Page 1 of Golden Bond (Pleasure Palace #1)

Chapter

One

CALLIS

T he sea stretched endless and cold beneath a bleached sky, its surface broken only by the wake of the ship and the wheeling cries of gulls far behind us.

I stood at the prow, both hands curled tight around the worn rail, the salt stinging my face.

I hadn’t spoken since dawn. There was nothing to say.

The sailors gave me a wide berth. Perhaps it was the robes, still ink-stained from my days in the temple scriptorium, though I hadn’t held a quill in days.

Or perhaps it was my silence. There’s a kind of quiet that makes people uncomfortable, the kind that feels like it’s hiding something. I’d learned to wear it like armor.

I wasn’t one of them. Not truly. Not anymore.

Below me, the carved figurehead dipped and rose with the waves: a beautiful young god, face serene, arms outstretched, as if offering himself to the sea.

Elyon. I’d copied his likeness more times than I could count on scrolls, in border designs, etched into altar cloths that few would ever touch.

I recalled the three tenets of his cult: beauty, light, and poetry.

I stared past him now, eyes locked on the shifting line of the horizon. The wind tugged strands of my hair loose and made my eyes sting, but I didn’t blink.

Eletheria.

When I was a boy, the older scribes spoke of it in half-whispers, like a place that wasn’t real.

They said the island hung between earth and sky, cloaked in mist, its shores kissed by gods.

A sacred place, untouched by time, ruled by rites too old to name.

They said it could see into your soul. The island itself could watch you.

They said no one returned the same. Some didn’t return at all.

You didn’t sail to Eletheria , they told me. You were called.

No one explained what that meant. Not really.

The stories changed depending on who was telling them. Some whispered of lovers bound in silk and moonlight. Others spoke of men who wept with joy or terror, or both, the moment they set foot on the shore. There were tales of transformation, of ecstasy, of surrender. Of judgment.

No one ever called it punishment, though. Never that. It was a privilege. An honor.

That was the word my mother had used when the summons came.

An honor.

Her hands had trembled as she packed my things. She didn’t cry. Not then.

But she wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I didn’t know what I had been chosen for. Only that once the scroll bearing the island’s seal was unrolled, there had been no more questions. Not from the priest. Not from her. Not from me.

Obedience was easier than grief.

I thought of the last page I had copied before I was taken from the temple. A line from a sacred text I no longer believed in, though the words still rose up unbidden:

To be claimed is to be seen. To be seen is to be changed.

I didn’t want to be seen. And I didn’t want to be changed.

But that choice was no longer mine.

I shifted my weight against the railing, jaw clenched. My stomach churned—not from the motion of the ship, but from something deeper. Something older. A kind of dread that had followed me since I boarded five days ago.

A month. That’s what they said the Bond lasted. One full cycle of the moon.

But what came after?

The sailors never looked me in the eye for long. Perhaps they feared the same thing I did.

That the stories were true.

That the island was watching already.

“Land!” came the shout from the mast.

The spell shattered .

Sails snapped overhead as canvas caught the wind.

Ropes whipped against the deck. Boots pounded the planks in a sudden thunder of motion.

The crew surged into life, barking orders, pulling lines, rushing to their stations with practiced urgency.

Chatter filled the air, sharp with excitement and relief.

Five days at sea with clear skies and no storm, and still, every man aboard moved like someone who’d just outrun fate.

I stayed where I was.

The figurehead dipped with the ship’s momentum, as if bowing toward the horizon. I braced myself and stepped forward, just once, to see.

And there it was.

Not a veil of mist. Not a sacred mirage hovering between sea and sky.

The island rose from the water like a god awakening from sleep.

Green cliffs, bright with sunlight, curved along a crescent bay where the waves softened and turned glassy near the shore.

Above them, lush forests spilled like silk over the ridgelines, deep emeralds and soft golds, dotted with white-flowering trees that danced in the wind.

I couldn’t name them. I’d never seen them in scripture or sketch. They belonged to a different world.

Closer now, the harbor came into view. It was no solemn gateway for pilgrims. It teemed with movement.

Dozens of vessels bobbed at the dock, sleek white cutters, gilded trade barges, even a few ceremonial skiffs painted in rich jewel tones.

On land, robed figures and shirtless workers moved among the piers with the same purpose: preparing. Welcoming. Receiving.

Above it all, the sacred city climbed.

Terraces of pale stone layered up the hillside, flanked by cypress trees and hanging gardens, each level catching the light differently—glinting, softening, glowing.

Archways bloomed open like petals. Slender towers pierced the blue, their gold-capped spires gleaming like fire in the sun.

Far in the distance, at the city’s crown, a temple stood in silent dominion.

I couldn’t make out its details, but even from here I felt its pull.

As if something inside it had already turned toward me.

I let go of the railing. My fingers were red, stiff with tension.

So it was real after all.

Not a story. Not a parable or punishment or dream.

Eletheria.

And I had been summoned.

I had thought I might feel awe. Or terror. Or perhaps some stirring of faith—something old and buried rising to meet what lay ahead.

But I felt nothing.

Not yet.

Just the thrum of the ship beneath my feet. The wind in my hair. The terrible quiet inside my chest, where something was waiting to be broken open.

The gangplank struck the dock with a hollow thud, and the captain gave a single nod. That was my cue.

I stepped down last, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, the robes too warm now in the coastal sun. Behind me, the crew began unloading cargo, their voices loud again, laughing in the easy rhythm of men with a task and no reverence for it. I didn’t look back.

He waited just beyond the dock: a young man, no older than I, with honey-colored hair bound in a loose cord and robes the color of seafoam. He carried no weapon, wore no sandals, and yet he stood like someone who had never been refused a thing in his life.

When our eyes met, he smiled. Shallow, pleasant. Practiced.

“Welcome to Eletheria,” he said. “You are expected.”

I bowed slightly, the way I had been taught. “My name is?—”

“There’s no need, Callis,” he interrupted gently, turning on bare feet. “Follow me.”

I did.

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 trimming paper.

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.

It was a place meant for secrets.

I let the satchel fall to the floor and turned back just as my guide entered behind me, his arms folded lightly behind his back. “Everything you need is here,” he said. “If anything’s missing, tell someone.”

I nodded, unsure if I was allowed to sit yet.

“You may move freely,” he continued, as though he’d read the thought. “Through the gardens, the halls, the common rooms, and the shrines. You’ll find the kitchens beyond the eastern wing. Food is served at the high table, but if you need something sooner, the cook is… unusually generous.”

I blinked. “So I?—”

“There are few rules,” he said, cutting gently across me with a tilt of his head. “Do nothing violent. Do not leave the grounds without permission. Do not enter the private wings unless invited. Everything else is yours to explore.”

It was too much. Too simple.

I waited for the catch. The warning. The law etched in pain. But there was none. Only sunlight and soft linens and a youth smiling like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“And the ritual?” I asked—almost. The words brushed my tongue, but I swallowed them.

I didn’t want to sound foolish.

He tilted his head slightly, as if expecting more, but I only said, “Thank you.”

He smiled again, and this time it almost felt real. “There will be a summons when the time comes. Until then, rest. Eat. Write, if that’s your habit.” He glanced toward the desk. “There are books in the west alcove of the Temple of Aerius. The attendants can guide you.”

I nodded again. It was all I could manage.

He turned to go. His bare feet made no sound on the stone.

And then I was alone.

I stood in the middle of the room for a long while, not touching anything. The silence was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. A breeze lifted the curtains slightly, carrying the faint scent of crushed herbs and blooming vines from the secret garden beyond.

It was beautiful.

It was quiet.

And I didn’t trust any of it.