Chapter 1 #2
My stomach dropped. Power dynamics. Dominant-submissive relationships. The very things I’d always struggled with, that had never felt natural despite years of training. Now I’d be partnered with someone who’d studied them academically, who probably had theories about how they should work.
“Intimidating?” Thane asked, noting my expression.
“Challenging.” I set down my cup. “What does he expect from this bonding?”
“Learning experience, most likely. A chance to observe theoretical concepts in practice.” Thane’s voice carried a note of warning. “Don’t let that reduce you to a subject of study, Rion. You’re his partner, nothing less.”
“And if we’re incompatible?”
“Then you’ll both learn something valuable about the difference between theory and reality.
” He stood, moving to the window. “But I don’t think that will be the case.
You’re both dedicated to your respective Orders.
Both disciplined. Both...” He searched for the right word. “Both capable of growth.”
I joined him at the window. Below, two acolytes sparred with practice swords, their movements precise and controlled. One was clearly more skilled, guiding his partner through the forms with patient correction.
“He’ll expect me to lead,” I said.
“Of course. You’re the militant. Command comes naturally to you.”
Did it? In battle, yes. In crisis, absolutely. But in the intimate spaces where bonds were built? I’d always felt like I was performing a role rather than living it.
I wished I felt confident about what kind of person I was supposed to be.
My quarters were exactly as I’d left them eight months ago.
Sparse. Functional. A narrow bed with military corners, a chest for personal effects, a basin for washing. The only decoration was my ceremonial sword mounted on the wall—polished steel that caught the afternoon light streaming through the single window.
I stripped off my travel clothes and stood before the small mirror mounted above the basin.
Eight months of campaign had left their mark, but not in ways that would matter here.
My body was still what the temple required: broad shoulders, defined muscles, skin unmarked by anything that couldn’t be explained as honorable combat.
The scar across my ribs from Korvan’s Bay would fade to a thin line. The calluses on my hands would soften.
Perfect. Controlled. Empty.
I touched the reflection, fingertips against glass. This was what Kaelen would see in the grand ceremony chamber. A militant in his prime, physically flawless, trained in the arts of dominance and command. Everything the texts said a warrior should be.
Everything I wasn’t sure I could be.
The fear sat in my chest like a stone. Not fear of battle—that had been burned out of me years ago. Not fear of death or pain or failure in any sense I understood. This was deeper. More shameful.
I was afraid of losing control.
More than that—I was afraid of discovering I didn’t want control at all.
I dressed in my temple clothes, the familiar weight of silk and leather settling around my body like armor. Then I knelt in the center of the room and tried to practice.
“Command presence,” I murmured, straightening my spine. “Clear direction. Firm but not harsh.”
The words felt hollow. They always had.
I thought of my father, the way he’d stood over my mother’s deathbed like a statue carved from granite.
Twelve years old, I’d watched him refuse to cry, refuse to break, refuse to show anything but stoic acceptance.
He’d been everything a militant should be in that moment—strong, controlled, unshakeable.
He’d also been unreachable.
For weeks after the funeral, I’d tried to get through to him.
Asked questions about mother, about grief, about the hollow space in our house where her laughter used to live.
He’d answered with facts. Details. Practical arrangements.
Never once did he speak of loss or longing or the way her absence made even breathing feel difficult.
“Emotion is weakness,” he’d finally told me when I pressed too hard. “A warrior who cannot master his own heart cannot master anything else.”
I’d learned the lesson well. Too well.
The problem was Korrath’s teachings pulled in another direction entirely. The god of sacred combat was also the god of brotherhood, of bonds forged in shared struggle. His followers were meant to understand connection, loyalty, the strength that came from trusting others completely.
I’d mastered the individual parts—combat, discipline, physical perfection. But the bonds? The sacred partnerships that were supposed to deepen understanding and strengthen resolve?
Three failed attempts. Three partners who’d found me competent but cold, skilled but distant. We’d completed the rituals, fulfilled the obligations, and failed to sustain ourselves against the ever-increasing pressure of the bond. It had suffocated us to the point of being unbearable.
I stood and moved to the window, looking out at the training grounds.
In the largest sand pit, two militants worked through grappling forms. The larger man—someone I didn’t recognize—had his partner pinned, but there was something gentle in the way he held the position.
Patient. Teaching rather than dominating.
That’s what I was supposed to be able to do. Guide without crushing. Lead without demanding. Find the balance between strength and care that made sacred bonds possible.
Twenty-eight days with Kaelen. A scholar who’d studied power dynamics, who would expect me to embody everything he’d read about militant dominance. Who would watch for the confidence and natural authority that were supposed to come as easily as breathing.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
What if he discovered the truth? That underneath all the training and discipline and physical perfection, I was just a man who’d learned to hide too well? That when stripped of military necessity and life-or-death situations, I didn’t know how to command anything—not even myself?
What if, in trying to give him what he expected, I revealed what I was really afraid of?
That I didn’t want to lead at all.
That I’d been waiting my whole life for someone strong enough, sure enough, kind enough to tell me it was safe to stop pretending.
The thought terrified me more than any battle I’d ever fought.
I turned away from the window and began practicing the forms again. Straightened shoulders. Steady voice. Controlled expression.
Twenty-eight days. I could maintain the pretense for twenty-eight days.
I had to.
The moonstone had dimmed to its softest glow by the time I gave up on sleep.
I sat at my small writing desk, staring at blank parchment.
The temple was quiet around me—even the most dedicated acolytes had retired hours ago.
Only the night watch remained, their footsteps a distant rhythm on stone corridors.
The pale light from the stone embedded in my wall cast everything in silver and shadow.
I dipped the quill and began to write.
Father—
The words came slowly, each one pulled from some place I’d kept sealed for years.
I am to be bonded again. A scholar this time, from the Temple of Aerius. His name is Kaelen. I know nothing of him save that he studies the very things I cannot master.
I think of you often when these obligations arise. How you stood so straight at mother’s bedside. How you never let the grief touch your voice or bend your shoulders. You were everything a militant should be.
I am not.
I stopped, quill hovering over the parchment. Was I really going to confess this? To the man who’d taught me that weakness was the only unforgivable sin?
I fear I will disappoint him. Not through lack of skill or knowledge, but through lack of... something I cannot name. The thing that makes bonds sacred rather than mere duty. You would tell me emotion is weakness, and perhaps you are right. But without it, what am I offering him?
Your son, Rion
I set the letter aside and reached for fresh parchment.
Kaelen—
We have not yet met, but I owe you an apology. You will expect a partner worthy of your studies, someone who embodies the ideals you have read about in ancient texts. I fear you will find instead a man who understands war better than love, duty better than desire.
I will try to be what you need. I will follow the forms, maintain the proper roles, give you the experience your research requires. But I cannot promise you the authentic connection that makes such bonds sacred. That capacity was trained out of me long ago, if it ever existed at all.
You deserve better. I am sorry you will not receive it.
I stared at the second letter, the moonstone’s gentle radiance making the ink seem to shimmer on the page. There it was—the truth I’d been avoiding. I was already planning to fail. Already preparing apologies for inadequacies I hadn’t yet demonstrated.
This was what I did. What I’d always done. Built walls before the first stone was thrown, retreated before the first advance, apologized for defeats that existed only in my mind.
No wonder my previous bonds had been hollow exercises. I’d approached them like a man walking to his execution—dutiful, resigned, already grieving what could never be.
But what if...
I set down the quill and leaned back in my chair. What if I didn’t fail this time? What if instead of expecting disappointment, I allowed for the possibility of something else?
The thought scared me, but it also stirred something I’d thought long dead. Hope. Small and fragile as moonstone light, but present.
Kaelen was a scholar. Maybe—maybe he would see past the rigid training to whatever lay beneath. Maybe his academic curiosity would uncover things I’d never known how to access myself.
Or maybe I would surprise us both.
I folded the letters carefully and placed the first in my chest, unsent. Then I covered the moonstone lamp on the wall, dimming its glow to barely a whisper, and lay down on my narrow bed, still clothed.
Sleep came slowly, and when it did, I dreamed of hands gentler than my own, guiding me toward surrender I’d never dared imagine.
I woke near dawn with the second letter still clutched against my chest, parchment wrinkled from the grip of sleeping fingers that had refused to let go.