Page 65 of Golden Bond

He was the one to step back.

I saw it in his eyes: the ache, the guilt, and more.

He touched my wrist as if to say thank you, or forgive me, or please don’t follow. I didn’t know which.

Then he turned, for the last time, and walked up the gangplank.

I didn’t follow.

The ship creaked as he boarded, its timbers shifting under new weight. Voices called orders. The sails were drawn. The ropes released.

And still I stood there.

Until the gangplank was raised.

Until the last of the dockhands drifted away.

Until the prow curved slowly, gently, out of sight—taking with it the only thing I had ever wanted to keep.

The dock was quiet now. Empty of sound. Empty of him.

The sun rose.

The bond, fierce only moments ago, began to loosen.

And I stood alone, heart hollow, as Eletheria stirred into day.

The city had woken while I watched the ship vanish. Market stalls groaned open. The scent of flatbread and lemon oil floated up from bakeries tucked into the lower alleys. Temple chimes began to toll, calling the acolytes to their prayers.

I walked slowly—through the winding streets I knew like my own breath, past courtyards and mosaics and sun-warmed walls that had always been there, unchanged. My feet carried me by habit, not purpose, until I found myself crossing the outer gates of the temple complex, the high arch of Aerius’s dome rising into the morning sky.

Inside, the air was cool and dry. I moved quietly along the marbled corridor, past painted shutters and shallow alcoves filled with offerings. At the inner cloister, a young steward rose from his kneel and approached me with a reverent bow.

“You have no duties today, Thorn,” he said, voice gentle. “The Vinekeeper sends his blessing. You are to rest now. To heal.”

Rest. Heal.

I thanked him with a nod I barely felt and turned away.

The quiet pressed close as I left the temple. Not an unwelcome silence—but a heavy one.

I walked without thinking, through the palace gates, into the eastern grounds. The orchards welcomed me with their curling branches and dappled light. I moved among them like a ghost, trailing fingers along low limbs, brushing against soft fruit as if they might speak.

One peach, heavy and warm, caught my hand.

I plucked it.

I bit.

The taste was sweet, then sharp. I chewed slowly, watching the shadows shift beneath the trees.

When I swallowed, I looked over my shoulder.

Nothing.

No barefoot footsteps in the dirt. No quiet laugh behind the foliage. No glint of golden skin in the branches.

I kept walking, past the orchard, down the winding slope, and toward the northern stream.