Maybe he hadn’t meant it like that. Maybe the story was just a story.
Maybe I was reading too much into the heat I felt in my chest.
So I said nothing.
And waited for the bond to steady.
The bond settled between us like the sea retreating from shore—still warm, still present, but no longer cresting. The ache in my chest dulled to a quiet fullness, as if the tide had reached its peak and drawn gently back, leaving behind the shimmer of salt on sand. I breathed in, slow and careful, and felt him there—not touching, not speaking, just there. Steady. Like a thread pulled taut but not fraying.
I didn’t reach for him.
But I didn’t move away, either.
Chapter
Nine
AUREN
The days passed like polished beads on a thread—indistinct at a glance, but each with its own grain and tension beneath the smooth surface.
Callis woke early, always. I knew the sound of his footfalls before I opened my eyes, the whisper of linen, the brief rush of water in the outer basin. He slipped from the apartments with reverence, never disturbing me, never lingering as though unsure of his welcome. He didn’t ask where I would be that day, nor did he tell me where he was going. But I always knew. The Temple of Aerius, the scriptorium, the Gymnasia.
He returned just as quietly in the afternoons, robes smelling faintly of sun and ink, his cheeks sometimes flushed with heat from the baths. He greeted me with a nod or a polite word—nothing presumptive, nothing intimate—and took his place at the low table where I left the scrolls and volumes each morning. Sometimeswe read in tandem, sometimes I watched him read. Sometimes he asked questions. Sometimes he didn’t.
On the surface, it was peaceful. But beneath that calm, something strained.
The bond was no longer a suggestion. It had begun to take shape inside me, pressing outward in pulses I felt behind my ribs, behind my teeth. When Callis entered a room, I felt him before I saw him. When he passed too close, the bond coiled tight in my belly, humming like string drawn taut across my spine.
He didn’t touch me.
He hadn’t touched me since that first night—not truly, not intentionally—and that absence settled over my skin like hunger left unanswered. I told myself not to mind. He was new to this. Young. He didn’t understand what the bond demanded, or perhaps he did and found me lacking. Maybe he didn’t want this. Maybe he regretted choosing me the moment he’d spoken the vow aloud.
Or maybe—more dangerous still—he was waiting for me to act.
But I had done that before. Had reached too soon, too fast. Had taken interest for invitation. And when it shattered, it had been my fault, not theirs. So I waited now. I watched.
He was beautiful in the way of something still blooming. His hands were steady when he wrote, but restless when he listened. His posture was correct, always—shoulders squared, back straight—but his eyes wandered to the edges of every story, curious. I caught him once rereading the same line three timesin a row, eyes glazed not with boredom but with awe. He’d been tracing the old glosses beside the myth of the Sea-Bride and her mirror. He hadn’t noticed me watching. I hadn’t said a word.
Each night, the bond grew heavier. Not painful. Not yet. But like a stone added to the hem of a robe, pulling slowly downward.
I began to dream again—unhelpful, vivid dreams where Callis was always just out of reach. Dreams where I woke alone, hot and aching, unsure if the bond had flared or if I had simply imagined his nearness.
I took longer walks. Visited the northern cloisters. Tended the plants in the east-facing hall, pruning roots until the scent of soil and crushed leaf grounded me again. I told myself this was fine. That patience was a virtue. That the bond did not need to be physical to be holy.
But even the gods grew restless when left unanswered.
On the fifth day, I watched him fall asleep reading one of the older fragments, his head tilted, mouth barely parted, fingers curled on the floor beside him. The bond curled tight in my chest then, hot and bright, and it didn’t fade when I turned away.
It stayed through the night. It stayed through the morning.
And by the time the sixth evening came, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could pretend it wasn’t burning me alive.
The next morning, I rose before him. I washed. Dressed without sound. Tried to pray.
But the words wouldn’t come. Only breath—and the bond, coiled under my ribs like something half-starved.
I’d told myself it would ease. That bonds needed time to root. That whatever ache lived in me was the usual turbulence of new closeness, not a reflection of what he did or didn’t feel. But each day the weight grew. Each moment he passed beside me without looking, each time he spoke in that gentle, temple-trained tone, made me feel more like a host than a partner. A vessel. A stranger.
