“Or he’ll expect them to match whatever idealized version he’s read about in ancient texts.”
“Possible.” Thane leaned back in his chair. “That’s why this assignment is particularly important. You shall need to balance his intellectual approach with practical reality. Guide him toward authentic experience rather than theoretical perfection.”
The weight of expectation settled on my shoulders. Not just a bonding, but a diplomatic one. Not just a partner, but a scholar who might examine every word I spoke, every choice I made. I thought of themen I’d commanded—simple, direct relationships built on trust and competence. This would be different.
“What’s his academic work focused on specifically?” I asked.
“Currently researching the evolution of dominant-submissive dynamics in sacred partnerships. How power exchange serves spiritual development. Apparently he’s identified patterns across different cultures that suggest...” Thane paused, gaze moving over the scroll. “That suggest contemporary practice may have drifted from original intent.”
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 bethe 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.
