Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The charm didn't move again.

It hung crooked on the line, still catching faint gusts.

He shifted his weight by inches. Left knee ground deeper into frozen needles. Right hand stayed loose across the blade hilt.

Breath shallow. Controlled.

He watched.

Waited.

The dark thickened. Not true night. Just enough to make the trees bleed into each other. Enough to lose depth.

Snow dusted down in light spits. Barely touched the ground before vanishing.

He blinked slow.

Eyelids heavier than he wanted.

'Stay awake.'

He bit the inside of his cheek. Felt the blood come up. Coppery. Sharp.

Better than sleep.

He adjusted the scarf higher. Let it cover the raw edge of skin under his jaw.

Still no sound.

Still no movement.

The cold worked past the coat now. Seeped under the collar, along his ribs. Fine tremors touched his fingers. Not enough to matter yet.

He breathed against the cloth. Slow. Careful.

The blade stayed across his knees.

The charm hung steady.

Then.

A shift.

Not a sound exactly. More a pressure.

A touch to the air itself.

Small.

Precise.

The twine pulled. Less than an inch.

The charm tipped.

Fell.

Hit the stick with a sound too small for human ears.

But he heard it.

He was already moving.

Weight forward. Blade drawn. Body low. Center of gravity tucked near the ground.

Nothing broke the silence. No cry. No curse. No clumsy footfalls in the brush.

Whoever it was had felt the trap snap.

And they froze.

Smart.

He kept still too.

Breath held.

The snow absorbed sound like cloth.

Seconds bled out, slow and heavy.

He scanned the treeline.

Shapes blurred. Branches. Hollow trunks. Long shadows of stone.

No figure.

No gleam of eye or steel.

Still.

He waited.

Heartbeat slow. Barely a pulse against the side of his throat.

'Close. Way closer than before.'

The way the charm had fallen, it had been a rightward pull.

He pivoted slightly. Blade low to the earth. Elbow tight to his ribs.

The cold gnawed at his side where the old wound hadn't closed fully. A dampness there. Not bleeding yet. But waiting.

He let the pain settle.

Let it anchor him.

Another shift in the air.

Tiny.

A breath drawn too sharp.

A boot pivoted slow against snow.

Close. Thirty feet maybe. Maybe less.

He adjusted his stance. Let the blade tilt, not flash.

No light to catch the metal.

He closed his eyes a moment.

Listened.

The figure wasn't rushing. Wasn't even retreating.

Hovering at the edge.

Testing.

Same as him.

He opened his eyes again.

The snow between them looked flat. Harmless.

It lied.

He thought about calling out.

About drawing them into mistake.

Decided against it.

'No words. Not yet.'

He shifted his left foot. Quarter-inch.

Closer to the center line of the trunk he crouched against.

Better cover.

Blade balanced lightly across his right thigh.

The cold ate into his legs now.

Not a tremor yet.

But close.

He could feel the burn gathering at the base of his spine. The kind of fatigue that did not speak loud. Just waited to take.

He breathed against the scarf again.

Soft. Measured.

The figure in the trees moved a fraction.

The way snow dampened the crackle said they were light. Not fully armored. Not a heavy fighter.

Scout. Or mage. Or worse.

'Someone trained…?'

Another heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

A crow called from somewhere distant. Not close enough to be warning.

He pressed the back of his hand against the ground.

Snow had hardened here.

No real cover if it came to a charge.

But he could force it.

Force the angle.

Force them into open ground.

He shifted the blade in his grip.

Grip high.

Shorten the swing.

Save the core for last.

It still felt like broken glass inside him.

If he tried to draw on it now, the backlash would tear him apart before he hit the first note.

He didn't move yet.

Didn't even breathe harder.

Waited.

Again.

'Let them make the first noise.'

The charm had fallen to the side now, half-buried in snow.

A silver glint. Still.

Rhea's stupid charm.

Somehow, it mattered now.

Another footfall.

Softer this time.

Cautious.

Moving left.

Circling.

'Smart bastard.'

He let his knees flex.

Let his balance shift.

The figure kept circling. Trying to find the gap. The weakness.

Not knowing he had already found them first.

He breathed once more into the scarf.

Short. Steady.

Eyes narrowed against the cold.

'Closer.'

Another shift of weight.

Another break in the pattern of snow.

Fifteen feet now. Maybe less.

He gripped the blade.

And he moved first.

Weight low. Blade forward.

Silent.

The snow gave under his boots. Shallow crunch. Nothing loud.

He came at an angle. Forced the line tighter. Closed the open ground between them faster than the figure expected.

The figure jerked back.

Hesitation.

That was the only mistake.

Lindarion drove the point forward. Not a thrust. Just a hard step to make space collapse.

The figure recovered fast. Duck. Slide back on the off foot. Cloak swinging close to the ground. No sound.

Good.

Trained.

Better.

He pivoted, dragging the blade across the lower line of attack. A defensive slice. Not a full cut. Not meant to connect. Meant to test.

The figure moved with it. Glided backward toward a patch of broken roots.

Light on their feet.

Shorter than him by a little. Stocky frame. Covered in dark fabric. Hood low.

No clear glint of weapon yet.

He followed.

Not fast.

Measured.

Each step timed.

He let the blade lower again. Kept it loose. Opened the stance slightly.

Invitation.

The figure shifted weight onto the forward leg.

Testing too.

Smart.

He gripped the blade tighter. Loose wrap across the hilt.

The figure darted forward.

Low angle. No cry. No shout.

A glint at their side.

Blade.

Short, curved. Not meant for slashing. Meant for puncture.

They struck at the ribs.

He turned into it. Let the blade scrape shallow across the coat. Felt the tug at the old wound.

Pain flared. Sharp. Bright.

He ignored it.

Pivoted.

Countered with a low elbow across the figure's shoulder.

Connection solid. Bone jar.

The figure staggered half a step. Regained footing fast.

No opening.

He didn't chase.

Let them recover.

Measured the distance again.

Both breathing light.

Controlled.

They circled once.

Twice.

Each looking for the faultline.

Each refusing to give it.

He shifted the blade back to a high guard.

Short grip.

No flourish.

The cold gnawed at his wrist now. Dull pain across the back of the hand.

The figure moved first this time.

A feint.

Right step. Dip of the shoulder. Flash of blade high.

He didn't take it.

Let the motion pass.

Stepped to the side.

Let them overextend.

The figure corrected fast. No stumble. Sharp pivot.

He smiled behind the scarf.

Small. Bitter.

'Good. Better that way.'

The gap widened again.

Fifteen feet. Breath hanging between them. Shallow clouds. Two animals locked without noise.

'So he isn't a mage..?'

He shifted weight back onto his heels.

Lowered the blade half an inch.

The figure mirrored him.

A test of patience now.

He felt the old pain gnaw at his side.

Ignored it.

The charm around his neck bumped once against his sternum with each breath.

Still warm.

Still there.

The figure crouched lower.

Blade reversed now. Held backhanded.

'Trying to rush.'

He didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Waited.

The forest around them stayed still.

Watching.

The moment stretched thin.

Another second.

Another.

Then.

Movement.

The figure moved.

Fast.

A sprint over short snow. Blade low. Shoulders tight.

He shifted stance. No flourish. Just balance. Tight grip. Left foot forward.

The figure closed the gap in four strides.

Aiming high now. Throat.

He dropped low.

Weight into the knees.

Blade snapped upward. Short arc.

The figure twisted midstep. Blade skimmed Lindarion's shoulder. Caught coat, not skin.

He twisted with them.

Drove a shoulder into the figure's ribs.

Solid contact. Not enough to break anything. Enough to stagger.

He kept moving.

No time for a second hit.

The figure spun. Recovered fast.

Short blade flashed in a tight hook toward his side.

He pulled the coat tighter. Let the blade catch the fold instead of skin.

Fabric tore.

Pain licked along the old wound. Not deep. Not yet.

He ignored it.

Pivoted off his back foot. Let the momentum carry him sideways.

Cold air burned his lungs.

The figure advanced.

No hesitation.

Good footwork. Kept weight low. Right hand blade. Left hand loose.

No visible magic.

Or hiding it well.

He breathed against the scarf. Shallow.

The distance between them snapped closed again.

A clash of grips.

Steel struck against steel.

Not a loud sound. Just a dull hit, muted by frost and fabric.

The figure tried to drive him back.

Tight steps. Blade pressing.

He gave ground carefully. Quarter-inch at a time. No panic. No stumble.

Let them think they were winning space.

The charm inside his coat bumped against his ribs again.

Each heartbeat slower now. Measured.

The figure feinted left.

He didn't take it.

Shifted weight onto his back leg.

Let them overcommit.

Blade angle wrong. Overexposed.

He moved in.

Small step. Barely more than a breath.

Blade snapped up. Caught the inside of their forearm.

Not deep.

But it bled.

A dark line against pale skin where the sleeve ripped.

The figure hissed low.

More instinct than anger.

They jumped back. Reset stance.

He stayed still.

Breath calm.

Blade steady.

He watched the blood bead and fall.

Small drops. Quick.

Not a huge wound. Not enough.

But a mark.

'I'll cut you down sooner or later.'

The figure flexed the hand once. Testing grip. Still strong.

Good.

He didn't want it easy.

He rolled his shoulder once. The cut on his side burned bright. Not fatal. Not yet slowing him.

The forest around them stayed silent.

Even the birds had given up on sound.

The figure circled again.

Smaller now.

Less confident.

Measured.

He shifted his feet. Blade tip low. Ready.

Blood dripped between them. Spattered dark across the crusted snow.

Neither spoke.

Words were useless here.

Only movement mattered.