CHAPTER 27: TRAIN FOR WHAT?

Lyra was swift with her hands, her movements steady and precise as she trimmed and shaved away the uneven scruff that had grown across Ian’s jaw. He sat still, watching her work in the polished bronze mirror she held up to check the angles. When she was done, she wiped his face clean with a damp cloth, and Ian caught his reflection properly for the first time in what felt like ages. He looked younger, sharper, almost like the person he used to see staring back at him in his world. He gave her a small nod of approval.

"Better," he admitted. "At least now I don’t look like I’ve been dragged through a pit."

Lyra smiled faintly, tucking the cloth away. "You look more fitting for who you are meant to be, my lord."

Ian sighed and muttered under his breath, "Meant to be, huh. That’s the part I’m still not sure about."

Before she could reply, another servant brought in a tray of food. Steam rose from the bowl, the smell rich and inviting. Ian’s stomach growled in response, reminding him how empty he had been since everything started. He wasted no time, pulling the tray closer.

"Finally, real food," he said, picking up a piece of bread and biting into it hungrily. He ate quickly but not without speaking, his words muffled as he chewed. "You have no idea how long I’ve been starving. The guards gave me nothing but scraps, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever taste anything decent again."

Lyra clasped her hands politely in front of her. "It pleases me to see you eat with such appetite, my lord. You must regain your strength."

Ian chuckled lightly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Strength, dignity, sanity... the whole package. Let’s just hope I don’t choke myself to death before I get to that point."

She giggled softly at his words, though she quickly lowered her head to hide the sound. When he finished, Ian leaned back with a satisfied sigh, patting his stomach. "Now that is the best thing I’ve had in... well, probably forever."

He had barely pushed the tray aside when the door swung open and the Queen reentered, her eyes immediately sweeping over him. Her gaze froze on his head, and her expression hardened.

"I see," she said sharply, striding further into the room. "You have not obeyed my order."

Ian straightened and met her glare without flinching. "If you’re talking about shaving my head, then you’re right. I didn’t. And I won’t."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and the room felt colder under her silence. "Do you understand the weight of what I command?"

"I understand perfectly," he replied evenly, brushing some of his hair away from his forehead. "But I’m not going to lose every piece of myself just because you think it looks better on me. I agreed to let her shave the beard, but my hair stays. End of discussion."

"You are not in a position to dictate terms," she said, her voice rising slightly. "You stand here because of the blood in your veins, not because of your will."

Ian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what good is a crown if the person beneath it is just a hollow puppet? You want me to rule someday, then let me keep what little I have left of myself."

The Queen’s eyes burned with restrained anger, but instead of exploding, she drew in a long breath, steadying herself. She looked at the robe on him next, tugging at one of its heavy folds. "At least you allowed this much. Though even here, you look as though you are carrying a burden you would rather cast aside."

Ian gave a half-smile and shrugged. "You’re not wrong. This thing feels like I’m wrapped in a curtain made of lead. I don’t know how anyone moves around in it."

The Queen shook her head slowly, her voice low and edged with disappointment. "You are far too unserious, My Lord. You jest when you should be steel. You push back when you should obey. You still have no idea what it means to be who you are."

He met her gaze and answered softly but firmly. "Maybe I don’t. But I’m not about to stop being me just to fit into a mold you’ve built."

The Queen’s sharp gaze swept over Ian one more time before she spoke with a tone that carried no room for hesitation. "Come with me. You will not remain idle in these halls any longer. Lyra, fetch him a cloak at once."

Lyra dipped into a bow and hurried to a side chamber. Ian frowned, dragging his feet as though the floor had turned to mud beneath him. "And where exactly are we going now? You’ve kept me running in circles since I woke up here, and I still don’t have a clue what the endgame is."

The Queen ignored his complaint, lifting her chin with that same cold authority she had displayed from the beginning. "You will understand in time. For now, you will do as I say."

Lyra returned quickly with a dark cloak, the fabric heavy but softer than the robe Ian wore. She held it out politely. "Here, my lord. Please put this on."

Ian took it reluctantly, running his hand over the fabric. "What now? First the robe, now this. How many layers do I need before I start looking like one of those rolled-up carpets?"

Lyra stifled a laugh, covering her mouth, but the Queen silenced even the faintest amusement with a glance. Ian noticed and shook his head. "Seriously, does nobody here laugh? Or is that forbidden too?"

"Put it on," the Queen ordered.

Grumbling, Ian slipped the cloak over his shoulders, fastening the clasp at the front. It felt snug but at least lighter than the robe, though the hood hung low enough to shadow his face.

The Queen inspected him carefully. "Keep the hood raised. Your hair must not be exposed."

Ian pulled the hood forward reluctantly, muttering, "You’d think my hair is some kind of national treasure the way you’re acting about it."

Her eyes narrowed at his words, but she moved on without rising to his bait. "Follow me."

Outside, a carriage stood ready at the palace steps, its lacquered wood gleaming faintly even in the light. Two armored riders sat mounted at the front, reins in hand. Ian stopped short when he saw it, his expression skeptical. "You’re telling me we’re riding in that thing? No offense, but where I come from, this looks like a medieval Uber."

Lyra glanced at him in confusion. "Uber?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. Just something from where I’m from."

The Queen stepped aside and gestured to the open door of the carriage. "Enter. You will be taken to a place where you will stay and train."

Ian froze at the word, his brow furrowing. "Train? Train for what exactly?"

The Queen turned sharply and gave him a glare that silenced the air itself. "Get inside."

He raised his hands in surrender, his voice lowering into a half-grumble. "Alright, alright. I’ll get in. But seriously, can’t you at least tell me what kind of training we’re talking about? Sword fighting? Meditation? Running laps until I drop?"

Her response was clipped, her tone carrying an edge that made it clear there would be no further argument. "You will learn what you must. And you will remain there. You are not to leave that place under any circumstance. Your life depends on it."

Ian hesitated at the door, looking at her carefully. "So that’s it, huh? I just go where you point and do whatever you say. No questions asked?"

Her gaze sharpened. "Exactly that. For now."

He let out a long sigh and climbed into the carriage, settling into the cushioned seat with the air of someone resigned to his fate. Lyra followed behind him quickly, slipping in beside him with a nervous glance at the Queen.

The Queen leaned in slightly, her voice a final warning. "Remember my words, My Lord. Do not leave that place. Not for a moment. It is the only way to keep you alive."

She closed the door herself, and the carriage jolted as the driver urged the horses forward. Ian sat back, staring at the floor for a long moment before muttering under his breath, "Guess I really don’t get a say in any of this."

Lyra glanced at him nervously but said nothing, her hands folded tightly in her lap as the carriage carried them away.