Reincarnated as an Elf Prince-Chapter 119: Solhaven (1)
The land began to slope downward again.
Lindarion pulled the scarf higher across his mouth, shielding what little warmth he had left. His boots dragged through the crust of snow, each step stealing more from him than the one before.
His side burned with a slow, festering ache.
Too cold to bleed properly.
Too stubborn to heal.
He leaned forward against the wind, body hunched, head low. Moving became mechanical. Habit layered over exhaustion.
Somewhere ahead—
A change.
Not in the snow.
Not in the trees.
In the air.
He slowed, instincts prickling sharp under the numbness.
He could smell it.
Smoke.
Thin, woodsmoke curling faint against the iron of the winter sky.
He lifted his head, squinting through the broken veil of frost.
There.
Far on the horizon.
Barely a smudge.
Grey smoke rising against the clouds.
'Civilization,' he thought. 'Or something close enough to pass for it.'
The realization barely sparked anything inside him.
No surge of hope.
No relief.
Just the dull understanding that if he could reach it, he might not die today.
Might.
He forced his legs to move faster.
The snow thinned the closer he came.
Packed down by traffic.
Harder underfoot.
Wagon tracks scarred the drifts, lines etched deep into the frozen mud. Fresh. Or fresh enough.
Signs of life.
He stumbled once, catching himself on the haft of the blade at his side. The muscles in his back screamed. His knees nearly buckled.
'Get up,' he told himself. 'You didn't come this far to collapse twenty steps from a town.' freeωebnovēl.c૦m
He shoved himself upright again.
One step.
Another.
The smoke thickened. The smell of burning pine stronger now, tinged with the sharp iron of forges working in the cold.
Roofs appeared between the trees. Stone chimneys coughing into the sky. The crooked line of a palisade wall, rough but solid.
Solhaven.
It wasn't exactly how people would expect a city to be.
Not the way Elarion had been.
But it was shelter. Walls. Fire. Food.
And it would have to be enough.
He approached the gates without ceremony.
No guards shouted challenge from the posts. No arrows raised in warning.
Just a single man hunched in a heavy coat, sitting on a stool by the gatehouse, head buried in his arms to shield against the wind.
He barely glanced up when Lindarion stumbled through the open gate.
Good.
The fewer questions, the better.
The main road beyond was little more than packed earth lined with squat houses and low shops. Thin smoke curled from almost every chimney.
The scent of baking bread hit him like a hammer, sharp and dizzying after so long in the wilderness.
He clenched his jaw. Forced his feet forward.
Every step into Solhaven felt heavier.
Every step threatened to knock him off balance.
Faces blurred at the edges of his vision.
Men and women hauling firewood. Children darting between carts. Traders arguing low over frost-cracked goods.
No one paid him much mind.
Just another half-dead traveler dragging himself out of the wilds.
He passed a group of soldiers in mismatched armor warming themselves around a brazier. Their swords looked rusted. Their faces looked older than their years.
None of them spoke to him.
'Good,' he thought through the haze. 'Better invisible.'
The town center loomed ahead.
A wide square, half-frozen, pocked with old footprints and muddy ice. A public well sat at its heart, rim crusted with frost.
He made it as far as the first empty bench by the well before his knees finally gave.
He caught the fall barely, slumping onto the bench hard enough to jar his spine.
Breathing ragged.
Vision swimming.
'Just five minutes,' he thought, closing his eyes against the raw brightness of the overcast sky.
'Just five. Then find food. Then find a place to hide.'
He knew better than to expect kindness.
Especially in a place like Solhaven.
A town that looked at the woods like a threat and the winter like a debt collector.
But he was here.
Still breathing.
Still moving.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
—
He stayed on the bench longer than he meant to.
The cold hadn't left. It just sat differently now, pressed under his skin instead of clinging to it. His fingers twitched occasionally, still half-frozen inside the gloves. He didn't trust them for fine work yet.
The ache in his side had settled into something dense and sharp. Not life-threatening. Not yet. But he wouldn't be sprinting again anytime soon.
He cracked his eyes open.
The town was moving around him.
Wheels clattered over frozen stone. Boots stamped mud. A woman walked past carrying a child on her hip, wrapped in too many layers. The kid stared at him as they passed. Didn't say anything.
Lindarion looked down at himself.
The coat was torn in two places. Blood had dried stiff across the right sleeve. The scarf was fraying. His boots were caked in a thick ring of half-melted snow.
'Yeah,' he thought. 'I look like hell.'
He pulled himself upright with a slow breath. His legs resisted. His knees creaked. But he stood.
'Food. Then shelter.'
He kept his head low and started walking, following the line of narrow buildings that edged the square. Solhaven didn't have the gleam of capital cities or the carved marble elegance of the Academy.
It looked like it had been rebuilt too many times, patched with whatever materials were close to hand. Planks of mismatched wood, sagging roofs, frostbitten signs.
It smelled like burning pine, iron, and old meat.
A low, battered inn sat at the far end of the square, tucked between a tanner's stall and a forge. No signboard, just the faint light of a lantern swinging beside the door and the heavy warmth bleeding out from inside.
He pushed the door open.
Heat hit him like a slap. His face stung from the sudden shift.
Inside, it was louder. Voices tangled together over a crackling hearth. A few people glanced up. No one said anything.
Wooden tables, poorly spaced. Old iron stove. A bar top slick with age and spills.
He stepped up to the counter.
A man behind it looked up. Middle-aged, dark beard trimmed blunt, eyes hard from habit.
Lindarion reached into his coat. Dug out the pouch the family had given him. Just a few silvers. Enough for basics.
He set one coin on the counter. His hand barely trembled.
"Something hot," he said.
The barkeep looked him over. Said nothing. Took the coin.
A minute later, a bowl of thick stew hit the counter, along with a hunk of bread rough enough to scrape the inside of his mouth.
He took it without a word and moved to a table near the back, half in shadow.
No one followed.
No one cared.
Good.
He sat. Slowly. Carefully.
The stew was greasy, full of root vegetables and something that might have once been pork. It burned his tongue. He kept eating anyway. He didn't stop until the bowl was empty.
'It's food at least, edible I guess.'
Then the bread. Dry. Cracked.
Still better than snow.
His stomach protested at first, but it settled quickly. That was a relief. He hadn't been sure if it would hold.
When he finished, he leaned back against the wall and exhaled slowly.
'Still breathing. That's what matters for now. I need to avoid contact..I don't know if those people are searching for me.'
He touched the side of his coat again. The wound hadn't reopened. The blood was thick and dark against the inside of the fabric, but it was dry.
He needed to wash.
He needed sleep.
He needed a thousand things.
'Settle for one,' he thought. 'A bed. Just tonight. Then figure out what comes next.'
He stood and walked back to the counter.
The barkeep looked up again. Less annoyed this time. More neutral.
"Room?"
Lindarion nodded. "Smallest."
Another coin changed hands.
"Upstairs," the man said. "Third door on the right. No one'll bother you."
Lindarion didn't thank him.
He just took the key and climbed the stairs.
His legs hated it.
Every step felt longer than it should.
The hallway above was dim, lit by a single candle burning low in a glass jar.
He found the door. Let himself in.
The room was small. Narrow cot, rough blanket. One chair. A cracked basin in the corner.
He didn't care.
He shut the door, locked it, and leaned back against the wood for a moment.
Then he slid the blade from his side and set it down. Peeled off the coat, layer by stiff layer. Folded it over the chair. Sat on the edge of the bed.
The silence was real here.
No wind.
No trees.
No howling emptiness.
Just four walls and heat.
Not comfort.
Not safety.
But enough.
He let his hands fall into his lap. Stared at the scarred floorboards for a while.
Then he whispered, not to anyone. Not to a god.
Just to the room.
"At Least I'm safe for now.."
