Reincarnated as an Elf Prince
Chapter 200 - 200: Funeral (2)

"I heard that," Ardan muttered.

"Good. Now stand up and be supportive."

They all moved slowly. The kind of slow that comes from remembering exactly how many times you almost died yesterday.

Outside, the air stung less. But the smell was worse. Burned leather. Mana scorch. That coppery bite that always came after blood dried in the snow.

Lindarion paused at the inn's door before stepping out to tell Lira.

'This isn't over. Not for them. Not for us. But for today—'

He opened the door.

'—we bury the dead.'

And let the living try to breathe.

—

The village looked smaller in the morning.

Maybe it was the bodies. Maybe it was the smoke still curling from the rooftops. Maybe it was the way no one talked.

Lindarion walked near the back of the group. Not to avoid attention. Not really. Just because it gave him more time to watch.

Ren walked ahead with her arms folded. Not from cold. Just… holding herself together.

Meren kept his head down. His boots dragged occasionally, like he was half a step from turning around and pretending this was someone else's story.

Ashwing followed silently, claws tapping against the cobbles in a slow rhythm. His wings were tight to his sides. Not curled in fear. Just respectful. Somehow.

The wind picked up near the center of the square.

It didn't cut like last night. This one was gentler. Carried the scent of cold wood and old tears.

Villagers had gathered already. Not many. Maybe two dozen. The rest were recovering. Or too numb to come.

They stood in a loose semi-circle around what used to be the well. Now it was ringed with stones and woven branches, half shrine, half memorial. Someone had placed bundles of dried winterberries at its base. The red looked wrong against the snow.

Raleth stood at the front. His robe was still damp at the bottom, but now he held a staff. Plain wood. Unadorned. Carved near the handle with the village's sigil, a looping spiral with three branches. Unity, or something close to it.

He didn't speak right away.

Didn't need to.

The silence was already doing most of the work.

Lindarion stopped beside Ren.

She didn't look at him. Just kept her eyes on the ground ahead, jaw tight, fists tighter.

Lira stood off to the side, half-shadowed by a bare tree. Her hood was up again. Her face unreadable. But her shoulders… her shoulders said she'd rather be fighting. That standing still like this made it worse.

The wind shifted again.

That's when the carts came.

Two of them.

Nothing fancy. Just wooden frames laid with cloth. Simple coverings over what remained of the fallen.

Some of the bundles were small.

Lindarion's breath hitched, just once.

He looked away.

Back toward the faces.

Most of the villagers weren't crying. They'd already done that. Or hadn't had time to. Some looked empty. Some looked furious. A few clung to each other like the only solid thing left was a person's arm.

There was a boy near the back. Hair pale like frost. Clothes too big for him. He wasn't crying. Just staring. One hand still clutched something—maybe a glove. Maybe a scrap of cloth.

Lindarion recognized him.

The boy from last night.

The one whose mother had—

He didn't finish the thought.

Didn't need to.

Raleth raised the staff once, then lowered it to the ground with a dull thunk.

"I have no words that will fill what we lost," he said, voice quiet but unshaking. "No spell that would ease this. But we will remember them."

The silence after was deeper than before.

Not for the lack of sound.

But because of the weight behind it.

Lindarion let his hands settle at his sides. His fingers still tingled from yesterday's power. His shoulders still ached. His chest still burned from a fire that hadn't gone out yet.

He looked at the villagers again.

And saw something else now.

Not just loss.

Expectation.

Some of them glanced at him. Not long. But enough.

The prince.

The fire-wielder.

The one who didn't fall.

He wasn't used to that kind of gaze.

'Don't look at me like that. I'm just… surviving, same as you.'

Ren finally exhaled beside him.

"I hate this part," she whispered.

Lira didn't say anything.

But her hand brushed the edge of her cloak, just once, like maybe she was holding on to something too.

Raleth lowered his head.

And the wind carried the sound of snow shifting over wood.

The first shovel went into the ground.

And the village buried its dead.

—

The first shovelfuls hit the frost with a soft crunch.

Not sharp. Not violent.

Just steady.

Like the earth had accepted its new job without protest.

Raleth stepped forward, staff in one hand, the other pressed lightly to his chest as if holding something in. Not grief. That had already carved its lines into his face. Something older. Duty, maybe.

The gathered crowd didn't move. Not even the children. Not even the wind.

He looked over the graves being carved out of the frozen earth.

Then spoke.

"We are not made to survive nights like this," Raleth said, his voice steady but rough at the edges. "We're made to live. To build. To tend gardens and raise children and throw too much salt in soup."

A few heads dipped. No laughter. But they heard it.

Raleth continued, slower now.

"We don't prepare for monsters. Not really. We teach our children to watch the roads. To lock doors. To say prayers they barely remember. We hope it's enough."

A shovel caught on a root. Someone cursed under their breath.

The air stayed still.

"And when it isn't…" Raleth glanced at the nearest cart. "When it isn't, we carry what's left."

He paused.

Looked out across the small crowd. His gaze landed on Lindarion once. Just once. Then moved on.

"These were not warriors. Most of them weren't fighters. They didn't wake up yesterday thinking they'd have to defend their neighbors from the dark."

He nodded toward the graves.

"But they did."

Another scoop of snow. Another crunch of dirt.

"They stood anyway. With pitchforks. With shovels. With kitchen knives and broken doors. They didn't ask how long they had to hold the line. They just did it."

His throat worked around the next line.

"They died so someone else wouldn't have to."

Lindarion's jaw tightened.

The weight behind that truth didn't let go. Not even after sunrise.

Ren bowed her head.

Meren blinked too fast.

Ashwing made a low, soft sound from near Lindarion's feet, almost like a whine, barely audible.

Raleth's hand curled tighter around the staff.

"We will not forget them. We cannot bring them back. But we can bury them as they lived—surrounded by those they kept alive."

The shovels kept moving.

The earth cracked a little easier now.

As if listening.

As if yielding.

Raleth's voice dipped to something lower, almost like a promise.

"May the earth be softer for them than the night was."

And then—

Silence again.

Not total.

The snow whispered against coats. Someone's breath hitched. A child near the front wiped their nose on their sleeve and didn't cry.

Lindarion stared at the fresh graves.

'Not all of them were soldiers. Just people. And still—they stood.'

He hadn't said much since sunrise.

Still didn't.