And at the center of the room stood him.
He faced away, positioned before an altar draped in deep crimson silk. His back was straight, his posture unmoving. A dark silk scarf was wrapped loosely around his head, the ends falling behind his shoulders. His right arm was bare from the elbowdown, his upper arm circled with a thick ring of gold. The ceremonial armor covered one shoulder, and his calf guards gleamed as if newly polished. Theserethe wore had been adapted—broader, richer, fastened with gold and hanging perfectly over his left shoulder, gathered at the hip with a seal I didn’t recognize.
Everything about him radiated intent and power.
My throat tightened.
This wasn’t Caedin.
I took a step forward, unsure if I’d been expected to move on my own, but the moment passed in silence. No one stopped me. No one guided me.
The altar drew my eyes.
It was low—just beneath the height of a man’s hips—and wide, its top covered in a thick cushion beneath the silk. A shallow bowl of oil glinted on a small pedestal beside it. There were no restraints. No tools. But there didn’t need to be.
I knew.
I knew what would happen there.
My body would be prepared. My posture adjusted. My offering accepted.
And whoever this man was… he would be the one to receive it.
A priest stepped forward.
He was only a little older, robed in soft gray with silver edging, and his voice—when he spoke—was deep and precise, like a bell rung in still air.
“In the sight of sun and moon, with breath between them, we call forth the Bond.”
I stood still, hands at my sides, every breath louder than the last.
“We summon now the one who has been offered,” the priest said, eyes fixed on me. “He has come in humility and hope. He is called Callis.”
A whisper passed through the room, like silk drawn through water.
The priest turned, his hand outstretched toward the young man before the altar.
“And the one who has chosen,” he continued, “whose blood bears the seal of the sacred line, who speaks with the blessing of the Temple and calls forth this Bond beneath sacred moon and setting sun…”
A pause.
Then:
“He is Auren.”
The name rang like a chime struck too sharply.The golden one.
And the young man turned.
He didn’t rush.
He pivoted slowly, deliberately, the folds of hisseretshifting like poured wine, and when his face came into view, I stopped breathing.
Silver hair, tousled now beneath the edge of his scarf.
Eyes like glacial water, too vivid, too knowing.
The mouth that had once curled in challenge beside a stream.
