The Bond is not a chain, but a mirror. It reflects the soul, magnifies it, tests its truth. To Bond is not merely to touch skin, but to touch silence. To be unmade, and remade, under the eye of the sacred.
I read it again. And again. Each time, it shimmered with meaning and then dissolved into something vague. Poetic, yes. Profound, perhaps. But useless to me.
I turned another page.
Desire is not the root of the Bond, only its door. Beyond that door lies surrender. To hold and be held. To listen, and be known.
I sat back slightly, brow furrowing. They were beautiful words, but they told me nothing about what I needed to know. What happened after the choosing. What it felt like. What I would be expected to give. What might be taken.
I closed the book softly and let my fingers linger onthe cover. It was warm beneath my hand, warmed by the sun still drifting through the windows and pooling in golden streaks on the floor.
I had hoped for something clear. A list. A rule. Even a warning.
But this was the way of the island—truths hidden in riddles, knowledge passed in glances and half-spoken metaphors. The clarity of ink gave the illusion of understanding, but behind it lay only more mystery.
A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.
I rose. The corridor beyond was quiet. An attendant stood there in plain robes, with no particular adornment to his uniform beyond the deep green sash tied at the hip.
He bowed slightly and held out a small, tightly rolled scroll. “For you.”
I took it with a murmured thanks, and he was gone.
The scroll was sealed with a modest drop of wax, stamped in the shape of Aerius’s open wings. I cracked it and unrolled the parchment with care.
Duties assigned to Callis:
• Morning copywork, Temple of Aerius – Scribe Wing
• Maintenance of western alcoves – Dusting and Oilwork
• Weekly recitation practice – third dayafter sundown
• Afternoon physical training – Eastern Gymnasia
There were no flourishes, no congratulatory message, not even a signature. Just the tasks. A return to structure. A tether back to a rhythm I could understand.
And yet, I felt something stir in me—a small, unexpected rush of relief. It was like being granted a reward I hadn’t asked for, a lifeline tossed into the drifting haze of waiting. This, at least, I could do. I knew how to copy. I knew how to clean. I could learn how to move my body, train it, shape it into something more than the narrow limbs I had brought with me from home.
I looked down at myself.
Theseretclung to me lightly, soft but not concealing. It outlined the gentle rise of my chest, the narrowness of my waist, and the hollows above my collarbone. I had always been wiry, built by function, not form—by long hours on my feet, lifting baskets of scrolls, reaching high shelves, sweeping stone corridors, bowing when it was proper, and kneeling when it was required.
I had never trained. Never built my body for beauty. It had simply become what it needed to be.
But here, I had seen the others.
Lounging in the sun, skin darkened by days under open sky, muscles stretched long and firm from hours of practice. Their movements were not careless—theywere choreographed. Sculpted. Designed to entice, to suggest strength and pleasure in the same breath. They belonged to this world of fragrant oil and silken paths. I did not.
Still…
My hand curled around the edge of the scroll. I read the line again.
Afternoon physical training – Eastern Gymnasia.
The thought made my chest tighten. It wasn’t fear, exactly. Not shame either. It was… anticipation. And something beneath it. Hunger. Not for them—not yet. But for the chance to change, to belong, to earn the right to be here not through luck or family debt, but through effort. Through discipline. Through fire.
I set the scroll gently on the table beside the book and stood.
