Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 112: Village (1)

He woke with his cheek in the snow.

Blinked once. Then again.

White above. White below. Cold pressing in from every side. A slow burn through his ribs when he moved.

Not dead.

Close, maybe. But not dead.

He rolled onto his back. Breath shallow. Chest tight.

No stars. Just grey sky, thin and cracked through a canopy of bare trees. He didn't recognize them. Didn't try.

'Focus.'

Fingers first. Then toes.

Both worked. Sluggish, but functional.

He sat up.

Pain lit through his side like a wire pulled too tight. He didn't make a sound. Just held still. Waited.

The forest didn't move.

Wind, soft. Snow, falling steady. No footprints. No heat signatures. No birds. Nothing that breathed.

'Safe enough for now.'

For now.

He took inventory by touch. No blade. No cloak. Just the inner layer of his uniform, scorched at the collar and frozen stiff at the sleeves.

Mana core dim. Not silent, but close. Like a wick under water.

He wouldn't be casting anything soon.

'Shelter..I need a shelter..'

That was the only word that mattered.

Not where. Not how.

Just find it.

He stood. Swayed. Right knee buckled, caught himself on the trunk of a nearby pine.

Sharp bark. Frostbitten fingers.

He started walking anyway.

North? South? Didn't matter. Direction came second to terrain.

He looked for shade. For broken earth. For outcroppings or ruined stone or anything that suggested the wind might hit something else before it hit him.

It was slow.

Measured.

Each step a question his body answered too late.

But he moved.

And the forest let him.

He didn't think about the others.

Not yet.

He didn't think about the man behind the mask, or the blade under the table, or the voice that had called him by name like it owned the right.

That was for later.

Now—only the cold.

The way it made his breath ragged.

The way it peeled sound out of the air.

He found a hollow beneath the roots of a fallen tree.

Just big enough to crawl into.

He checked it once. No scent. No droppings. No blood.

He sat inside.

Pulled his knees up.

Lowered his head.

Didn't close his eyes.

Not yet.

Let the cold come.

He'd survived worse at this point.

The forest stretched on.

No roads. No paths. No signs.

Just snow. Bark. The occasional stretch of dead brambles clawing at his legs.

Still no people.

'It's way too quiet.'

Which meant he was somewhere bad or somewhere forgotten.

Both worked.

He crested a ridge near dusk. A low one—nothing more than a slope of packed ice and frost-heavy brush.

And that's when he saw it.

Smoke.

Thin, rising from behind a bend in the treeline. No flare. No color. Just a steady grey thread curling into the sky.

He didn't stop walking.

Didn't think twice.

If it was a trap, he was already too far gone to run.

He reached the edge of the forest line.

And there it was.

A Small village.

Honestly, the village wasn't much. A crooked trail of timber and stone houses clustered against the cold. Nothing carved into the wood.

No sigils. No guards. Just a line of smoke and the heavy silence of people who didn't ask questions unless they had to.

'Finally…'

Lindarion stepped out of the trees.

He didn't try to hide. No point.

His cloak was torn. His coat worse. Hair stiff with frost and blood.

The kind of image that didn't look like a storybook elf, but something that had crawled out of a forgotten war.

He didn't look at the houses. Just kept walking toward the center.

The sound of chopping stopped.

Some old man in a leather apron stood frozen by a firewood pile. Eyes wide. Axe half-lowered.

A door creaked open to Lindarion's left.

A young girl stepped out, holding a broom. She took one look at him, turned, and ran back inside without a word.

Another door opened.

Then another.

Whispers now.

Low. Uneven.

"That's an elf—"

"No, it can't be—look at his ears—"

"He's hurt."

Lindarion didn't stop.

Didn't speak.

His boots left red on the snow.

At the well, he leaned against the stone rim. Let his weight settle there.

The villagers didn't come close.

Not yet.

They gathered in a loose half-circle near the edge of the square. Eight. Maybe ten. Some with tools still in hand.

No weapons, but tension thick in the way they stood. One step back. Two hands gripped on a shovel. A lantern clutched too tight.

Then a woman stepped forward.

Older than him. Maybe thirty. Thick coat, stitched with rabbit fur. Boots caked in snow. A practical kind of face. Not cruel. Not kind. Just tired.

She stopped five paces away.

Didn't reach for anything.

"You alright?"

He didn't answer.

Not at first.

Then, finally he spoke up.

"I'm not here to rob you."

Her brow twitched. "Didn't think you were."

"I need somewhere to sit," he said.

"You're doing that."

He exhaled, slow. The well's rim was rough under his fingers.

"Food?" he asked. "Water?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Just looked him over.

Then back at the cluster of villagers. One of them whispered something. She ignored it.

Finally, she gestured toward a building near the back of the square. Sloped roof. Stone walls. Looked warmer than it had any right to be.

"Come on."

He didn't thank her.

Didn't have the energy.

Just followed.

Inside, the air hit too fast. He blinked once. Twice. The room swayed under his feet. He caught himself on the wall.

She noticed. Didn't comment.

"Sit," she said.

He did.

A bench near the hearth.

She grabbed a ladle from a pot by the fire. Filled a wooden bowl with something thick and dark. Handed it to him without ceremony.

Lindarion held it.

Steam rose into his face.

He didn't eat right away.

The woman sat across from him. Arms folded.

"So," she said after a beat, "we're really doing this…I guess."

He looked up.

She studied him.

Eyes steady.

"You're an elf."

'And you're observant?'

"Yes," he said.

"That's rare."

'I figured..'

"No one's seen your kind out here in… ever."

He nodded once. Took a bite of the stew.

It burned the roof of his mouth.

Didn't care.

"I'm not here to cause problems," he said.

"Bit late for that," she replied, but her tone wasn't sharp.

"You want to tell me how you got here?"

"No."

She blinked. Took that better than most would've.

"You got a name?"

"Lindarion."

That changed something. Barely. A flicker in her eyes. A pause in her breath.

"Like the Prince of the Sunblade family?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

She leaned back.

"Right. Alright."

No bow. No wide-eyed awe. Just a village woman trying to figure out what kind of storm just landed in her house.

"You're lucky," she said finally. "If the traders had seen you first, they might've sold your ears for coin."

'Right.'

He glanced at her.

She wasn't smiling.

He took another bite.

The warmth settled into his ribs, slow and painful.

His hands still shook.

The woman watched him finish half the bowl.

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

Then stood.

"I'll get you a blanket," she said. "You can rest here. For now."

He didn't thank her.

Didn't have the words.

But when she came back, he took the blanket.

And when she closed the door behind her, he let himself lean forward.

Elbows on his knees.

Breath shallow.

'Safe. For now, I think.'

But perhaps not for long.

A girl stood by the doorway. Her shoes left faint, wet marks across the floor. Wind pushed against the shutters, soft and rhythmic, like someone breathing through their teeth.

"You're really an elf?" she asked.

Lindarion didn't look at her right away. The fire crackled unevenly in the hearth, too small for the size of the room.

His blanket was coarse, wool, and smelled faintly of smoke and damp wood. His shoulders stayed hunched.

He answered without looking up. "Yes."

The girl moved closer. Not hesitating. Just curious.

"You don't look like I thought you would," she said.

"I mean, not bad. Just… different."

He shifted slightly, the blanket pulling tight across his back. His joints ached in that deep, worn-out way that came after magic overuse.

Every part of his body felt slightly off-center. Nothing broken. Everything used.

"Do you always talk this much to people who show up half-dead at your door?" he asked.

The girl grinned. Sat on a stool across from him like they were halfway through a conversation instead of starting one.

"I'm Rhea," she said.

He blinked once. Slowly.

"Lindarion."

"That sounds long and boring."

"It isn't."

Rhea folded her arms over her knees, watching him like he might flicker out if she looked away.

"You came out of the woods," she said. "We thought you were some kind of an undead being."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, I figured."

The fire popped. A single ember drifted up before dying.

She didn't ask what happened to him. Didn't ask why his face looked like it had been dragged through frozen gravel, or why the bandages on his hands were new but already soaked through in places.

After a moment, he spoke again. "Where are we?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "You don't know?"

"I wouldn't ask if I did."

Rhea shrugged, scratching the side of her head. Her sleeves slipped down again, too long for her arms.

"You're in Brenstead. Village on the edge of Caldris."

Lindarion blinked. A faint throb passed behind his eyes.

Caldris..the most isolated nation. The frozen wasteland..

He remembered the map from geography class.

He breathed once. Shallow.

'Perfect..How will I ever get back from here.'

"You know it?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You were trying to get here?"

"No."

"Then…"

"I didn't really have a choice."

Rhea looked like she wanted to ask what that meant. Then decided not to.

Silence settled in again. Not awkward. Just quiet. The kind that left space around the words that had already been said.

Outside, the wind had picked up. He could hear it running past the eaves, dry leaves scraping along the stone path outside.

He shifted again. The blanket pulled tighter. His fingers flexed once beneath the rough wool. Still numb.

Rhea stayed there on the stool. Legs crossed, eyes thoughtful. She didn't try to fill the silence again.

Lindarion was grateful for that.