Page 20 of Golden Bond


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The sun had moved further west, the golden light edging toward amber. Somewhere beyond the garden walls, boys were training. Running. Striking. Stretching their bodies into the shape of warriors, or lovers, or something in between.

I would join them.

And when the time came—when I was summoned—I would not walk into that chamber as the debtor’s son.

I would walk as someone worthy, even if afraid.

The path to the eastern side of the palace curved through a grove of tall, reed-thin palms. Their fronds whispered overhead, casting laced shadows over the pale stones beneath my feet. The scroll listing my duties was folded in my hand, softening at the creaseswith each step I took. Somewhere ahead, I could already hear the low thud of footfalls, the sharp rhythm of wooden staves striking, and the deep, breathy cadence of movement repeated until mastered.

The Gymnasia was hidden behind a high wall of limestone, open to the sky but not to the world. Ivy crawled over its outer edges, half-shielding the carved reliefs that adorned the upper facade—bodies in motion, frozen in stone, every muscle perfectly etched, their expressions both serene and fierce.

I passed through a narrow archway, where an attendant in a light wrap waited with a small bundle in his arms. He was older than I, but not by much, broad-shouldered and sun-warmed, his hair tied at the nape of his neck in a simple cord.

“You must be Callis,” he said, handing over the bundle. “Your first day?”

I nodded.

“You’ll wear this,” he explained. “It’s called atalan. Wrap it at the waist, secure it under and around. You’ll get used to it.”

The fabric was thick, but breathable, rougher than theseret, and darker in color—a muted russet, woven through with threads that caught the light in faint glints of bronze. It was the kind of cloth meant to endure sweat, strain, and the grit of repetition. I ducked behind a linen curtain, shed my sandals and seret, and wrapped thetalanaround my hips, pulling it between my legs and knotting it in place the only way it seemed to make sense. It sat lower on my waist thanI was used to, leaving my torso bare, exposed in a way I wasn’t certain I liked.

But there was no mirror. No time to dwell.

The sound of exertion drew me deeper inside.

I stepped out onto the pale stone terrace and paused.

Before me stretched the inner court of the Gymnasia—a great open space paved in light-hued tile and ringed with columns. Between them, silken drapes swayed in the wind, revealing and concealing in turn. The scent of oil and sweat and cut grass filled the air, layered beneath something warm and earthy, like the heat of bodies moving as one.

At the far end, beneath the shade of arched vaults, a line of archers loosed arrows at distant targets, their silks rippling with every movement. They stood poised like statues, their motions fluid, shoulders taut, breath held. The arrows hissed and struck with a clean, sharp rhythm. A test not only of aim, but of patience.

Closer to the center, spearmen moved in paired drills, their bodies gleaming with sweat that caught the sunlight like polished bronze. They wore the sametalanI did—some loosely tied, others knotted tighter for ease of movement. Their feet slid across the stone in precise patterns, arms extended, weapons clashing with thuds that sent small echoes up into the air.

In the far left quadrant, two wrestlers grappled in a pit of sand, their limbs entangled, bodies slick and glistening. They moved like dancers—violent and graceful at once. Neither wore anything at all. No one watching seemed to care.

But it was the space nearest the colonnade that caught my eye. A row of young men—some fresh-faced like me, others more focused—stood barefoot in formation, each holding a quarterstaff. There was no sparring. No blows exchanged. Only form. Control. They practiced alone, yet in rhythm, turning and striking the air in patterned sequences. The movements were slow and deliberate. They looked not like fighters, but sculptors of their own bodies.

I swallowed, throat dry.

“Callis.” A voice came from behind me.

I turned.

The young man who’d spoken was tall, broad across the chest, with arms corded from years of training. Histalanwas stained darker than mine from sweat and use, and his eyes were the clear green of olive leaves in morning sun. He held a staff in one hand like it weighed nothing.

“I’m Leron,” he said. “You’re assigned to form class. That’s over there.” He gestured toward the quarterstaff group. “No combat until you learn how not to hurt yourself. Understood?”

“Yes,” I said, more breath than voice.

He studied me a moment longer. “Good posture. That helps. Don’t try to match anyone else. The point isn’t to be impressive. It’s to begin.”

I nodded, unsure if I was grateful for his bluntness or embarrassed by it.

He handed me a staff.

The wood was smooth, pale, and heavier than it looked. It warmed in my grip almost instantly.

“Go. Find a place. When the bell rings, you move.”