We climbed a white stone path that curved away from the harbor, and the noise of the docks faded with every step. Soon, even the shouts of sailors seemed like another life, as distant as the mainland.
The city revealed itself slowly, like a painting peeled back in layers. Buildings of pale limestone and sun-washed marble flanked wide boulevards. There were no carts. No beasts of burden. Everything was carried by hand, yet no one hurried.Locals passed us with half-lidded smiles and glowing skin, their robes light, their hair glinting gold and bronze in the sun. Even the shadows here were elegant.
The scent of citrus and lavender thickened as we walked.
At first, I thought we were headed to a temple. But the city’s paths did not narrow—they opened, widened, until I realized that the entire slope of the island was shaped to lead to one thing: the palace.
Or rather, the complex.
We passed under a marble arch where two nude statues stood in mirrored grace, both male, both veiled in climbing ivy. Beyond it lay not a palace in the old sense, but a constellation of domes and halls, shrines and sanctuaries, arranged with such artistry it took my breath.
Every god I had ever copied had a place here.
And some I didn’t recognize.
Between the temples were courtyards of green marble, reflecting pools, and shaded pavilions. It was not just holy, it was exquisite. And alive.
Young men strolled the grounds, barefoot in fine robes or nothing at all. Some wore thin gold collars, others loops of silk low around their waists, their bodies bronzed and burnished by the sun. They moved with the ease of dancers, graceful and unconcerned, as if the world were made to accommodate them. Their laughter rang like music from shaded courtyards and colonnades. Every gesture was effortless—arms flung over shoulders, fingers grazing wrists,a glance held too long and then dismissed like a secret only they understood.
They were impossibly beautiful. Every one of them.
Skin like sun-warmed honey. Hair in loose curls or sleek waves, kissed golden at the ends. Lips soft, full, often parted as if about to speak poetry. There was no tension in their bodies, no awkwardness in their stride. They were creatures built for devotion, and they knew it.
Their eyes flicked to me—some with vague interest, others with distant boredom—but never hostility. Still, I felt their gazes like heat on bare skin.
I didn’t belong here. I was too pale, too stiff. The ink stains on my cuffs had dried into the fabric. My hands were rough from sea salt, my sandals worn thin. I tightened my grip on the satchel. It was the only thing I owned now. Everything else had been given up.
A boy with long lashes whispered something to his friend and both of them laughed—low, musical, intimate. One of them tossed his perfect hair back like it was a blessing, and for a moment I hated him.
Not because he mocked me. He hadn’t. But because he could belong so easily to this place, while I couldn’t even ask where I was being taken.
A knot pulled tighter in my chest. Not dread exactly—something finer, sharper. Fear dressed in reverence. The certainty that I was being prepared for something, and the growing suspicion that I wasn’t ready.
It couldn’t be so bad. I told myself that again. And again.
But I didn’t believe it.
I walked a little faster to keep up with my guide and willed my face to remain calm.
If I had been summoned for beauty, I had already failed.
We passed through the gardens last. They were vast and intoxicating: fountains and shade trees, white doves in the branches, jasmine and oleander blooming side by side. Beyond the garden stretched a long row of buildings—residences, clearly—but divided. One side shimmered with mosaics and archways, the stonework finer, more ornate.
The other, simpler, though no less beautiful.
My guide turned toward the second wing.
No explanations. No hesitation. He expected to be followed.
I followed.
The room was larger than I expected.
Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, drawing lacework shadows across the stone floor. A low bed stood near the window, its sheets pale and clean, a thin coverlet folded with neat precision. Beside it, a basin of fresh water shimmered on a marble stand, with clean cloths folded alongside—linen, finer than anything I’d owned.
Across from the bed, a small writing desk waited, tucked into the corner like a promise. A stack of parchment sat neatly beside two quills, a pot of ink sealed with wax, and a weighted knife for trimmingpaper. There was even a cushion on the chair, stuffed with something soft enough to shift under the hand. Nothing was elaborate, but everything was beautiful.
The window overlooked a garden I hadn’t seen from the main path—quieter than the sweeping lawns and terraces outside. This one was shadowed by taller hedges, with winding trails instead of straight ones, and shaded alcoves barely visible between flowering trees. The benches were tucked into recesses. Even the breeze that stirred the petals felt muted.
