Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The cut wasn't wide. Just a seam in the hill, half-swallowed by snow. Sloped down at a shallow angle. Sparse brush on the rim. Broken stone. Some moss. No tracks.

He stepped in.

Boots slipped once. Loose gravel under the crust of frost. He caught the ridge wall with one hand. Glove scraped. Didn't tear.

No wind down here.

Quiet.

He moved slower now. Left hand brushing the stone. Right on the grip of the blade. Dull iron, but weighty. Comfort more than defense.

The cut dipped another few feet, then leveled out. A shelf of flat stone hugged the far side. Low ceiling above. Old tree roots split the wall near the top. Dead vines.

He waited there. Still. Listening.

Nothing but the shift of snow behind him.

He crouched. Pack slipped off with a soft pull. Laid it beside him. Fingers checked the seams.

Tight. No holes.

He opened it. Bread, wrapped. Dried meat. Roots. Flasks sealed with waxed string.

He didn't eat. Just counted.

Then slid the pack shut again.

Waited.

The cold was different in here. Less sharp. Heavy in the lungs.

He unslung the blade. Held it against his knee. Turned it once, slow.

No reflection in the steel. No edge on the back. The grip had come loose—just a little.

'Still cuts if you hold it right.'

He leaned forward. Scanned the slope above. Nothing moved. No birds. No branches creaking. Just the slow sound of his own breath.

He stayed like that. A few minutes, maybe more.

Then he put the blade back.

And kept still.

—

The slope ended in a dip of stone. Uneven. Narrow. One side walled by frost-split rock, the other cluttered with dead brush. Snow had drifted in soft layers down the center.

Lindarion crouched. Touched the stone with one glove. Cold, dry. No prints.

He stepped inside.

The ridge curled behind him. Wind muffled. Air heavy. Snow caught on the edge of his hood but didn't fall farther. The silence felt packed in. Denser than it should be.

He moved slow.

Each step shallow. Each boot placed on stone, not snow. No crunch. The slope angled slightly to the left.

Opened into a short ledge beneath a rock shelf. Just wide enough to crouch under. Just tall enough to stand if he kept his head low.

He paused there. Scanned the dark above.

No movement.

No drip of melt. No wind hiss. Just quiet.

He turned sideways, slid in. Let the pack drop beside him without sound. Sat. Back against the wall. Knees pulled close.

The stone sucked heat fast.

He didn't light a fire.

Didn't unwrap food.

Just opened the coat at the collar. Fingers brushed the charm. Still there.

'Feels warmer than it should.'

He didn't take it out.

Instead, he unlatched the pack. Quiet hands. One by one. Checked contents. Bread, dry but whole. The root wrapped in wax paper. Water skin mostly full. One cloth bundle. Bloodstained. Not fresh.

He took it out.

Opened it slow.

The bandage inside was stiff. Dried through. The rip along his left side had stopped leaking. But the skin under the coat still pulled when he turned.

'Three more days maybe. If nothing opens again.'

He rewound the cloth. Pressed it back in. Tightened the strap. Pulled the coat shut.

He let the blade rest across his lap.

Not sharp. Not fine. But solid.

He checked the grip again. Still loose at the base. No fix for it out here.

His breath fogged once, then vanished.

The cold wasn't sharp in this place. Just patient.

He leaned his head back. Eyes half-lidded. Muscles loose. But not asleep.

Couldn't afford that yet.

The longer he stayed still, the more it felt off.

Not dangerous. Not loud.

Just… too quiet.

Like something waiting to be heard.

—

He left the ridge at first light.

Didn't speak. Didn't check the sky.

Snow sat quiet across the path behind him. His prints had sunk overnight. The top layer had crusted. Thin, sharp.

He stepped with care. Kept the coat tight. Let the scarf ride high on his face.

The trees were denser on this side. Pines mostly. Some bare. Some holding snow like breath that wouldn't leave.

He walked slow.

Let the weight of each step press straight down. No drag. No slide.

The wind was gone now. Just the hush of old branches. No birds.

Good cover. Bad feeling.

By midday, the light had changed. Slight. Just enough to throw soft glare off the drifts near the roots.

He paused near a long slope.

Snow there had shifted. Not much. Just wrong.

He crouched. Pressed his hand to a patch near a low bush.

Indentation. Too shallow to be full weight. Heel mark at the edge.

Someone had stepped there, then moved off.

He looked back.

Nothing.

Just trees. Just the dip where he came from. No sound behind him.

He kept moving.

Didn't speed up. Didn't slow down.

Just let the rhythm settle again.

Fifteen paces farther. Maybe twenty.

Another break.

Thin branch lying in the snow.

It wasn't snapped where it fell. It was placed. Clean break. No scatter. Aligned too neatly with the edge of the path.

He stared at it a long time.

Then stepped around it.

Further on, a new kind of sign.

A leaf. Mid-sized. Brown. Not local. Not from any tree nearby.

Pressed flat on a rock. No snow on it. No dusting.

He stopped.

'That's definitely some kind of bait.'

Not to draw him in. Just to show presence.

Whoever was following wasn't hunting for real. Not yet.

Not hiding either.

He kept walking.

Blade at his hip shifted with each step. Dull, familiar sound.

His ribs ached on the left side. He didn't touch them.

Didn't touch the charm either.

The forest ahead was deeper. Darker at the base. The light above had gone thin and colorless.

He didn't stop.

Didn't blink more than needed.

The snow near his boots stayed even.

But he felt it now. Like pressure between the shoulder blades.

Someone was behind him.

And they wanted to be noticed.

—

He kept walking.

Let the slope guide him down.

The trees pressed close on both sides now. Some bent. Some hollow at the base. No wind here. No sound but his boots.

The snow had gone soft again. Not slush. Just broken. Pliable underfoot.

He adjusted his steps. Slightly wider now. Left foot heavy, right foot lighter. It left a pattern. Looked natural.

But it wasn't his real gait.

Another twenty paces. Then he stopped near a boulder.

Crouched low. Pressed a palm to the ground behind it. Then dragged it slightly forward. A smear. Fresh. Footprint-shaped.

He stood again. Looked ahead. Then turned, slow, and stepped sideways into the trees.

Off the false path.

Real steps now. Silent as he could manage.

He moved parallel to the trail for a minute. Maybe more.

Then paused.

Listened.

Nothing.

Not even breath.

He dropped to one knee.

Stayed still.

The forest didn't shift. Didn't whisper.

But it watched.

He stayed there longer. Waiting.

The cold seeped into his shin where it touched the ground. He didn't move.

Finally, he stood again. Quiet. Careful.

He looped back.

Farther north this time.

Let the land guide him in a shallow arc.

When he crossed his own trail again, it was untouched.

No one had stepped into the false prints yet.

But that didn't mean they weren't watching.

He walked ten more steps. Eyes on the trees now. Not the ground.

And there it was.

A single stem. Bent. Just slightly. Right height for a shoulder. The angle was wrong for animal movement.

He touched it. Gloved fingers.

Still warm.

He pulled his hand back.

Didn't draw his blade. Not yet.

The urge was there.

But whoever this was, they weren't rushing.

Not careless. Not hunting for food.

They were waiting.

Tracking.

And they wanted him to know.

He didn't go far.

Two ridges over. Shallow rise, half-covered in old pine needles. The snow didn't sit right here. Broken patches of earth in the hollow. No footprints.

He checked the wind. West. Still.

Good enough.

He found a tree with three trunks. Close together. One of them leaned forward like it wanted to fall but hadn't decided how.

He set his pack down in the crook between root and trunk.

Scanned the treeline again. Nothing.

No movement. No breath but his.

He crouched low and dug through the bottom flap of the pack.

String. A bit of twine. Not proper wire. Just enough tension.

He unwrapped the charm next. Rhea's. Twine looped through silver. A knot at the center. Small weight.

He hesitated.

'Stupid.'

Tied it anyway.

Tensioned it between two branches just off the trail. Knee-height. Nothing a beast would catch. But a person might.

He braced one stick in the snow and looped the charm above it. Balanced. Just enough to fall if the line moved.

Not a trap. Not even a snare.

Just a message.

'You stepped here.'

He backed away slow. Checked the path from all angles. No fresh signs. No glow.

Still didn't feel right.

He moved to a thicket opposite the tree. Flat ground. Good line of sight. He didn't sit. Just crouched. Blade across his knees. Scarf pulled high. Hood forward.

The sky above was flat and dim. No stars.

Not night yet. Not full dark. Just that grey weight before both.

He stayed still.

Eyes open. Breath slow.

His ribs ached again. Old pain. Flared sharp when he twisted to check the far side of the tree.

He didn't reach for the core. It felt like broken glass anyway. Couldn't draw from it. Not safely.

He watched the charm instead.

Held his breath once. Twice.

Nothing moved.

He stayed crouched.

Waited.

'They're not some randoms. That's clear.'

Another breath.

'Not local either. The locals here definitely don't tail children through frost without fire or noise.'

He blinked. Vision still sharp.

The charm shifted once in the breeze. Settled.

He adjusted his grip on the blade.

'So. Who are they?'

The wind changed slightly. Not direction. Just tone.

A low scrape across bark. Then gone.

His heart didn't spike. Didn't drop either.

He held still.

Listened.

One breath at a time.