Reincarnated as an Elf Prince
Chapter 199 - 199: Funeral (1)

Lira finally sat. Not near them. Not far. Just… adjacent. Like she wanted to be part of the room without asking for it.

No one said anything for a minute.

Then Ren broke the silence.

"You vaporized that guy."

"I did."

"Impressive."

"He earned it."

"Yeah. Fair."

Lindarion rubbed his eyes. The glow from the fire cast thin shadows across the table. They looked like cracks.

"How long until the next thing crawls out of the woods?" he asked.

"Not tonight," Lira said. "They're afraid."

That gave him pause.

"Afraid of what?"

She looked at him now.

Direct.

"You."

He blinked.

Frowned.

Didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

Ren kicked the edge of the bench with her boot. "Well. If monsters are scared of our resident eleven-year-old, I feel better."

"I'm almost twelve," Lindarion muttered.

"Wow. That'll scare them even more."

Ashwing growled lightly in agreement. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.

The fire popped once. A spark flared and vanished.

Outside, the wind moved through the broken rooftops and loose shutters.

Inside, the three of them sat in the quiet again.

Not peace.

But something that looked a little like it.

—

The fire burned low.

Not out. Just slow. Tired. Like everything else in the room.

Ashwing had curled into a lumpy crescent beneath the bench, tail twitching occasionally, smoke curling from one nostril. His breathing was steady. Peaceful, even. But the scorch mark under his left wing hadn't faded yet.

Lindarion sat with his back to the wall, arms folded across his chest, legs stretched under the table. His coat still smelled like ozone and melted leather. His knuckles were raw. His left boot had a rip near the toe that wouldn't fix itself.

'Perfect. One apocalypse, and my shoe budget's ruined.'

Ren had dozed off where she'd collapsed—half-on, half-off a bench like a corpse someone had forgotten to stack properly. Her sword lay across her lap, hand still resting on the hilt, just in case sleep wasn't the end of things.

She snored once.

Then stopped.

And stayed still.

Lira hadn't moved since the last time she said anything. Still sitting near the hearth, eyes half-lidded, the firelight cutting soft amber shapes across her cheekbones. Her breathing was slow. Controlled.

Not asleep.

Not awake either.

Somewhere in the middle. Where swords rest and killers dream of quiet places.

Lindarion leaned his head back.

The ceiling above was cracked from one of the impacts. A beam in the corner sagged. Not dangerously. Just… permanently.

Everything in the room had the same look now.

Bent. Burned. Still standing.

'We won. Somehow. Not sure what it cost yet. But we're still here.'

He closed his eyes.

Just for a moment.

Not to sleep.

To listen.

Wind through the broken roof tiles. The hiss of embers chewing the last of the dry logs. Ren's uneven breathing. Ashwing's occasional grumble.

No screams.

No claws on cobblestone.

No masks or magic or monsters.

The silence wasn't total.

But it wasn't hostile anymore.

Lindarion let his jaw unclench.

His shoulder slumped slightly.

Lira glanced at him, eyes flicking just once before closing fully.

For real this time.

He followed a second later.

No dramatic drop.

Just gravity.

The kind of sleep that doesn't ask for permission.

The kind that just claims you.

And for the first time in days—

They didn't dream of teeth.

—

The cold had lost its bite.

Now it just lingered. Heavy. Damp. Like a soaked cloth someone had draped over the entire village.

Lindarion stirred awake to the smell of wet ash and something metallic under the floorboards. The kind of air that hadn't decided whether it wanted to be smoke or rot.

He sat up slowly.

Everything hurt in that low, consistent way—no spikes, no stabs. Just a full-body ache that whispered, 'you're not supposed to be alive, but here we are.'

Ashwing was curled near the edge of the room, nose tucked under a wing, tail twitching faintly like he was dreaming of chewing on monsters again. The tiny rise and fall of his side was the only sign he was breathing.

Lindarion didn't get up immediately.

He listened.

Boots outside. Soft. Purposeful.

A cart's wheels creaked. No conversation. Just movement.

And under it all was grief. The quiet kind. The kind that didn't cry anymore because it had run out of voice.

Someone knocked at the door.

Once.

Then again. Lighter.

He opened it to find Raleth standing there. The village warden looked older now. Not in years. In posture. The sort of man who'd had his responsibilities doubled and the resources halved.

His robe was damp at the hems, eyes dark-rimmed but clear.

"There'll be a funeral," he said. "Late morning. For the dead. All of them."

Lindarion didn't ask how many that meant.

He just nodded.

Raleth looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he said, "Tell the others. I need to see to the arrangements."

Then he left.

No flourish. No sigh.

Just steps down the hallway and a soft thud of the front door closing behind him.

Lindarion turned back inside.

'Funeral. Great. Nothing says recovery like watching half a village go into the ground.'

He moved stiffly, pulled on his coat.

The inn's walls creaked with every movement. Some of the wood had splintered during the fight, one window still cracked, letting in a slow leak of winter air that crawled along the floor.

Downstairs, he found the others slowly stirring.

Ren sat hunched over a cup of something hot, hands wrapped tight around it like warmth alone could fix what the night had broken. Her expression said otherwise.

Meren looked half-asleep, the side of his face still marked from where he'd passed out against the corner of a bench. Ardan leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes open but somewhere else entirely.

Lira hadn't come down yet.

He didn't blame her.

Ren looked up. "Funeral?"

He nodded.

She didn't respond. Just pushed the mug toward the center of the table and stood.

"I'll tell Meren," she said. "You wake the brooding statue upstairs."