Reincarnated as an Elf Prince
Chapter 263 - 263: Runaway (1)

He couldn't stand yet.

The pain was too fresh, too deep, like something had split through his ribs and stitched itself into the marrow. But his hands still worked. That was enough. Barely.

Ashwing crouched beside him, shifting between concern and irritation like a cat pacing a burning rooftop.

"You look like you got eaten by a brick wall," the dragon muttered in his mind.

'Felt like it too.'

He blinked through the dust. The courtyard was cracked down the middle. Craters where once-polished stones had been. Smoke everywhere. No more civilians.

Only the scent of burnt leather, scorched magic, and blood.

Far off, closer than he liked, something shrieked.

Not a scream.

Not human.

Something else.

The pressure still hadn't lifted. It sat on the back of his skull like a migraine made of knives.

Then boots.

Heavy. Controlled. Someone not running.

Lindarion turned his head just enough to see the one figure walking through the broken remains of the city's southern gate.

Broad-shouldered. Long coat half-burned at the hem. Red sash across the waist. Blade across the back, simple, two-handed, nothing decorative. Eyes sharp under a dark fringe of hair.

And he looked pissed.

Jaren stopped beside him, arms folded, eyes scanning the distance before finally landing on Lindarion.

"You alive?"

Lindarion coughed. "Barely."

"You always make entrances like this?"

"Only when the city's already on fire."

Ashwing muttered in the bond, "He's not even surprised you're alive. That's comforting."

The Blade's leader crouched beside him, glanced at the cracked stone under Lindarion's elbow. "You took a hit from whatever did that?"

"Two hits."

The man gave a slow whistle. "And you're still breathing?"

"Wouldn't call it graceful."

He stood without asking if Lindarion could move yet. "We need to go. Now."

"What about the king?"

"He's gone. Evacuated with half the court. The rest are fighting or dying. City's lost."

Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "And the mutants?"

"Everywhere. Came up through tunnels. Gates. Streets. Don't know how many yet, but it's not a skirmish anymore. It's a full breach."

He held out a hand.

Lindarion hesitated. Then took it.

Jaren pulled him to his feet like he weighed nothing.

His legs didn't buckle, but they threatened to. Pain screamed up his spine. Ashwing tightened his grip around his shoulder.

"Can you fight?" He asked.

"No."

"Can you run?"

"Unfortunately."

"Good. Because if you stay here another five minutes, you'll die."

Lindarion winced. "That's the short version?"

Jaren nodded once. "We're regrouping outside the walls. Eastern hills. There's a fallback line. You've got maybe two minutes to get there."

Lindarion glanced toward the crumbling skyline.

Flashes of light. Fire. Mutant roars echoing between towers. And that pressure, still there. Still grinding behind his ears like a second heartbeat trying to claw out.

'Three days. That's all the warning I gave them. Too short.'

"Lead the way," he muttered.

They moved.

Quiet. Fast.

No dramatic charge. No heroic poses.

Just blood on the cobblestone, silence under firelight, and the knowledge that the capital was lost.

For now.

—

The air was wrong.

Not the kind of wrong you could taste. Not the kind laced with smoke or poison.

The kind of wrong that moved through stone. That whispered up walls built before memory.

Eldrin stood by the open window of his private study, fingers loosely clasped behind his back.

His hair, still golden despite the years, caught the early light. The towers of Solrendel glinted in perfect lines beyond the glass.

Still whole.

Still standing.

For now.

The knock came sharp and immediate.

He didn't turn. "Enter."

The door opened. Footsteps. One set. Confident but not rushed.

Seraphine.

"Speak," Eldrin said.

The bodyguard bowed low. "A message from the Caldris front. Urgent."

"Is it a border raid?"

"No, my King."

His jaw tightened slightly.

She stepped closer, offering the scroll. It bore the seal of House Valerian, cracked from haste.

He took it.

Broke it.

Read.

Twice.

Silence.

"Monsters," he said. Quiet. "Mutations."

"Yes," Seraphine replied. "Civilians evacuating south. Half the capital reportedly destroyed."

"How recent?"

"This morning."

Eldrin didn't sit.

Didn't move.

He just stared out the window again, the scroll still in his hand.

'They're not ready for something like this. Not even Leonhardt.'

The human king was proud. Practical. But no army prepared for half-human creatures climbing through city stone. No court prepared for corrupted mana.

"Send a message to the High Council," Eldrin said. "I want an emergency session before nightfall."

"Yes, my King."

"Mobilize a third of our border guard. Quietly. No banners. No declarations."

"And… Lindarion?" she asked carefully.

He turned his head, slowly. "What of him?"

Seraphine straightened. "No word yet."

He looked back out.

Stillness again.

His voice was lower this time. "He wouldn't go there."

A beat.

Then his thoughts caught up.

'Or he would. Especially if he thought someone wouldn't want him to.'

His fingers curled tighter around the edge of the scroll.

"Find out," he said. "Don't ask. Just find out."

Seraphine bowed once.

And left.

Eldrin stood there alone, jaw clenched, pulse slow.

'If he's in Caldris…'

He didn't finish the thought.

Didn't need to.

Because somehow, he already knew.

—

Jaren moved like someone who'd memorized the map before it was built, calm, deliberate, but never slow.

His boots crunched over broken tile, cloak dragging across scorched stone as he turned the corner into what used to be a merchant district. Now it was fire, smoke, and silence broken by too-loud sobs from under splintered beams.

"Over here," he said, voice clipped.

Lindarion followed without answering.

Every step made something hurt worse.

His ribs were trying to remind him he'd been punched through a city. His spine agreed. But none of it stopped him from moving.

Ashwing rode quietly on his shoulder, tail wrapped tight around his collarbone. His scales shimmered slightly against the firelight, camouflage shifting with the ash.

"Left," Jaren said.

They ducked through a cracked alley. Ahead—a collapsed bakery.

Two kids. A boy, maybe ten. A girl clinging to his side. Both huddled behind a half-burnt bread cart.

Jaren didn't pause.

He crouched down, hand extended.

"We're with the city guard," he said. "We're going to get you out."

The boy didn't respond. But he didn't run either.

That was enough.

Lindarion stepped forward, eyes scanning the rooftops. No movement. Not yet.

The pressure in the air was still wrong. Still heavy. It clawed at his skin like static before a storm.

"We're clear," he said.

Jaren nodded and lifted the girl with one arm. She didn't scream. Didn't fight. Just grabbed the front of his coat and buried her face into it.

The boy followed, silent.