We said nothing more.
But as sleep began to claim us both, I felt the bond thrum once more—soft, slow, reluctant.
Like it, too, knew its time was nearly done.
Chapter
Twelve
CALLIS
Icouldn’t sleep.
Auren’s chest rose gently beside me, bare and golden in the pale glow of a single moonstone lamp left uncovered. His lips were parted slightly. A curl of hair clung to his temple. He looked young like this. Not younger in age, but untouched by sorrow. At peace.
The heat of his climax still burned inside my body, soaking its warmth into my marrow.
I turned my face into the pillow, but rest would not come. My body was heavy with satisfaction, sated and clean. But my thoughts stirred like birds trapped beneath a net.
There was a story I had once read—half-burned, its ending lost. It was about a man visited by a god, offered a place in the heavens. All he had to do was die at sunset.
The man accepted. Gratefully. He was to dine with the gods. So he cleaned his house, gave away hislivestock, and bequeathed his lands to a cousin he’d never met. He made peace with those he had wronged and invited his friends for one last feast.
But as the day waned, the sweetness of the offer began to sour. He walked through his fields one last time and touched the heads of grain. He tasted wine and laughed so hard his ribs hurt. And as sunset bled across the sky, fear crept in. Not because he regretted the choice, but because he had enjoyed the day too much. Life had bloomed again in him just when he meant to give it up.
The scroll ended there. Blackened by fire. No final lines. No answer.
I watched Auren shift in his sleep, a hand brushing across my stomach before slipping back to the sheets. I rose quietly, trying not to wake him, and pulled a thin linen wrap over my shoulders. The floor was cool against my feet as I stepped out into the hall, past the antechamber, and down into the gardens.
The moon hung low tonight, wide and solemn. The grass, wet with dew, kissed my calves as I waded through it barefoot. I walked past the citrus groves and down the terrace stairs, past the marble pool where we had once lingered in the afternoon sun. I kept going until I reached the far field, just shy of the orchards, and sank to my knees in the tall grass.
The bond was still there, of course. A steady warmth behind my ribs. Softer now. Less demanding. More like breath.
I closed my eyes and offered no prayer in words—only gratitude. Gratitude for what had passed through me like flame and did not leave me burned.
My ship was waiting.
I had seen it just the night before, sails furled and cargo stowed. The captain would hold it one more day. No longer. Among the crates were the books Auren had gifted my temple. Some of them older than anything we had ever seen. Scrolls, fragments, glossaries. More knowledge than I could copy in a lifetime. Auren’s hands had packed them.
It should have thrilled me. It did. But it didn’t make the leaving easier.
I thought of home. Of the hard cot I’d slept in since I was twelve. Of sunlight through reed slats. Of sandals with fraying ties and the scent of hot ink and olive oil. Of the daily rhythm—the washing, the meals, the song that opened each day. It had never been easy, but it had always been mine.
And yet.
This had been mine too.
Not just the silks and the fruit and the open sky above the terrace. But the hours—those slow, impossible hours with Auren. His voice in the darkness. His breath on my neck. The sound of the gods in his stories. The way he touched me like it meant something. Like I meant something.
In this place, I had lived.
I had mattered. Not in name alone, or duty, but in purpose. I had taken part in something older and larger than myself. And I had loved.
A gust of wind stirred the trees, and I bowed myhead into it. My hands folded over my knees. I breathed.
Time was passing.
The ritual hour would come before dawn.
