Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The walk back to the inn didn't take long.

But it felt longer than the fight.

The snow had crusted over again, slick with soot and melted blood. Every step crunched like it was apologizing too late. The cold had shifted, too, not angry now, just numb. Like the wind had burned through all its rage and settled for exhaustion.

Lindarion rolled his shoulder once. It twinged. Not serious. Just annoying. The kind of ache that let you know you were still upright.

Ashwing padded beside him in silence. No huffing. No tail-wagging. Just footsteps, careful and light, claws clicking against stones that used to be part of someone's porch.

The inn still stood.

Technically.

One shutter hung off a hinge like it had given up halfway through trying to flee. A third of the roof was scorched. Smoke curled lazily from a patch where a monster had tried to tear through, left claw marks like someone had been dragging a rake through the thatch.

The sign out front was still there.

Barely.

Burnt around the edges. A single nail holding it up, swaying slightly in the breeze like it wasn't sure if the place qualified as open or closed.

Lindarion stopped at the door.

It wasn't locked.

Not much point, really.

He pushed it open with his shoulder.

The hinges whined.

Inside, the main room was quiet. Not silent just the kind of quiet where everyone knew they were alive and didn't want to make a big deal about it.

The hearth still flickered. Half the logs had burned to coal, but the warmth was steady. It didn't reach the far corners of the room, though. Shadow clung to the ceiling like smoke that never learned to rise.

A few villagers sat at the long bench near the back. Wrapped in cloaks. Heads bowed. One man stared at a chipped mug without drinking.

Ren was at the table closest to the fire, legs stretched, boots off. She was picking dried blood from the side of her face with a disgusted expression.

Ardan sat nearby, sharpening his blade like it personally offended him.

Meren was nowhere in sight.

'Passed out, probably,' Lindarion guessed. 'Or hyperventilating into a blanket.'

He stepped inside.

Ashwing followed.

The room didn't shift when he entered but it paused. Briefly.

A glance here.

A flicker there.

Lindarion nodded once. Not out of habit. Just acknowledgment. 'Let's not get emotional about it.'

He moved toward the hearth.

Dropped onto the bench beside Ren with all the grace of a collapsing roof.

She looked sideways at him. "You look like you wrestled a church bell."

"Feels like I lost."

Ashwing curled beneath the bench, tail wrapping over Lindarion's boots like a living hot stone.

Ren flicked some dried blood off her sleeve. "Where's Lira?"

"Still out. Finishing things."

"Right. Because that's what we do now. We 'finish' things."

He didn't answer.

She didn't press.

Ardan set the whetstone down. Stood. Moved toward the hallway without a word. Probably going to check perimeter damage. Or just find a wall that didn't bleed when you leaned against it.

Ren leaned back, groaning quietly. "We get to leave soon, right?"

"After the rebuild starts."

"I want a rebuild of my spine."

"Talk to Ashwing. He breathes fire now. Might do massages."

Ashwing snorted.

Ren smirked. Only slightly.

Then she looked toward the door again.

Quiet.

"Was it bad?" she asked. "Where you went?"

Lindarion's hands curled around the edge of the bench. The wood felt splintery. Cold.

"Yeah," he said.

She didn't ask more.

Didn't need to.

They sat like that for a while.

Long enough for the fire to settle again.

Long enough for the room to start forgetting, just a little, how much it had lost.

Lindarion leaned forward.

Not because he was tired.

But because upright was too much weight, and he needed the table to hold some of it for a while.

'Tomorrow,' he thought. 'We'll start with tomorrow.'

Because tonight had already asked too much.

—

The door creaked again.

Not a crash. Not even a knock. Just that familiar hinge groan that meant someone wasn't in a hurry but they weren't apologizing either.

Lindarion didn't look up at first.

Didn't need to.

The room shifted.

Just barely. Like a breath held too long and finally let go.

Ren glanced toward the door, one eyebrow arched. "Took her long enough."

Lira stepped inside.

Her cloak was ragged at the hem, one shoulder dark with blood, none of it hers, judging by the way she moved. No limp. No wince. Just that steady weight to her steps like gravity worked harder around her out of respect.

Her blade was still out.

Not drawn.

Just there.

As if she hadn't decided if the fight was over yet.

Ashwing lifted his head. Sniffed. Then flopped back down like 'ah, yes, death and shadows, must be Tuesday.'

Lira didn't speak.

She shut the door behind her with a quiet click, crossed the room in slow, unhurried steps, and set her dagger down on the nearest table.

Metal kissed wood.

Softly.

Then she looked at Lindarion.

Not dramatic. Not accusing. Just… present.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Long enough.

She moved toward the hearth. Stood beside it without sitting. Her hands hovered near the flame, but didn't touch the heat.

Her voice came low. Even.

"It's done."

He didn't ask what she meant.

He knew.

All the monsters were dead. Erased with darkness.

The mage was ash.

The screaming in the trees had stopped.

Still, it took him a second before he said anything.

"Any others out there?"

She shook her head once.

"No survivors."

Ren winced from the table. "Knew it."

Lira glanced at her. Briefly. Then back at the fire.

Lindarion studied her face.

There was dirt on her jawline. A scratch along one temple. Her eyes were shadowed, but clear. No fog. No distant haze.

She was here.

That mattered more than anything she could've said.

He leaned back slightly on the bench. Exhaled through his teeth.