Chapter 7: Realization and Training(4)

If Helenos had a dollar for every time he’d been told that he was beautiful, he could have bought a small, heavily armed country. They were pale, smooth, and looked like they had been carved from white marble, never having done a day of work beyond gently holding a silk fan.

They were the very first problem Lysandra set out to fix.

Helenos was rubbing a slick river stone, just like Lysandra had told him to.

"Seriously, Lysandra?" he muttered, grinding the stone's smooth surface.

Lysandra, who was currently mending a tear in a riding saddle with big, capable stitches, didn’t even look up. "Yes, your highness. You want hands that can hold a sword; you need hands that have worked. The stone is lesson one. It's about making your skin thick. It's about getting rid of the soft."

Helenos sighed. It was slow, tedious, and frankly, a huge waste of time compared to, say, actual sword drills. But he remembered the sting of Clytemnestra’s slap. He needed to be able to fight for himself, not just charm people.

He spent the next week rubbing. He rubbed until the smooth stone was covered in sweat. He rubbed until his palms burned and throbbed. He rubbed until, logically, he should have had a dozen raw, weeping blisters.

But when he looked down at his hands, they were exactly the same.

He showed Lysandra. "Look," he said, holding out his palms. They were slightly red from the exertion, but there wasn't a callus, a blister, or a single patch of roughened skin anywhere. They were still perfectly, sickeningly smooth.

Lysandra dropped her work and stared. She took his hands, turning them over with her own, which were scarred and tough like leather. She pressed her thumb hard against his palm. Helenos felt it, but his skin didn't dent or roughen.

"What in the name of the gods...?" Lysandra muttered, completely bewildered. "You’ve been at this for six nights. Any other person would have palms like sandpaper right now."

"I think," Helenos said quietly, pulling his hands back, "that my beauty isn't just cosmetic. I think it's... part of the magic."

Lysandra looked at his face, which, despite the sweat and dust, was still flawlessly beautiful. He was meant to be untouched. This was a whole new problem. If he couldn't even build tough skin, how could he hold a heavy weapon without tearing his hands apart?

"Alright," Lysandra said, standing up. The frustration was clear in the harsh set of her jaw. "We change the plan. We can't change the skin, so we teach the skin to endure. We stop the stone. We move to the staff now. And you hold it as tight as you can, even when it cuts you."

***

Helenos hated the feeling of utter uselessness. He hated it because he’d spent his entire first life as a man who could generally fix things, and he hated it even more now because his survival depended on his being unfixable or not.

It had been six weeks since he started his secret training with Lysandra in the dusty, quiet corner of the stables. Six weeks of sweat, pain, and total, utter failure when it came to changing his own ridiculous, beautiful body.

Lysandra had started him on the stone, exactly as planned. He was supposed to rub it until his prince-soft hands developed thick, defensive calluses. He did it for hours every night. He rubbed until the smooth river stone felt hot and sticky in his grip.

And nothing happened.

He got blisters, sure. But they were delicate, tiny blisters that burst quickly, leaving behind skin that was immediately smooth and flawlessly healed the next day. Like his skin had a contract with the cosmetic gods that forbade roughness.

"Try harder, Highness," Lysandra had said with a twitching mouth.

Helenos rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-rubbed until his knuckles were white. The result? Hands that felt exactly like they had on day one: cool, pale, and infuriatingly perfect.

Then came the sun. Lysandra had him running laps around the muddy outer pastures every morning before dawn. The sun would beat down on him, and he’d get a decent layer of sweat and dirt, which should, logically, lead to a nice, rugged tan.

Nope.

He got slightly rosy. Like a peach left on a windowsill. The moment he washed the dirt off, his skin reverted back to that annoying, ivory-white shade that Queen Leda found so endlessly attractive. He was functionally sunscreen-proof.

"It's like your skin actively rejects the rules of the world," Lysandra had finally muttered one morning, slightly stretching his rosy cheek. She sounded more excited than annoyed.

"I told you," Helenos sighed sarcastically, leaning against the wooden post of the stall. "My current body is a nightmare. It’s designed to be sold at auction. I swear, I could spend a month farming, and I’d just come out looking like a slightly better-hydrated prince."

Lysandra stood back, looking him over. He was twelve now, all angles and grace, still looking like he was sculpted from expensive marble. He was breathing heavily from the run, his chest rising and falling quickly, but his frame was still narrow, still lithe. He hadn't built any muscle.

"Let's approach it differently," she decided, throwing him a light, thin staff. It was just a regular wooden practice stick, nothing heavy. "Forget the muscles then. We focus on your skills. If you can’t hit hard, you hit fast. If you can’t take a blow, you don’t get hit."

Helenos was thrown into Lysandra's new choice of training. He focused entirely on footwork, feints, and speed. He was quick, he was nimble, and he was finally getting somewhere. His hands might be uselessly smooth, but his mind was sharp, and his feet were fast.

One evening, about two months into the training, they were practicing a complicated, close-quarters drill.

Helenos was supposed to disarm Lysandra using a series of quick pivots and a wrist lock—it required serious proximity and trust. He stumbled, missing the lock and ending up pressed right against Lysandra’s side, breathing heavily.

He wasn't thinking, just leaning on her to catch his breath. Lysandra was built like a sturdy tree trunk, all dense muscle and scars, and she was the only person in the entire palace who didn't look at him like a precious glass statue.

He felt grounded next to her.

He settled in, letting his head rest briefly against her shoulder, his cheek pressed against the rough wool of her tunic. It was a completely instinctive move, the kind of comfortable reliance he would only feel with someone he genuinely trusted not to sell him.

Lysandra froze completely.

Helenos realized his mistake—this was not a natural action for a prince and a stable hand. He pulled back, embarrassed. "Sorry. Just... tired."

Lysandra didn't look at him. She stared straight ahead at a horse munching hay. Her whole neck and the tops of her ears were suddenly bright red, a violent, blotchy scarlet that stood out against her dark, weathered skin.

She quickly cleared her throat, not meeting his eye. "Right. Fatigue. You need to pace yourself, Highness. Again. Focus on the wrist."

Helenos, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with physical effort, quickly got back into position. Lysandra was usually tough, cold, and utterly practical.

This was the first time he had seen any kind of real emotional crack in Lysandra.

.