Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The courtyard held silence like a breath caught too long in the lungs.

The sun was high, but the usual warmth of its light didn't reach the crowd. Rows upon rows of students filled the marble-lined amphitheater at the heart of Evernight Academy.

Every student stood beside each other, each dressed in their respective uniforms, pressed and clean—but none of them looked untouched. They carried bruises. Cracked boots. Stained coats. And in their eyes—

Fear.

And worse.

The absence of understanding.

Professor Nyx stepped onto the elevated dias without fanfare. No enchantment to amplify her presence. She didn't need it. She had silence, and that was louder than anything magic could offer.

She stood tall in her black and silver robe, shoulders square, the tip of her crystal-forged staff gently tapping the stone beside her.

"I will speak plainly," she said.

No formal greeting. No ceremony.

Just five words. Clear. Cutting.

And they echoed.

Hundreds of heads turned. Hundreds of breaths held.

"I will not speak to you today as a professor," she said, her voice carrying easily. "Nor as a member of this faculty, or even as the Deputy Warden of the perimeter."

She lifted her chin.

"I will speak to you as someone who stood here once. As someone who wore the same crest, bled on these same stones, and believed—foolishly—that this school was invincible."

That word—invincible—hung for a beat too long in the air.

"I owe you the truth," she said, quieter now. "All of it."

She turned slightly, not addressing the crowd, but the school behind her—its towers still standing, its windows intact, its spires untouched.

"Thalorin Evernight, Headmaster of Evernight Academy, has vanished. We do not yet know how. We do not yet know why. And that, more than his absence, is the threat we now face."

She let that sink in. Watched as shoulders tensed. Hands clenched. One younger student whimpered, quickly silenced by the elbow of an older peer.

Nyx looked back to them. No sympathy in her gaze. Only clarity.

"He is not dead. That much I believe. His binding to the academy's central ward has not collapsed. His name still echoes through the Nexus Line. But he is gone. Removed. He was interfered with."

The word interfered rolled off her tongue like something she despised the taste of.

"And while that wound is fresh," she continued, "we must also acknowledge the one closer to home."

Now her voice dropped.

"Lindarion Sunblade. First-year. Elven royalty. Advanced placement."

A pause.

"He was taken."

No explanation. No lies.

And that was worse.

Some students gasped. Others didn't. Many had already heard rumors. The worst kind of truth—quiet, unspoken, half-swallowed.

"He was targeted," she said, louder now. "We don't know by who. We don't know for what. But eight figures breached the perimeter. Not just students were attacked. Entire towers were destabilized. Senior mages were injured. Wards—wards woven by the Archons themselves—were broken."

Her voice didn't waver, but her hand gripped the staff tighter.

"They came for him. And they succeeded."

There was no applause. No stirring of pride.

Only the sound of too many people holding their breath.

Nyx took one more breath.

Then—finally—

"I failed you."

The words fell like a blade through the silence.

"I failed all of you," she said. "Every student here. Every teacher who stood on these grounds. Every ward that should've held, every alarm that should've rung—failed."

"I was not there when I should have been. And while I cannot give you answers yet, I can give you this—"

Her voice surged with arcane resonance. Not magic. Just purpose.

"You will not be abandoned."

She stepped down from the platform. Slowly. One step at a time.

"This academy will not close. It will not hide. We will not pretend this didn't happen. You deserve better than cover-ups and silence."

A murmur stirred among the older students. Third-years. Fourth. Even the fifth-years—those preparing for military deployment post-graduation—looked uncertain.

"I am declaring a state of armed wardship across all academic divisions," Nyx said. "Every student, regardless of year, will be briefed on combat protocol. You will be assigned emergency partners. You will be trained for what's coming. Because this—"

She gestured at the cracked earth where Lindarion had vanished.

"This is not over."

She let the silence settle again before continuing.

"There will be fear. That's inevitable. But you will learn how to survive it. And if you cannot hold a weapon—then you'll learn how to carry one for someone else."

Her gaze moved across the crowd—section by section. No one was spared. She saw Jack Valerian standing tall beside a pale-faced Rowan.

She saw Luneth in the back row, arms crossed, jaw tense. She saw Elara, visibly scuffed but alert.

She saw too many children made old in one day.

"I won't tell you this school is safe," Nyx said, final now. "It's not."

"But I will tell you this. We are not prey."

A ripple ran through the crowd. Not loud. But felt.

"You may leave the courtyard. Group assignments will be posted by evening bell. Until then, stay together. Help each other. Speak only truth. And above all—"

Her eyes hardened.

"Do not waste your fear."

And with that—

She turned and walked back toward the towers.

The courtyard remained quiet.

But this time, it wasn't from fear.

It was the quiet of too many people choosing not to cry in public.

—

The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and failure.

Not the kind of failure people mourned. The quiet kind. The kind that curled up behind curtain folds and lingered beneath blood-damp sheets. The kind that didn't need a name to be remembered.

Luneth stood just inside the door.

She hadn't knocked.

Cassian laid on the far cot, half-sat up against a raised cushion, his chest heavily bandaged, the white of the wrappings already tinged pink where the healing had failed to take completely.

'He got lucky,' Luneth thought. 'Which means the rest of us got unlucky.'

A healer passed her on the way out. The woman didn't speak—just gave Luneth a tight nod and vanished behind a velvet curtain.

Cassian looked up.

His face had none of the usual spark. No crooked grin. No exaggerated wince. Just the slow, steady rise of someone who had spent hours staring at a ceiling and still hadn't found the meaning in it.

"You here to give me last rites?" he asked.

"Don't tempt me," Luneth said, crossing the room.

He let out a faint breath that might've been a laugh.

She didn't sit. Just stood beside the cot and looked down at the bandage wrapped around his chest, the discoloration climbing his shin like an oil stain that hadn't made up its mind yet.

"How bad?" she asked.

"Muscle rupture. Bone fracture. Minor mana contamination."

"Minor?"

"For now."

She nodded. Slowly. "Will you walk again?"

He raised his brows. "Luneth. I got hit with some kind of an from another dimension. And I lived. I'd say the leg is negotiable."

She didn't smile.

Didn't even twitch.

Just stared at him.

Cassian shifted. "…Yes. Eventually."

Luneth looked at the table beside him—notes, half-folded diagrams, a worn-out charm someone had dropped during treatment.

She picked it up.

Held it between two fingers.

Then set it down again.

"You shouldn't have turned back," she said.

"Neither should you."

"I didn't."

Cassian gave a faint snort.

Luneth's voice didn't change. "You tried to cover for him. You almost died."

"So did Lindarion."

Silence.

He looked at her.

She looked away.

Cassian leaned back against the headboard and exhaled. "…Sorry. That was—cheap."

"No," Luneth said. "Just accurate."

He tilted his head.

She didn't elaborate.

Didn't need to.

Because that moment still lived in both of them.

Lindarion. Surrounded. Vanishing.

Cassian had been the one closest to the breach when it began. He'd been the one who yelled for the others to run while his threads ignited with too much mana and too little precision.

He'd flung in front of the strike that was aimed at Lindarion and caught the side of a wall.

It could've ended there.

But it hadn't.

That was the problem.

It hadn't.

"You blame yourself?" he asked after a pause.

"No," Luneth said.

He blinked. "Really?"

"I don't have that luxury."

Cassian studied her.

She didn't break.

She never did.

But there was something different now. Something cracked just beneath the frost.

She finally sat—on the edge of the next cot, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I don't know what happens next," she said.

He blinked again.

"That's the first time I've ever heard you say that."

She nodded. "First time it's been true."

Cassian turned toward the ceiling again. "We've been talking about battle formations and mana efficiency like we were already ready. Like we just needed the right gloves and the right spell set."

"We weren't."

"No," he said quietly. "We weren't."

Another silence passed between them.

More fragile this time.

Luneth finally spoke again.

"They'll expect you to sit out."

"I know."

"You should."

He didn't answer.

She turned her head. "Cassian."

"I said I know."

She stared at him.

And saw it now.

The stubbornness. The fear trying to wear armor. The uncertainty tangled up behind bravado that had finally been stripped too thin.

"Don't be an idiot," she said.

"Too late."

She sighed.

It was quiet. Barely audible.

But it was the closest thing she'd come to sounding human in days.

"I'm not asking you to quit," she said. "I'm asking you not to turn this into penance."

Cassian swallowed.

Then looked away again.

Luneth rose.

Turned toward the door.

"You were brave," she said.

He flinched.

That did more than any blade could.

"Just don't die trying to prove it again."

She didn't wait for an answer.

Just left.

The door closed softly behind her.

And in the room filled with healing wards, Cassian laid very, very still.

Because it turned out—

Being brave felt a lot worse after.