Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The dining hall had always been loud.

Hundreds of mages-in-training packed into one room with too much mana and too little restraint.

Food floated. Half the seating was territorial. The other half was political. And somewhere in the chaos, an actual meal might happen.

But today, it wasn't loud.

Today, it quieted.

Not dramatically. Just enough. Just when he walked in.

'Are they watching me or something?'

Lindarion paused.

Not long.

Long enough to register the shift.

Then he moved to the food line—slow, measured steps—and grabbed a tray. No eye contact. No greetings. He'd never been popular. Never tried to be. Silence suited him better than conversation.

But silence had changed its flavor.

Now, they seemed to be watching him. The people around.

He reached the end of the line with a plate half-filled with things he didn't particularly care to identify. And that was when a voice called out.

"Lindarion. Over here."

It wasn't someone he recognized.

Three students sat near the center of the hall, dressed in neat outfits, their year marked on the outfit. Their uniforms were crisp. Their posture relaxed. Too relaxed.

The one who'd spoken was tall, pale, with shoulder-length blond hair tied loosely at the back of his neck. There was no arrogance in his tone.

Just familiarity.

Familiarity that shouldn't exist.

'Who the hell are they?'

Lindarion turned his head slowly. The three of them were watching him. Smiling. Like old acquaintances meeting again. Like there was some shared understanding between them.

There wasn't.

He didn't move.

"You're the first-year, right?" the blond asked. "We heard about your test with professor Nyx."

Lindarion said nothing.

"Impressive," the girl beside him added, stirring her tea without looking up.

"No hesitation in the transitions. Mana control that clean usually takes years."

"Or some kind of a special bloodline," said the third. Male. Lean. Tired-looking, with eyes like dull steel. "But that wouldn't apply to you, would it?"

'Special bloodline? What does that even mean.'

Lindarion's tray shifted slightly in his grip. His fingers tightened.

"No comment?" the blond asked. "Ah well. No offense meant, of course. We were just…curious."

Curious. The word sounded clean.

But there was something under it. Interest with an edge.

The blond gestured at the empty seat across from him. "Sit. Talk with us. We like to keep an eye on new talents."

"I'm not interested," Lindarion said flatly.

"Oh, I think you will be," said the girl.

It wasn't a threat.

It was a fact.

He held her gaze for one breath. Two.

Then turned, walked away, and sat at a back table alone. His tray clicked softly against the wood.

He didn't eat.

Didn't need to.

He just waited.

Ten seconds passed and then they arrived.

"Wow," said Cassian, dropping into the seat across from him with a tray overflowing with sugar and regret. "You are just collecting enemies on instinct now, huh?"

"I don't know who they are."

Cassian nodded. "Even worse."

"What are their names?" Lindarion asked, his voice was low.

"Blond one's Eryndel Vance. Duelist. His family's got money and swords, and neither have ever made him interesting. The girl's Miren—alchemy specialist, and her mother's on some kind of council. The third one's called Kael something. He's the dangerous one."

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't talk unless he wants something dead."

'Why would he want me dead.'

Lindarion didn't react. "And they're interested in me, I guess."

"Oh, deeply. The prodigy who aced Nyx's personal test? Who came back from a classified mission with a sealed letter? You're their new favorite problem."

'How do they even know about the mission.'

Lindarion looked back toward the trio. They were laughing now. Casually. As if nothing had happened. As if they hadn't just sized him up like a new opponent.

He turned back.

"Let them."

Cassian whistled. "You know, you say things like that and it's almost like you want to be targeted."

Lindarion finally picked up his fork.

"I don't want it," he said quietly. "I just don't care enough to stop it."

—

Lindarion didn't go straight back to his dorm.

Not after attention like that.

He made a loop—down the east corridor, past some old stairs, up two levels to the unused training hall, where only the sound of old hums followed.

Eventually, he ended in the quietest place the academy allowed, the corridor between the archived lecture halls and some kind of restricted library annex.

Not even second-years came this way unless they were hiding something.

He leaned against the cold stone wall.

'Finally some peace and quiet.'

The flickering light caught faint in the trim of his coat.

He closed his eyes.

And relaxed against the wall.

'It's just so perfect—'

Footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate.

Not hostile.

He didn't open his eyes.

Vivienne's voice came quiet and dry. "You have terrible taste in hiding spots."

"I wasn't hiding at all. Who would I even be hiding from?"

"Ah. So standing alone in a dead hallway after publicly refusing the top of the food chain is…what? Meditation?"

He looked at her now.

Vivienne leaned one shoulder against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a candy stick resting on her lip like it was a pipe.

Her sleeves were rolled up. Her hair was twisted into something messy and intentional. And her expression, as always, was unreadable—but focused.

'Did she follow me?'

She hadn't come here by accident.

"…You heard already?" he said.

"Hard not to. Eryndel doesn't talk unless he's trying to bury someone politely. You're this week's social experiment."

"I'm not interested in their politics."

"No one is, until they're inside it."

He didn't respond.

Vivienne uncrossed her arms and stepped forward. "I'm serious. You know how it works here. The top three circles don't bother posturing with words. If they want to make a point, they do it with duels. Favors. Broken limbs."

"I don't care if they want a duel."

"Then you're already losing," she said simply.

He studied her. "You're warning me now?"

"I'm warning you because I've seen this before," she said.

"Talented first-year makes the wrong impression. Refuses the wrong handshake. Suddenly someone leaks their training schedule, gets harassed, and they're stuck sparring against a ranked fifth-year with a grudge."

"I can handle it. It's not a problem at all."

"I know," Vivienne said. "But they don't care if you can. They care if you bleed."

'Everyone bleeds eventually.'

The candy stick cracked softly between her teeth. She didn't look away.

"You shouldn't have been sent on that mission."

'So she also knows?'

He paused. "You heard about that too."

Vivienne's voice lowered slightly. "Everyone who matters knows about it now."

Silence.

Then she stepped back.

"You're strong. Scary strong. But you're not invincible. And you're not untouchable yet. So don't act like you are."

He watched her.

"Why do you care so much?"

Vivienne shrugged. "I don't. But it'd be boring if you got buried before midterms."

And with that, she turned and walked off—boots light against the stone, coat swaying just slightly.

Lindarion stayed where he was.

He didn't smile.

But his hand twitched once at his side.

Then stilled.

—

The classroom was unusually quiet the next day in Mana Studies.

Not just from fear—though that lingered like smoke after battle—but from focus.

Not a single chair creaked. Not even Cassian had managed a quip in five minutes, which Lindarion suspected might qualify as a world-ending omen.

Professor Nyx stood before the class with one arm folded, the other drawing rapid, spiraling marks into the board.

They didn't resemble diagrams. Not at first. Just crude spirals. Sharp turns. Abrupt nodes.

Then—

"Threading," she said without looking at them.

'Sounds similar to my skill.'

Lindarion's eyes were glued on Nyx.

"That's what we call it when the flow of mana aligns so precisely with your nervous system that the perception of time… warps."

Cassian leaned slightly toward Luneth and whispered, "Did she just say 'warp time' like it's a warm-up stretch?"

Luneth didn't even blink. "Shut up."

Nyx flicked her chalk into the tray.

"Don't misunderstand. You're not actually altering time. You're not gods. If you were, you wouldn't be in my class." Her eyes lifted. "Threading is the art of minimizing waste between thought and action. It's what lets you cast the instant your opponent thinks. Dodge before the blade finishes swinging. Fire before they finish breathing in."

A pause.

She turned to the board again and underlined the center of the spiral.

"It's used by duelists. Assassins. Mages who don't trust anyone. And almost none of you will succeed at it."

Cassian, sounding faintly hopeful, raised a hand. "If we don't succeed, do we… die?"

'What the fuck is he saying?'

Lindarion shook his head as Nyx gave Cassian a look, silencing him completely.

He lowered the hand.

"Mana Threading," she continued, "requires perfect harmony between your core and your brain. Which is unfortunate, because most of your brains have the reaction time of dying frogs."

A few nervous students laughed.

She didn't.

"Threading only works in two conditions. First: stillness. Second: imminent death. The more chaotic the moment, the more it stabilizes."

She reached to the side, and with a pulse of mana, summoned six training dummies—thin constructs of enchanted steel and bound leather, far faster than normal. Each bore different weaponry: sabers, spears, unarmed claws.

"The rest of today's lesson," she said calmly, "will be spent watching you all fail at this."

Her smile returned—sharp as a scalpel.

"I've randomized the dummy behavior. They will attack once. Fast. If you fail to thread your mana to react in time, you will be bruised. Possibly concussed. If you succeed—well. I might start considering you as actual mages."