?"

Lindarion didn't answer him.

Instead, he asked one more question. "If I called for you tomorrow, would you follow me?"

Nayla's answer was instant.

"No."

Lindarion blinked.

"Not unless I knew where you were going," she added. "And who was bleeding for it."

Then, after a beat, "But if I knew that? Then yeah. I'd follow."

Lindarion looked at her again.

Not as a blockade this time.

But a maybe.

A good one.

He turned toward the hall again.

Didn't say goodbye.

Didn't need to.

Nayla watched him go. Then crossed her arms again.

And waited.

Because whatever was coming—

She'd already chosen which way her blade would point.

—

Lindarion had barely taken another ten steps when he felt it again, that presence.

Like heat pressing against his back. Not fire. Pressure. Familiar.

He didn't stop.

But he didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Leaving without saying goodbye?"

The voice was steady. Not loud. But impossible to ignore.

Jaren Vell.

Leader of the King's Blades.

Lindarion turned slowly.

Jaren stood in the center of the corridor behind him, arms crossed. His armor was the same as before, plain gray with copper trim, but his posture had shifted.

Less tired now. More centered. And the air around him carried the weight of something dense.

Mana, thick and refined. Held close to the skin like it didn't want to be noticed, until it did.

Ashwing stirred again on Lindarion's shoulder. "He's not hiding it this time."

'I noticed.'

"You forget something?" Jaren asked.

"Yeah," Lindarion said. "I forgot what it felt like to be questioned every time I try to help."

Jaren stepped forward. Just one pace.

And the shift in the hallway was immediate. Like the temperature had dropped three degrees in his shadow.

Lindarion didn't back down.

He couldn't.

Not now.

Jaren's gaze flicked once to Ashwing. Then back.

"You made it through the warded wing, passed the private hall, stormed Edric's office, and somehow didn't start a fight on the way out."

"Almost," Lindarion said.

"You want a medal?"

"No," Lindarion said. "I want less stone in my way when people are dying."

Jaren studied him in silence. And then, finally, he asked—

"What's your core level now?"

Lindarion didn't flinch.

"Prismatic. Low tier."

That finally pulled a reaction. Not a gasp. Not shock.

Just a small pause.

Followed by a whistle.

"You're sixteen."

"Yeah."

"You know most knights hit Refined at twenty-five."

"Guess I'm early."

Jaren didn't smile. But he gave a small nod.

"That's why the others are nervous."

"They're nervous because I'm not one of theirs."

Jaren shrugged. "That too."

Lindarion stepped closer. Two paces now.

"Let me ask you something," he said. "What's your core level?"

"You want the short answer?"

"No, Jaren. I want to see if your jaw locks when you say it."

Jaren's mouth twitched.

"Ascended."

'That explains it.'

That cold pressure wasn't from some warrior's presence. It was higher. Deeper. The kind of weight that told the world to hold still or snap.

Jaren stepped to the side now, not blocking him anymore. But not moving completely out of the way either.

"I'm not here to stop you," he said. "But I need you to understand something."

Lindarion waited.

Jaren's tone lost some of its quiet edge.

"When this breaks—when it really starts—people are going to look at you. Not the king. Not the council. You."

"I didn't ask for that."

"I know," Jaren said. "But it's happening anyway."

'He's not wrong.'

Ashwing was silent, listening.

Lindarion exhaled slowly.

And Jaren added, "You'd better be ready to carry that weight. Because no one else here is strong enough to lift it off you."

Lindarion looked at him one last time.

Not with anger.

Just clarity.

"I've been carrying worse for four years."

Then he kept walking.

Because the conversation was done.

And the war hadn't even started yet….

—

Lindarion had barely passed the outer arch when the floor shifted under his boots.

Not a full quake.

Not yet.

Just a low thrum. A pulse through the stone like the castle had taken a breath it didn't mean to.

He stopped.

Ashwing froze on his shoulder. "That wasn't normal."

'No kidding.'

Another pulse.

This one longer.

The banners lining the high walls gave a single shiver, barely visible, but there. The chandeliers didn't sway, but the iron rings creaked. Not from movement. From strain.

"Again," Ashwing said. "Lower. It's coming from below."

Lindarion turned.

Jaren hadn't moved far.

He looked up at the ceiling once, then down at the stone underfoot.

"Tell me that was thunder," he muttered.

"No thunder travels upward," Lindarion said. "That was a deep rune pulse."

"Like the ones you warned us about?"

"Worse. This one's closer."

A third vibration rolled through the corridor. This one deeper. Not like a strike.

Like something woke up.

A servant at the far end of the hallway stumbled. One of the guards dropped a spear and didn't notice. The air itself seemed to stretch,warped, like the pressure in the walls had shifted.

Jaren was already moving.

He touched a rune at the corner wall. A quiet spark lit under his glove, then died. No signal sent.

"No magic relay," he said. "They're being jammed."

"From inside the palace?" Lindarion asked.

"Has to be."

'Then it's already here.'

Ashwing bristled. "Get outside. Now."

Lindarion nodded.

They broke into a run together, not bothering to shout. The people in the halls didn't need orders, they needed to move.

Fast.

They hit the staircase just as the fourth pulse rolled up the walls, stronger than before.

A crack formed along the ceiling.

A real one.

Jaren muttered, "Where the hell is this coming from?"

"Underground," Lindarion said. "Same energy signature as the rune at Ravaryn's estate."

"You think someone planted one here?"

"No," Lindarion said. "I think they built the palace on top of it."

Jaren's face turned grim. "Then they've been planning this longer than we thought."

Another tremor.

This one was followed by sound.

Metal screeched from the eastern tower, something collapsed.

Panic erupted now. Not the soldiers. The staff. Attendants and scribes running from side corridors, not yet screaming but close.

Jaren barked a single word: "Evacuate!"

The hallway lit up with motion.

Guards moved. Not at full sprint. Not disorganized. They fell into lines, ushered people out through the lower ramps. No one questioned it now.

Not after the sixth rumble.

Lindarion stopped just outside the castle's front court.

The stone was cracked.

Not shattered. But pulsing.

A circle.

Perfect.

Slowly widening.

The same shape he'd seen over and over again in the ruins. In the glyph sites. In the crater back at the mage temple six months ago.

Except this time, it was burning into royal stone.

'It's happening. Right here.'