Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

They circled back toward the square. Snow had started falling again. Light, but steady. The sky was pale enough to feel like paper.

Lindarion adjusted the coat. The sleeves were too long. The fabric scratched his neck.

The man gestured to a shed at the edge of the village. "Tools, grain, spare rope. If you need anything, ask."

"I won't."

"You will."

They stopped near the well. The bucket creaked slightly on the wind.

The woman turned to face him. Her arms were folded, but not tight. Just settled.

"You still planning to leave?"

Lindarion watched a crow settle on the eave of a roof across the way. It didn't blink.

"Yes."

She nodded once. Not surprised. Not pleased either.

"Then you'll need supplies. Food, boots, new bandages. Might take a while to get those ready."

"I don't have coin."

"We didn't ask."

He glanced between them. The man looked toward the woods. The woman looked at him.

"Rhea will want to say goodbye," she said after a moment.

"She doesn't have to."

"She will anyway."

Lindarion didn't answer. Just pulled the coat tighter and turned toward the road that led back to the house.

The woman called after him, voice low but firm.

"Don't vanish before your legs are steady, boy. We've had enough ghosts in this place."

He paused.

Then kept walking.

The snow behind him softened his steps. He didn't look back.

—

Time passed really quickly but the sky hadn't changed much. Still grey. Still waiting for snow.

Lindarion stood near the door, boots laced, coat borrowed. The blanket folded on the bench behind him. Steam rose from the hearth in low, tired curls.

He looked at the man.

"I'll need a weapon."

The man didn't blink. Just finished tying the last knot on the small pack of supplies. A bedroll, some dried meat, two flasks. No armor. No map.

Finally, he straightened.

"What kind?"

"Steel. Balanced. One hand…I'll be happy with anything you have honestly."

The man scratched his beard once, thoughtful. Then turned and disappeared into the next room.

The sound of a chest opening. Some rusted hinges. A bit of shifting.

He came back holding something wrapped in cloth.

"Not much," he said. "But better than a stick."

Lindarion took it. Unwrapped it slow.

The blade was short. Scarred. Grip worn. But the edge had been maintained. The balance was slightly off, but manageable.

It would do.

'It's not bad…they took my sword sadly.'

He gave a short nod. "Thank you."

The man shrugged like it didn't mean anything. "You'll need it."

He didn't argue. Just slid the blade into the side loop of the coat.

The woman passed him the pack.

"You'll want to keep off the roads near the ridge. Snow's thicker there. Wolves too."

He nodded. Slung the pack over his shoulder.

"Thank you. All of you."

The man gave a single nod. The woman said nothing. Just watched him go.

Then he turned.

And walked toward the Gate.

—

Snow hadn't stopped falling.

It came soft at first, just a thin veil over the rooftops. By dawn, it had settled thick across the path leading out of Brenstead, blurring the trail into something less than a road.

Lindarion stood by the gate.

His coat was patched. The scarf knotted at his throat was wool, rough-spun and dyed the color of old ash.

Not his. Nothing he wore was. A pack hung over one shoulder, light but full. Inside were dried roots, bread, a skin of water, flint, cloth. Enough to walk, not enough to stop.

The blade at his hip was dull iron. The kind used for clearing brush or wolves, not men. The man had given it to him with little ceremony.

Just held it out and said it should do. Lindarion hadn't thanked him. He had only taken it.

Now he waited.

Rhea came first. Her boots left crooked prints in the snow. She was bundled in too many layers, face half-swallowed by a scarf. She still looked annoyed.

"You're really leaving."

He didn't correct her.

"You could stay. For a few days, I mean. At least until the weather—"

"I can't."

"You're not fully healed!"

"I'm not dead either."

She narrowed her eyes. Her breath fogged the space between them.

"You're really annoying, you know that?"

He managed the hint of a smile. Barely.

"You're not the first to say it."

Behind her, the woman approached. She carried nothing, but the sleeves of her coat were still dusted with flour.

"You'll head south first," she said. "Follow the creek past the ridge. After that, keep east. Stay away from the valley. Bad footing."

He nodded once. Took the words in like measurements.

"Someone might see you," the man added. "Or not. Most folk don't travel out here this time of year."

"I'll manage."

The man grunted. "You made it out of wherever you came from. I guess you will."

He didn't offer a handshake. Neither did Lindarion.

It felt like enough.

Rhea stepped forward. Her hands were shoved deep into her coat pockets, but her shoulders were tight.

"I still think it's stupid," she said.

"Probably is."

She frowned. Bit her lip. Looked like she wanted to say something else.

Instead, she held out something small. A bundle of cloth. He took it, slowly.

Inside, a charm. Twine. A scrap of something silver.

"For luck," she said. "Not that I think you believe in it."

"I don't."

"Good. That makes two of us."

He tucked it into his coat.

The wind picked up again. The snow had softened under his boots, but it would harden soon. The tracks would vanish.

He looked back at the village once.

Then he turned.

And walked.

The trees waited. The forest didn't welcome. It didn't refuse.

It just was.

He moved through it like something already forgotten. Quiet. Focused.

Behind him, the village faded.

No one called out. No one waved.

And that, he thought, was the kindest thing they could've done.

—

The snow deepened past the treeline. Just a few inches at first. Enough to soak through the seams in his boots. Cold got into the skin that way. Slow, mean.

He didn't stop.

Didn't check behind him.

There'd be nothing to see.

By midday, the trees had spread thin. Pines mostly, tall and crooked, hunched against the weight of the frost.

The wind wasn't sharp yet, just constant. A low hush that threaded itself through the branches like something too tired to speak.

Lindarion kept to the edges of the rise. The trail had long since vanished, but the slope helped. Easier to keep direction when the land tilted underfoot.

The blade at his hip knocked lightly against his thigh with every step. Too short. Too dull. But better than nothing.

His fingers brushed the charm Rhea had given him once, twice. Still there. Still warm from where he'd tucked it against the skin beneath his coat.

'Stupid thing..what will I even do with this.'

He kept it anyway after all that crying.

By evening, he'd found a shallow cave carved into a rockface. Just enough depth to block the wind. No smell. No tracks.

He didn't start a fire. Too much smoke. Too much risk.

Instead, he sat.

Unrolled the bedroll with slow hands. Ate a strip of dried meat without tasting it.

The cold pressed in from the stone. His breath fogged the space in front of him. He wrapped the scarf higher around his face and leaned back against the wall.

Eyes half-open. Muscles loose but ready.

It wouldn't be a full night of sleep.

But he'd survived on less.

The wind outside carried no sound but its own.

He didn't dream at all.

—

He woke just before dawn. Not to noise. Not to cold. Just the kind of silence that made your chest tighten before your eyes opened.

The snow outside was blue under the half-light. That pre-sun color where everything looks like memory instead of fact.

His fingers were stiff.

He flexed them once. Then again. The blanket had slipped to his knees. The bedroll underneath was damp near the edges, soaked through from where the cave's floor angled down.

He didn't shiver.

Didn't speak.

The meat had gone dry in his mouth the night before, but it had done its job. His ribs ached, but it wasn't sharp anymore. Just there. A weight behind each breath.

'Still moving. That's what matters I guess.'

He folded the blanket. Rolled the bedroll again. Shoved both back into the pack without much care. The straps were fraying. He adjusted them twice before they stopped digging into his collar.

He stepped out of the cave.

The wind met him like an old argument. Sharp at first, then dull. It filled his ears, dragged at the ends of his scarf.

He adjusted the blade on his hip.

Still dull. But it was enough for now.

He checked the tracks near the trees. Nothing recent. Just his from the day before, half-swallowed by the night's snowfall.

Good.

He knelt beside a patch of brush. Ran gloved fingers across the stems.

No frostbite. Which meant the snow would soften by midmorning. Travel would be slower. Louder. Easier to track.

He stood again. Stretched the stiffness out of one shoulder with a slow roll.

Then started walking.

South, by feel. The ridge to his right. The wind at his back.

The path wasn't straight. Snowdrifts pushed him off course. Once, he slipped. Caught himself against a bent tree and had to wait for the pain in his side to settle again.

But he didn't stop.

Didn't think about the village. Or the man. Or Rhea.

Didn't think about the voice under the mask or the cell walls or the way his core had felt when it cracked like old glass.

Just moved.

Breath steady.

Hands loose.

He passed a half-frozen stream by midday. Knelt. Drank from the edge. The water tasted like metal and bark.

He didn't care.

The sun never showed its face.

But the light shifted.

Enough to tell him he'd lost another few hours to the snow and the slope and the quiet.

He didn't look up.

Didn't pray.

He wasn't the praying kind.

By dusk, he'd spotted a new landmark. A cut in the ridge. Natural. Just deep enough to offer cover if things got worse.

He headed for it.

And the forest let him.