Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 113: Village (2)

Later, when the fire had burned down to a dull red hush, Rhea stood.

"I should go. My mother'll ask."

Lindarion didn't respond. He sat very still. Like the weight of the blanket, the warmth, the food—all of it had only reminded his body how tired it was.

She hesitated near the door. Then, quieter, "If you want more soup, I can bring some later."

He gave the smallest nod. Nothing more.

And she left.

The door closed behind her. A soft sound. Almost polite.

Lindarion didn't move.

The fire cracked once. Then fell quiet. Just the occasional shift of wood settling into ash.

The bench under him creaked when he leaned back. Not much. Just enough to remind him he was still made of bone and blood.

His hands rested on his knees. Still shaking, faintly. Muscles fluttering under the skin like something was trying to get out.

He focused on the stone floor instead. Its texture. The cold seeping through the soles of his boots. Easier than focusing on anything else.

'You're safe now.'

The thought didn't hold. Too clean. Too simple.

Safe was a word for people who hadn't been strapped down and asked what made them scream.

The blanket around his shoulders had slipped to one side. He didn't fix it.

His mana core flickered low. Barely responsive. No strength left to summon. No threads left to manipulate. Just residue. Dull and clotted.

Selene wasn't able to be summoned for now. As she could only exist through him.

And right now, there wasn't much of him left.

He exhaled slowly. It didn't feel like relief.

His ribs still ached. Deep. Sharp. Like something had been broken and then twisted just enough to stay memorable.

The bowl sat empty near the hearth.

A good meal. A roof. Heat. All of it just made the contrast worse.

He'd crawled out of a different world and landed in this one. Nothing in between.

He looked at his hands. One still wrapped in a blood-stained strip of cloth. The other bare. Bruised around the knuckles. Dirt under the nails.

He'd cleaned them. They still looked like they belonged to someone else.

A floorboard creaked overhead.

Someone moving. Maybe the woman. Maybe Rhea.

Didn't matter.

He wasn't planning to be here long.

Caldris. The name echoed faintly. A northern borderland. Sparse population. Independent villages. No formal allegiance to any court.

Which meant no reinforcements.

No alliances.

No safety net.

Just cold. And silence. And the kind of people who didn't ask what you were running from as long as you kept your head down.

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He could work with that.

The fire shifted again. Threw a long shadow up the wall. It looked like a blade for half a second.

He blinked.

It wasn't.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Just long enough to reset something behind them.

A few hours. That's all he needed. Enough for the core to start mending. Enough to walk again without a limp.

Then he'd move.

No destination yet. Just the need to put distance between himself and whatever came next.

He knew better than to believe this was over.

People like that didn't let go.

They circled.

Waited.

Tested the edges until they found the softest part.

And then they struck again.

Lindarion leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. Shoulders hunched.

The blanket slid off the bench and pooled on the floor. He didn't pick it up.

His breath came slow. Steady. The only rhythm he could trust.

He listened to the fire die.

And waited.

—

Footsteps. Slower. Heavier.

Not Rhea coming back.

A second figure entered the room. Older. Broader. Fur-lined coat still dusted with snow. Boots wet across the threshold.

He didn't say anything at first. Just looked.

A long look. The kind people gave when trying to decide whether to call for help or get the shovel.

"You're the elf," the man said finally.

Lindarion didn't answer. Just raised his head.

The man studied him. Blue eyes, faded and sharp at once. Short beard. Burn marks across the knuckles. The smell of iron clung to him. A smith or something close.

"You hurt?" he asked.

Lindarion gave the smallest nod.

"Where from?"

He hesitated. Not from caution. Just calculation.

"North," he said.

"North of what?"

"Does it matter?"

The man's brow lifted slightly. "No. Just polite."

Lindarion shifted on the bench. The blanket tugged under his leg.

The man stepped closer. Sat across from him. Not hostile. Just practical.

"You got a name?"

"Lindarion."

Something flickered behind the man's eyes. Not recognition. Not yet. Just a notch of attention being carved deeper.

He leaned back slightly. Chair creaked under the weight.

"My wife said you walked into town like a ghost. No coat. No weapon. Covered in blood."

"She forgot the frostbite."

The man snorted once. Dry sound.

"You military?"

"No."

"Runaway?"

Lindarion didn't answer.

The silence stretched.

Then the man shrugged once. Wiped his hands on his coat.

"Not my business," he said. "But if you bring trouble here, it becomes mine."

"I don't plan on staying."

"Good. No offense."

"None taken."

The fire popped once. A single coal fell inward. Glow dimmed slightly.

"You heal fast?" the man asked.

"Yes. Fast enough."

"Then rest. One day. Maybe two. But after that, you move on."

Lindarion nodded once. That was fair. Generous, even.

The man stood. Didn't offer a hand. Didn't offer thanks.

Just looked down at him a second longer.

"You got the look of someone being hunted," he said.

Lindarion didn't flinch.

The man didn't wait for a reply.

He turned and left. The door shut behind him. Fir wood against iron hinges.

Lindarion leaned forward again. Elbows on knees. Hands loose.

The room smelled of ash and wool and pine smoke.

He closed his eyes.

Only for a second.

—

The warmth didn't come all at once. It crept in slow, curling around his ribs, dulling the ache in his legs. The kind of warmth that didn't ask questions. Just settled.

Lindarion slept. Not deeply. Not well. But long enough for his body to stop shivering.

When his eyes opened, the fire was a low pulse in the hearth. Orange light across stone. The blanket had slipped. His hands were stiff again.

Outside, wind pressed against the shutters. Not harsh. Just constant.

He sat up.

No pain sharp enough to stop him. Just the kind that reminded him everything still worked. Barely.

His coat had been moved. Folded on a nearby chair. Still torn, but cleaner than before. Someone had stitched the collar. Badly.

There was bread on the table. Hard, but warm. A cup beside it. Water, not tea.

He didn't touch them right away. Just sat, elbows on knees, head low.

'Still here.'

No visions. No voices. No shadow-creatures tearing through walls. Just the hum of tired joints and quiet breath.

The door creaked open.

Rhea again. Same too-long sleeves. Same quiet curiosity.

"You're awake."

He nodded.

She pointed at the food. "Mom said you should eat."

He reached for the bread. Broke it in half. Steam still rose faintly from the center.

"You sleep like the dead," she added.

"Thank you for the compliment."

She grinned at that, then leaned against the table, watching him eat like it was a performance.

"Do you elves always look like you hate being alive?"

He didn't answer.

Rhea didn't seem to need one.

"My dad says you'll be gone soon," she said. "He doesn't want trouble."

Lindarion chewed. Swallowed. "He's right."

"You're going to leave without saying goodbye?"

He looked at her then. Tired. Not unkind. Just honest.

"That depends," he said.

"On?"

"If I'm still alive by then."

Rhea didn't flinch. Just pulled out the same stool and sat.

"You're weird," she said.

"I know."

They sat there. A quiet room. Two mismatched pieces in the wrong part of the map.

Lindarion finished the bread. Drank the water in one go. Every swallow hurt.

But it helped.

Tomorrow, he'd need to move..

—

The door creaked open. Cold edged in.

The woman stepped through first. Coat buttoned. Hair pinned back. Tired but put together. Behind her came the man.

He ducked slightly through the frame, hands dusted with woodshavings. He'd been working already. The smell of fresh pine clung to him.

Lindarion sat up from the bench. Slowly. Blanket slipping to the floor.

The man gave a short nod. Not warm. Not unfriendly either.

"You walk yet?"

Lindarion moved his legs off the bench. Put one foot down. Then the other.

"Good enough."

The man glanced at the woman. She shrugged. No signal passed between them. Just habit.

"Come on," the man said. "You'll see the place."

Lindarion reached for the edge of the bench. Stood. His balance held. Barely.

"No cloak," he said.

The woman tossed him a coat from a peg near the door. Heavy wool. A bit long. Lined with rough stitching. It hit his knees and smelled faintly of smoke and rain.

"Belonged to my brother," the man said. "Don't lose it."

"I won't."

They stepped outside. The morning was pale and sharp, the kind of cold that crept under the collar and stayed there. Lindarion squinted against the wind.

The village was quieter than yesterday. A few doors open. A boy with a sled dragging firewood. A woman feeding hens with bare fingers.

No one called out.

But eyes followed.

"Most don't know what to make of you," the man said.

"I don't blame them."

He kept walking. Snow crunched underfoot. The coat helped. Not enough.

"This way," the woman said.

They took him past the well. Past the edge of the square. Down a narrow trail between the houses. Fences leaning sideways. Firewood stacked high. Chimneys puffing slow smoke like breath.

"This is Brenstead," the man said.

Lindarion didn't answer.

"Thirty-two families. We trade twice a month. Maybe less in snow season."

The woman pointed. "School's there. Only open three days a week. No mage instructor."

"Not much use for one," the man added. "Too far from the towers. Too many rules."

Lindarion looked at the school. One room. One stove.

"And this," the woman said, turning toward a crooked path that curved uphill, "is the hill where we bury the old and burn the worse."

Lindarion glanced at her.

"Better to know."

He nodded once. Kept moving.

They passed a pen full of goats. An old shrine with the paint long worn off. A frozen stream that wound between the trees and vanished beneath the snow.

Children peeked out from a doorway as they walked past. One of them ducked back too quickly. Another didn't.

"They'll get used to you," the man said.

"I won't be here long."

The woman raised an eyebrow.

"You sure about that?"

Lindarion didn't answer.