"The gods may not adapt, but the mortals who interpret their words certainly do," I managed, hoping my voice didn't betray the direction of my thoughts. "Tell me, Lysander—in your careful study of the Tablets, did you happen to notice they were transcribed during the Hieratic Period, when temple power depended on rigid social stratification? When keeping people in clearly defined roles served political purposes more than spiritual ones?"
"Kaelen," Myris warned, though his tone held more resignation than real reproof.
But I was just getting started, the familiar fire building in my chest—though now it burned with more than just intellectual passion. This was about something deeper, more visceral than academic debate.
"Or perhaps you noticed that earlier texts from the same tradition describe partnerships as fluid exchanges of power, where dominance and submission flow between partners like water finding its level?" I stood, my chair scraping against stone, grateful for the movement that helped disguise my body's inconvenient response to the topic. "Where the real question wasn't who should submit, but who had the strength to command properly?"
The words 'dominance and submission' seemed to hang in the air, and I felt my skin warm as I spoke them. I'd read those texts by candlelight, alone in my quarters, my scholarly detachment dissolving as I imagined what such exchanges might feel like. What it would be like to be the one giving orders instead of just reading about them, to have someone look up at me with trust and hunger, to guide another personthrough surrender so complete it bordered on worship.
Lysander's face had begun to flush, though whether from embarrassment or something else, I couldn't tell. "You can't simply dismiss centuries of established interpretation because it doesn't align with your personal theories."
Personal theories. If only he knew how personal they'd become. How many nights I'd spent imagining myself in the role of guide, protector, the one who commanded and was obeyed. How vivid my dreams had grown—soft gasps of submission, trembling hands, the weight of absolute trust placed in my keeping.
"I'm not dismissing anything. I'm questioning whether we've allowed political convenience to override spiritual truth." The words came out harder than I'd intended, fueled by frustration that had little to do with theological debate and everything to do with desires I'd been suppressing for years. "These partnerships aren't academic exercises, Lysander. They're lived experiences between real people with real needs, real desires, real flesh that responds to touch and command."
Real bodies, I thought but didn't say. Real mouths that could be taught to whisper surrender. Real hands that might shake with need when given the right orders. The scholarly texts described power exchange in dry terms, but my fantasies were far more vivid—the moment when resistance finally cracked, whenpride gave way to desperate gratitude, when someone strong enough to fight chose submission instead.
"So you would throw out all structure? All guidance?" Another scribe—Philippos, I thought—had joined the conversation. "Let people simply stumble through sacred bonds according to their whims?"
"I would trust people to recognize truth when they encounter it." The words came out with more force than intended, driven by hunger I could no longer pretend was purely intellectual. "I would trust the gods to speak through authentic connection rather than performed submission. I would trust that some souls are born to lead and others to follow, and that trying to force them into wrong roles makes everyone miserable."
From the corner of my eye, I caught movement at one of the far desks. Callis—the young scribe who'd arrived from some distant island temple—had looked up from his copying work. Something in his expression suggested he was following our debate with more than casual interest. Several of the younger scribes had begun to cluster around their desks, drawn by the intensity of the argument, by something they sensed but couldn't name.
I found myself studying their faces, wondering which among them might understand the hunger I kept carefully hidden. Which might share my fascination with power and surrender, with the idea of taking control and being trusted absolutely. Which ones had ever imagined themselves commanding obedience,guiding another person through pleasure so intense it felt like prayer. The thought sent another wave of heat through me that I no longer tried to suppress.
"Authentic connection," Lysander repeated, his voice carrying a note I couldn't quite identify. "And how exactly do we measure authenticity? How do we distinguish between divine inspiration and simple self-indulgence?"
Self-indulgence. The accusation stung because it came too close to truth. How many nights had I indulged in fantasies that had nothing to do with sacred duty and everything to do with base desire? How many times had I imagined commanding submission, guiding pleasure, being the steady hand that led another through ecstasy until they forgot everything but my voice, my touch, my will?
But maybe self-indulgence wasn't the right word. Maybe what I felt was recognition—the soul acknowledging its nature, hunger finally understanding its proper outlet.
"Perhaps," I said slowly, choosing my words with the care of someone navigating a field of hidden traps, "we measure it by its fruits. Does the partnership strengthen both individuals? Does it deepen their spiritual practice? Does it create something greater than the sum of its parts?"
What I wanted to say was simpler: Does it satisfy the deepest needs of both partners? Does it acknowledge that some souls are born to command and others to obey? Does it honor the exquisite pleasure found involuntary surrender? Does it recognize that true dominance isn't about force, but about being worthy of complete trust?
"And who decides what those needs are?" Lysander pressed, but there was something different in his voice now. Something that made me look at him more closely, noting the color high in his cheeks, the way he'd gone very still under my attention.
"You know," I said quietly, stepping closer until he had to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. "The same way you know when you're hungry or tired or afraid. The body understands what the mind tries to deny."
The scriptorium had gone quieter around us, other conversations fading as scribes sensed the charged atmosphere building between us. I could feel their attention like weight against my skin, but I didn't look away from Lysander's face.
"When someone tells you to kneel," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper, "and your legs want to obey before your pride can object—that's your body recognizing truth. When you hear authority in someone's voice and feel yourself wanting to please them, wanting to be good for them—that's not weakness. That's honesty."
Lysander's breath caught audibly. For a moment, something raw and desperate flickered in his eyes before he looked away, color flooding his face.
"That's not theological discussion," he managed. "That's..."
"Recognition," I finished. "The kind that makes you uncomfortable because you can't argue with it."
Myris stood abruptly, his chair scraping against stone with a finality that cut through the tension like a blade. "Friends," he said, his voice carrying the authority that came with his position, "perhaps we might continue this discussion in a more private setting? The scriptorium is meant for contemplation, not disputation."
But as the other scribes reluctantly returned to their work and Lysander practically fled back to his desk with obvious relief, I caught Myris's eye and saw something there that surprised me. Not disapproval. Not shock at my unconventional approach to theological debate.
Recognition. The same kind I'd just described to Lysander—the soul acknowledging what it had been seeking without knowing how to name it.
"My study," he said quietly. "After midday prayers."
I nodded, already wondering what he wanted to discuss—and whether my passionate defense of natural dominance over artificial protocol had just revealed more about my own hungers than I'd intended. Whether he'd seen through the scholarly language to the predator underneath, the part of me that had been waiting years for permission to stop hiding.
