"Madness?… nah," Ian replied with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm generally a cool guy." His attempt at lightness carried little weight against the heavy air, but it was all he had to keep himself from sinking under the gravity of what he had just learned.
The queen turned her head slowly toward him, her lips curving into a scoff, the sound low and almost amused though her eyes told another story. "You won't know until you begin to practice magic, my lord," she said. Her tone was calm, but the words carried with them a warning that pierced deeper than her expression revealed. She stepped away from him then, her gown sweeping lightly over the stone floor as she moved toward the long table that stood by the far wall.
Ian watched in silence, his curiosity stirring as he tried to read the intention behind her every move. The queen's hand brushed across the table searching for something, before finally settling on a sheet of parchment, smooth and untouched. Beside it lay a sharp quill, its feather gleaming faintly in the light, and a slender blade that seemed far too delicate for battle but perfectly suited for ritual. Without hesitation, she took the knife in her hand, pressed its edge to her palm, and drew it across her skin with a practiced grace. A thin line of crimson welled up almost immediately, the blood trailing down her hand before dripping into the small cup she had set aside.
Ian shifted in his chair, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of what she was doing. She dipped the quill into the blood as if it were the most natural of inks, the crimson staining its tip before she set it against the blank parchment. Her hand moved steadily, forming symbols and lines that seemed strange and almost alive in the way they curled and linked together. Ian had never seen such script before, and though he knew nothing of its meaning, it carried a weight that made his skin prickle.
"What are you doing?" Ian finally asked, his voice breaking the silence. He stood a little straighter, unease mixing with his intrigue as he watched the queen's deliberate strokes.
She did not look up, her focus firmly on the words she was inscribing. "I am writing a message," she replied evenly, her tone as calm as if she were writing an ordinary letter. "A message to the other Diva Queens who still believe in the imperial bloodline. They must know of your return."
The quill scratched lightly against the parchment, every mark sealed with her blood, every line seeming to carry the weight of a destiny Ian was only beginning to grasp.
"Huh… don't you feel everything is a bit too rushed?" Ian asked, the worry on his face breaking through the thin mask of composure he had been wearing since the queen had begun writing. His voice trembled slightly from the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him.
"There is no need for worry, my lord," the queen answered without lifting her eyes from the parchment. Her hand moved gracefully, the blood-filled quill scratching against the surface with unbroken rhythm. "We will groom you into a powerful man, one worthy of his bloodline." Her tone was calm.
Ian let out a breath, half a sigh, half a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Listen, huh… I don't wanna be king, or emperor, or any leader of some sort," he said. His voice was firmer now, though the uncertainty still lingered. "I just wanna go back to Earth, eh… I wanna get back to Tessa. I still don't know her whereabouts." He stooped to the floor where he had left his small pack and began stuffing his belongings into it with quick, almost desperate movements, the sound of cloth and leather rustling loud in the chamber. His heart was racing, his mind drifting back to the girl who had been with him before this nightmare began.
The queen, still writing, finally let out a sharp breath through her nose. "I don't care about Tessa, or about your life on Earth, my lord," she said coldly, her quill moving steadily as if guided by some unseen hand. "You belong here, and you are not going anywhere." The words carried no anger, only the certainty of someone who had spoken the truth. She never once turned her head toward him, her eyes fixed firmly on the parchment, her hand flowing as though the writing could not be interrupted.
Ian froze for a moment, staring at her back, his jaw tightening as frustration boiled within him. "Heyyy…" he called out, his voice rising with a force he did not entirely feel. "I command you to let me go. I'm your supposed emperor, right? I command you!" His hand clenched into a fist at his side, but there was no strength in it, only the desperation of a man trying to claw back some control in a place where none seemed to exist.
The queen's laugh broke the air like the cracking of a whip, sharp and mocking, echoing against the stone walls. She did not turn toward him, did not pause in her writing. "It doesn't work that way, my lord," she said, amusement curling through her words. "You are not leaving this palace until I allow you to." Her voice was steady, resolute, as if the weight of the entire realm bent to her will in that single moment.
Ian stood there, his chest rising and falling heavily, his pack half-filled in his hands. He felt both perplexed and helpless, caught in a snare he could not untangle, forced into a role he had never asked for and had no desire to play. His thoughts swirled, too fast to anchor, each one pulling him further from the confidence he tried to project.
His shoulders slumped at last, and he muttered under his breath, the words more for himself than anyone else. "I shouldn't have gone for that goddamn hike with Tessa…" His voice trailed off, heavy with regret, as he stared at the floor, the shadows stretching long around him.