And that made it worse.
“I see what you’re doing,” I said quietly, walking toward my clothes. “You think I’ll trip over my own shame and fall at your feet. You think I’m like the others.”
“I don’t think that at all,” he replied, voice even. “The others wouldn’t have dared speak to me like you just did.”
I stopped.
Half-dressed now, wrapping theseretback around my waist. I faced him again, still burning, still fuming.
“And why is that?” I snapped. “Because you’re more important? Because you’re pretty and mysterious and can call people debtor without introducing yourself?”
For the first time, something like surprise flickered in his eyes.
Then amusement.
“I like you.”
I scowled. “I don’t care.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
He turned, just like that, and began walking away—no name, no explanation. His undoneseretdrifted behind him like a banner. He didn’t look back.
I stood there in the clearing, skin still wet, heart still pounding, jaw clenched tight.
I hated how easily he disarmed me. How beautiful he was. How much I wanted to win a fight I hadn’t even agreed to start.
I tied myseretat the hip and sat hard on the grass, facing the stream, not trusting myself to do anything else.
Whoever he was?—
I hoped I’d never see him again.
And I knew, with sickening certainty, that I absolutely would.
Chapter
Four
CALLIS
The walk back to the palace was slower than before.
Sunlight filtered through the citrus trees, gentler now in its descent, and the palace grounds stirred with quiet energy. Voices echoed faintly from the inner courtyards, the laughter of boys at leisure, the rustle of linen, the low beat of conversation. I kept to the edges of the paths, still damp from the stream, still flushed from something I didn’t want to name.
No one stopped me.
No one looked twice.
The Temple of Aerius stood near the terraces, set apart by a colonnade of white-veined stone and garlands of ivy that climbed the arches like they belonged there. It was the most austere of the temples I’d seen—no golden statues, no towering icons—just clean lines, still air, and the scent of parchment.
It welcomed me without ceremony.
Inside, the temple was quiet. Cooler. Scrolls linedrecessed alcoves, and thick-bound volumes rested behind glass-fronted cabinets. A scribe at the far end of the hall looked up briefly, then returned to his work without comment.
I moved along the shelves slowly, my fingers hovering just shy of the bindings. Most were devotional texts, myth cycles, commentary. A few bore no titles at all, their spines worn smooth with age.
Then I heard a voice—soft, edged with a smile.
