Auren.
The one I had insulted. The one who had watched me beneath citrus boughs. The one who had seen menaked and flushed, who had smirked at my every defensive word.
He was here.
He had chosen me.
I couldn’t move.
Not even when he looked at me—not coldly, not cruelly, but like someone who had already imagined the shape of me in his hands.
I felt heat rise beneath my skin. Shame. Panic. Something darker.
The altar was behind him.
Waiting.
And I—I was no longer sure I could walk.
Auren’s eyes didn’t leave mine. He took a step forward, then another, just enough to draw closer without closing the distance completely. His movements were measured and elegant. Confident without the need to prove it.
“I believe the state of my attire is acceptable, Callis,” he said, voice low and smooth, a flicker of mischief curling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes gleamed—was it amusement, or something darker? For a breath, it looked like cruelty.
I didn’t answer right away.
Instead, I glanced toward the priests gathered at the edge of the chamber. Their expressions were unchanged—serene, composed, as if they’d heard nothing, as if what passed between us now was of no concern to them.
“It is not my place to pass judgment on your attire, Auren,” I said evenly. My voice barely wavered.
Auren chuckled. It was quiet and feline, more purr than laugh, as if he delighted in some private joke I hadn’t been invited to share.
The lead priest stepped forward again, drawing our attention back to him with a subtle lift of his hand. He extended his other arm outward, summoning the silent priests who had stood in the shadows of the chamber’s edge. They moved with practiced grace, each bearing items of significance: a small basin filled with deep red wine, a brazier carved from obsidian, its coals glowing faintly within; a shallow golden dish scattered with pine needles and cones; and a pair of goblets rimmed with a fine thread of silver.
The scent of resin filled the space as one priest lit the offering fire. Smoke curled upward, sweet and sharp, as the brazier took its breath.
“These are the offerings,” the priest intoned. “Symbols of earth and flame, of root and wing, of the gods who bear witness tonight.”
He turned to Auren first, holding out a long, narrow object wrapped in linen—then unwrapped it carefully. It was not a weapon, but it looked like one at first glance: a rod of pale ivory, etched in runes so fine they seemed to shift when the firelight touched them. The haft was wrapped in silver wire, the tip flared like a budding branch. I had seen its likeness only once in a painted scroll.
The Bondstaff.
“This,” the priest said, “is the instrument of invocation. It carries the will of the gods, and seals what isspoken in truth. Take it.”
Auren took it without hesitation. His fingers curled around the haft, reverent but sure.
“Speak your offering,” the priest instructed.
Auren turned his gaze toward me, and for the first time, the smirk faded from his features. What remained was steadier. Unreadable.
“I offer myself,” he said, voice resonant but calm. “In strength and in spirit. In touch and in word. I offer this bond to stand beside me in what is sacred. I ask no mask, and give none. Let the gods bear witness.”
The words settled in the air like a breath held.
The priest then turned to me. “Come hither, and place your hand upon the staff.”
I moved.
I didn’t trust my legs, but they carried me. I stopped in front of Auren, lifted one hand, and set it lightly over his where he gripped the staff.
