Page 7 of Golden Bond (Pleasure Palace #1)

It had been cleared since morning, the surface smooth and wide, pale wood veined with the faint patterns of some sea-born tree I didn’t know the name of.

I set the scrolls down carefully, one beside the other, then placed the slim volumes from the temple on top.

They shifted slightly, as if resisting order, and I adjusted them until they sat neatly aligned.

I eased down into the chair. The cushion beneath me exhaled softly, plush and full, covered in tightly woven silk that caught the light like water.

My hand drifted to the top volume. The leather was soft and worn, its edges still faintly perfumed by the Temple of Aerius—aged parchment, sandalwood, and a hint of ink.

I opened the first pages.

The writing was elegant. The ink had faded just enough to hint at age, but the words were still crisp, unmarred by time.

The Bond is not a chain, but a mirror. It reflects the soul, magnifies it, tests its truth. To Bond is not merely to touch skin, but to touch silence. To be unmade, and remade, under the eye of the sacred.

I read it again. And again. Each time, it shimmered with meaning and then dissolved into something vague. Poetic, yes. Profound, perhaps. But useless to me.

I turned another page.

Desire is not the root of the Bond, only its door. Beyond that door lies surrender. To hold and be held. To listen, and be known.

I sat back slightly, brow furrowing. They were beautiful words, but they told me nothing about what I needed to know. What happened after the choosing. What it felt like. What I would be expected to give. What might be taken.

I closed the book softly and let my fingers linger on the cover. It was warm beneath my hand, warmed by the sun still drifting through the windows and pooling in golden streaks on the floor.

I had hoped for something clear. A list. A rule. Even a warning.

But this was the way of the island—truths hidden in riddles, knowledge passed in glances and half-spoken metaphors. The clarity of ink gave the illusion of understanding, but behind it lay only more mystery.

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.

I rose. The corridor beyond was quiet. An attendant stood there in plain robes, with no particular adornment to his uniform beyond the deep green sash tied at the hip.

He bowed slightly and held out a small, tightly rolled scroll. “For you.”

I took it with a murmured thanks, and he was gone.

The scroll was sealed with a modest drop of wax, stamped in the shape of Aerius’s open wings. I cracked it and unrolled the parchment with care.

Duties assigned to Callis:

· Morning copywork, Temple of Aerius – Scribe Wing

· Maintenance of western alcoves – Dusting and Oilwork

· Weekly recitation practice – third day after sundown

· Afternoon physical training – Eastern Gymnasia

There were no flourishes, no congratulatory message, not even a signature. Just the tasks. A return to structure. A tether back to a rhythm I could understand.

And yet, I felt something stir in me—a small, unexpected rush of relief.

It was like being granted a reward I hadn’t asked for, a lifeline tossed into the drifting haze of waiting.

This, at least, I could do. I knew how to copy.

I knew how to clean. I could learn how to move my body, train it, shape it into something more than the narrow limbs I had brought with me from home.

I looked down at myself.

The seret clung to me lightly, soft but not concealing.

It outlined the gentle rise of my chest, the narrowness of my waist, and the hollows above my collarbone.

I had always been wiry, built by function, not form—by long hours on my feet, lifting baskets of scrolls, reaching high shelves, sweeping stone corridors, bowing when it was proper, and kneeling when it was required.

I had never trained. Never built my body for beauty. It had simply become what it needed to be.

But here, I had seen the others.

Lounging in the sun, skin darkened by days under open sky, muscles stretched long and firm from hours of practice.

Their movements were not careless—they were choreographed.

Sculpted. Designed to entice, to suggest strength and pleasure in the same breath.

They belonged to this world of fragrant oil and silken paths. I did not.

Still…

My hand curled around the edge of the scroll. I read the line again.

Afternoon physical training – Eastern Gymnasia.

The thought made my chest tighten. It wasn’t fear, exactly.

Not shame either. It was… anticipation. And something beneath it.

Hunger. Not for them—not yet. But for the chance to change, to belong, to earn the right to be here not through luck or family debt, but through effort. Through discipline. Through fire.

I set the scroll gently on the table beside the book and stood.

The sun had moved further west, the golden light edging toward amber. Somewhere beyond the garden walls, boys were training. Running. Striking. Stretching their bodies into the shape of warriors, or lovers, or something in between.

I would join them.

And when the time came—when I was summoned—I would not walk into that chamber as the debtor’s son.

I would walk as someone worthy, even if afraid.

The path to the eastern side of the palace curved through a grove of tall, reed-thin palms. Their fronds whispered overhead, casting laced shadows over the pale stones beneath my feet.

The scroll listing my duties was folded in my hand, softening at the creases with each step I took.

Somewhere ahead, I could already hear the low thud of footfalls, the sharp rhythm of wooden staves striking, and the deep, breathy cadence of movement repeated until mastered.

The Gymnasia was hidden behind a high wall of limestone, open to the sky but not to the world.

Ivy crawled over its outer edges, half-shielding the carved reliefs that adorned the upper facade—bodies in motion, frozen in stone, every muscle perfectly etched, their expressions both serene and fierce.

I passed through a narrow archway, where an attendant in a light wrap waited with a small bundle in his arms. He was older than I, but not by much, broad-shouldered and sun-warmed, his hair tied at the nape of his neck in a simple cord.

“You must be Callis,” he said, handing over the bundle. “Your first day?”

I nodded.

“You’ll wear this,” he explained. “It’s called a talan . Wrap it at the waist, secure it under and around. You’ll get used to it.”

The fabric was thick, but breathable, rougher than the seret , and darker in color—a muted russet, woven through with threads that caught the light in faint glints of bronze.

It was the kind of cloth meant to endure sweat, strain, and the grit of repetition.

I ducked behind a linen curtain, shed my sandals and seret, and wrapped the talan around my hips, pulling it between my legs and knotting it in place the only way it seemed to make sense.

It sat lower on my waist than I was used to, leaving my torso bare, exposed in a way I wasn’t certain I liked.

But there was no mirror. No time to dwell.

The sound of exertion drew me deeper inside.

I stepped out onto the pale stone terrace and paused.

Before me stretched the inner court of the Gymnasia—a great open space paved in light-hued tile and ringed with columns.

Between them, silken drapes swayed in the wind, revealing and concealing in turn.

The scent of oil and sweat and cut grass filled the air, layered beneath something warm and earthy, like the heat of bodies moving as one.

At the far end, beneath the shade of arched vaults, a line of archers loosed arrows at distant targets, their silks rippling with every movement.

They stood poised like statues, their motions fluid, shoulders taut, breath held.

The arrows hissed and struck with a clean, sharp rhythm.

A test not only of aim, but of patience.

Closer to the center, spearmen moved in paired drills, their bodies gleaming with sweat that caught the sunlight like polished bronze.

They wore the same talan I did—some loosely tied, others knotted tighter for ease of movement.

Their feet slid across the stone in precise patterns, arms extended, weapons clashing with thuds that sent small echoes up into the air.

In the far left quadrant, two wrestlers grappled in a pit of sand, their limbs entangled, bodies slick and glistening. They moved like dancers—violent and graceful at once. Neither wore anything at all. No one watching seemed to care .

But it was the space nearest the colonnade that caught my eye.

A row of young men—some fresh-faced like me, others more focused—stood barefoot in formation, each holding a quarterstaff.

There was no sparring. No blows exchanged.

Only form. Control. They practiced alone, yet in rhythm, turning and striking the air in patterned sequences.

The movements were slow and deliberate. They looked not like fighters, but sculptors of their own bodies.

I swallowed, throat dry.

“Callis.” A voice came from behind me.

I turned.

The young man who’d spoken was tall, broad across the chest, with arms corded from years of training. His talan was stained darker than mine from sweat and use, and his eyes were the clear green of olive leaves in morning sun. He held a staff in one hand like it weighed nothing.

“I’m Leron,” he said. “You’re assigned to form class. That’s over there.” He gestured toward the quarterstaff group. “No combat until you learn how not to hurt yourself. Understood?”

“Yes,” I said, more breath than voice.

He studied me a moment longer. “Good posture. That helps. Don’t try to match anyone else. The point isn’t to be impressive. It’s to begin.”

I nodded, unsure if I was grateful for his bluntness or embarrassed by it.

He handed me a staff.

The wood was smooth, pale, and heavier than it looked. It warmed in my grip almost instantly .