Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 201: Evolution (1)

The snow was thinner that morning. Still cold, but not sharp. It had melted in patches, like the ground had started rejecting it out of spite.

Lindarion stood at the back of the inn, just outside the kitchen door. He held the edge of a cracked wooden bowl in one hand. The other rubbed at his temple like it might dislodge the headache that hadn't gone away since the funeral.

Ashwing crouched near the stone wall, tongue flicking out every few seconds. Steam rose faintly from the ground around him. The dirt was dry. Not burned. Not wet. Just… dry. Like nothing wanted to be near the heat.

The dragon looked different.

Bigger. Not by much, but enough.

His tail was longer. Thicker near the base. The tips of his wings had stretched overnight, the edge of each one now laced with a line of dull silver that hadn't been there before. And when he shifted, the ground answered. Nothing loud. Just a creak. A pressure.

He growled once.

Not cute.

Not baby.

Lindarion dumped the bowl of meat scraps and roasted grain near Ashwing's feet. The smell rose, half-cooked lamb fat and scorched potatoes. Ashwing didn't hesitate. He tore into it like it had insulted his ancestors.

'That's twice as much as yesterday. And he's still hungry.'

Bones crunched.

Lindarion stepped back.

Ashwing didn't look up. Didn't slow down. One claw scratched at the dirt as he chewed, carving faint circles. Like instinct was doing the writing.

'No. Like memory is.'

He glanced toward the tree line. The air over the forest shimmered faintly, not with heat, but tension. Mana still lingered there. Broken. Residual. Dangerous.

Lindarion narrowed his eyes.

Then turned and walked back into the inn.

Inside, the others were starting to stir again. Ren sat sideways on a bench, head tilted back, trying to stretch her neck without standing. Meren was hunched over a bowl of something gray and hot. Ardan cleaned a blade with the same expression he used for war.

Lira wasn't downstairs.

That wasn't unusual.

Ren cracked one eye open as Lindarion passed.

"You feed the little beast?"

"He's not a beast."

"He's chewing rocks."

"…He might be a little beast."

Ren smirked, then winced as her shoulder popped. "Ow. Laughing hurts."

"Don't do it, then."

"You're not funny enough to stop me."

Lindarion didn't answer. He sat at the end of the table, arms folded, one leg stretched out. His coat had been cleaned—sort of. The scorch marks were permanent. He didn't mind.

Across the room, Meren looked up. "Did you hear?"

"No," Lindarion said automatically. "But I'm sure you're going to tell me."

Meren swallowed. "A farmer. North road. Said something killed two of his goats last night."

Ren leaned forward. "Wolves?"

"Wolves don't melt skeletons."

Lindarion looked at him sharply.

"…Melt?"

"Yeah. Like—like acid, maybe? Or fire. But the bones were still there. Just… soft. Wrong."

Ren's humor drained like someone unplugged it. "That's new."

Ardan's jaw flexed.

Lindarion didn't say anything.

He already knew.

Outside, Ashwing roared once.

Not loud.

But deep.

Enough to rattle the plate on the table.

Enough to stop Ren mid-blink.

Enough to make Lindarion's pulse stutter for half a second.

'That's not baby dragon volume anymore.'

No one moved.

Then Meren spoke again. Quietly.

"Maybe it wasn't him. Right?"

No one answered.

Because no one wanted to lie.

Not even to Meren.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It strained. Like a stretched rope just short of snapping.

Then the door slammed open.

Hard. The old hinges cried out like they'd been punched awake.

A man stormed in.

Broad chest. Heavy boots. Greying brown hair slicked back unevenly like it had been forced into place with cold water and anger.

His beard was thick and tangled, streaked with ash near the ends. Lines bracketed his mouth, not from laughter. From grinding his teeth.

His eyes were pale green. Veined. Wide.

His voice hit the room like a whip. "Who's in charge here?!"

Everyone flinched except Ardan.

Ren straightened a little. "Well good morning, Harven."

'She knows him?'

He didn't look at her.

His focus zeroed in on Lindarion, sharp and immediate.

"You," he said. "You brought that thing."

Lindarion didn't move. Didn't blink. Just held the man's stare like he'd been doing it for years.

"I brought a dragon," he said flatly. "Not whatever's melting livestock."

Harven took two heavy steps forward. Each one made the floor creak with that specific, tired groan that only old wood and fresh tension could share.

"You're sure?" Harven demanded. "Because the bones I found this morning didn't look chewed. They looked softened. Melted. Like someone left them in a forge overnight."

Ren rose slowly to her feet. Her chair gave a small squeal as it scraped backward.

Harven didn't turn.

"Don't walk into this room," Ren said, voice calm but coiled, "and accuse our mage without knowing what you're talking about."

"Your mage?" Harven spat. "He's a child with a beast that breathes fire while it sleeps. That's not control. That's luck waiting to run out."

Meren shifted behind Lindarion, shrinking like he hoped someone else would draw the room's attention soon. He failed.

Ardan pushed off the wall, not with threat, just to move. To watch. Like a blade sliding a few inches from its sheath without flashing.

Harven noticed.

And finally, finally, looked away from Lindarion.

Just for a second.

Ren took that opening and walked between them, arms folded, shoulders square. Her silver-blond hair was half-tied behind her head in its usual mess, a few strands stuck to her cheek. Her eyes, pale blue and slightly bloodshot, didn't blink.

"You said livestock?" she asked. "Not people?"

"For now," Harven growled.

"Where?"

"North ridge. Past the cedar stump. You'll see it."

Ren turned slightly, one foot back, shoulder dropped.

A stance.

Not aggressive.

Just prepared.

"I'll go with him."

"I don't need—"

"You do," she said, not looking at Lindarion. "Because you're a firebrand in the shape of a kid, and this town's already on the edge of blaming you for everything that hurts."

Lindarion said nothing.

But he nodded.

Just once.

Harven didn't approve. That was clear. His face didn't soften. His posture didn't loosen.

But he stepped aside.

"You'll see," he muttered, backing toward the door. "You'll see I'm right."

He left without slamming it again.

Which meant he was angrier than before.

Ren exhaled slowly.

Her boots tapped the floor once as she turned.

"You ready?"

"No," Lindarion said. "But I'm going anyway."

She smiled at that. Thin. Crooked.

Good enough.

Meren finally let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Should I stay?"

"Yes," Ren and Lindarion said together.

Then paused.

Then exchanged a glance.

Ren grinned. Lindarion didn't.

Ardan stepped forward, arms crossed, voice low.

"I'll keep watch here. If it was your dragon… we'll know it soon enough."

He didn't say it with malice.

Just fact.

That was worse.

Lindarion adjusted the collar of his coat.

Ashwing stirred overhead, he could feel it. The heat coming from their room had shifted. It wasn't sharp or angry. It was dense. Controlled.

That scared him more.

Ren pulled her coat tighter as they stepped outside. Her breath steamed the air in slow, lazy clouds. The snow on the path had hardened into ice-crusted slush. The sky sagged above the rooftops, low, silver, close.

Lindarion glanced at her as they walked.

"You think it was him?"

"I think the world's heavy right now," she said. "And he's still small."

Lindarion looked ahead.

"He's not going to stay small."

"Neither are you."

They didn't talk after that.

Didn't need to.