Myris's study was a scholar's dream made manifest—scrolls cascaded from shelves that climbed toward a vaulted ceiling, codices bound in leather of every conceivable hue lined the walls like silent sentinels, and the air itself seemed thick with accumulatedwisdom. But as I settled into the chair he indicated, my mind wasn't on the impressive collection surrounding us.
Instead, I found myself cataloguing details that suggested power, control, command. The way Myris moved with unconscious authority, never asking permission for space or attention—simply taking it because it belonged to him. The precise arrangement of his workspace that spoke to a mind that demanded order from its environment and received it without question. Even the worn cushion beneath me, shaped by countless hours of academic discourse, suggested the kind of steady dominance that came from being consistently sought for guidance, wisdom, resolution.
Was this what I was becoming? What I'd always been without recognizing it?
"Your debate with Lysander this morning was... illuminating," Myris began, pouring tea from a delicate ceramic pot into two matching cups. The steam carried hints of jasmine and something earthier—perhaps root extract from the temple's own gardens. His movements were precise, unhurried, confident in a way that made me think of commanders who'd never doubted their right to give orders.
"I hope I didn't overstep." Though even as I spoke the words, I knew I didn't entirely mean them. Some truths demanded vigorous defense, regardless of diplomatic consequences. And some hungers demanded acknowledgment, regardless of how inappropriate they might be for a scholar dedicated to intellectual pursuit.
"On the contrary." He handed me the cup, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment longer than necessary. The contact sent heat racing up my arm that had nothing to do with the warm ceramic. "You articulated something I've been thinking about for months. The gap between theoretical understanding and practical application in sacred partnerships. Between what we read and what we actually need."
I waited, sensing this conversation was moving toward territory I hadn't anticipated. Territory that made my pulse quicken with possibilities I barely dared consider.
"Tell me," Myris continued, settling into his own chair with the graceful economy of movement that marked all his gestures, "what do you know about cross-Order bonding practices?"
The question sent heat spiraling through my chest like liquid fire. Cross-Order bonding meant stepping outside the safe, egalitarian partnerships of scholarly tradition. It meant engaging with Orders whose members were trained for combat, for physical discipline, for the kind of intense experiences that existed only in my most secret fantasies. Warriors who understood hierarchy, who'd been conditioned to follow orders, who might know instinctively how to surrender completely to someone worthy of their trust.
"Limited examples in the historical record," I replied, though my academic training felt suddenly inadequate for what we were really discussing. "Usually diplomatic arrangements between temples,designed to strengthen alliances or resolve theological disputes."
What I didn't say was that I'd studied those examples far more thoroughly than scholarly interest warranted. I'd memorized descriptions of scholar-militant partnerships, the way intellectual guidance balanced physical strength, how naturally dominance and submission could emerge when partners came from different traditions of power. How a trained warrior's discipline could be channeled into something far more intimate than battlefield obedience.
"Precisely. And within our own Order?"
"Scholar-acolytes typically bond with other scholars for research collaboration. The partnerships are intellectually stimulating but rarely..." I paused, heat climbing my throat as I realized what I'd been about to admit. Rarely passionate. Rarely the stuff of fevered midnight fantasies. Rarely involving the kind of raw, honest need that I dreamed of commanding and fulfilling.
"More like extended academic fellowships with intimate components," I finished lamely.
Myris set down his cup with deliberate precision, the small sound echoing in the quiet study. "Because the Temple of Korrath has made an unusual request. They want to bond one of their militants with an Aerius scholar—specifically, someone with expertise in partnership dynamics and historical precedent."
The words hit me like lightning striking bone. I felt my pulse quicken, my skin flush, every nerve suddenlyalive with possibility. A militant. Someone trained for combat, disciplined in ways I could barely imagine, accustomed to following orders and obeying authority. Someone who might understand instinctively what I'd only dreamed of—the exquisite dance of command and submission, protection and surrender, the moment when strength chose to kneel not from weakness but from recognition.
"They're looking for someone to validate their traditional approaches?" I asked, though my voice came out rougher than intended.
"Quite the opposite." Myris leaned forward, his expression growing more intense, more focused. "They want someone who will challenge those approaches. Your future bonded partner has been bonded before. Unsuccessfully, is my understanding."
I stared at him, pieces of an unexpected puzzle beginning to arrange themselves in my mind. This wasn't just an academic opportunity. This was a chance to explore everything I'd fantasized about but never dared pursue. A chance to discover whether my instincts toward dominance were merely intellectual arrogance or something deeper, more essential. Whether the hunger that had been building in me for years could finally find its proper outlet.
Fluid power dynamics. Natural dominance. The phrases sent heat coursing through me as I imagined what such concepts might look like in practice. Would a militant partner respond to scholarly guidance? Would they trust me to lead them through unchartedterritory, to show them pleasures they'd never dared imagine? The thought of strong hands yielding to my direction, of disciplined strength placed entirely at my disposal, made my breath catch.
"Who is the militant?" I asked, proud that my voice remained steady despite the fire building under my skin.
"Lieutenant Rion of Korrath. Recently returned from campaign, experienced in traditional bonding practices, but..." Myris hesitated, studying my face with sharp attention. "His previous partnerships have been severed before completion. His superiors believe exposure to scholarly perspective might help him access aspects of bonding he's struggled with."
Lieutenant Rion. The name conjured immediate images—bronzed muscle earned through combat training, hands skilled in both violence and tenderness, a body conditioned to follow orders and respond to authority. Someone who might kneel as beautifully as they fought, who might surrender with the same intensity they brought to battle. A warrior trained to be strong, disciplined, utterly capable of resistance—which would make their submission all the more intoxicating when it finally came.
"And they think I can help with that?"
"They think you might be able to reach him in ways purely militant partners haven't." Myris's voice grew gentler, though something in his expression suggested he understood more about my reaction than I was comfortable with. "But Kaelen, you must understand—militant bonds are designed to end. Twenty-eight days, no more. Their entire philosophy is built around demonstrating emotional discipline through successful severance."
The warning should have discouraged me. Instead, it sent a thrill of challenge through my chest. Twenty-eight days to explore everything I'd dreamed of but never experienced. Twenty-eight days to discover whether my fantasies of dominance could translate into reality. Twenty-eight days to command the submission of someone trained to be strong, disciplined, utterly capable of resistance—which would make their surrender all the more precious when I finally earned it.
"You're asking if I can handle loving someone I'm meant to lose," I said quietly. ‘Love’ crossed my mind, though 'love' felt like too gentle a word for the hunger building in my chest.
"Can you?"
I considered the question seriously, but not in the way he probably intended. Could I handle having absolute power over someone for twenty-eight days, then walking away? Could I command submission, guide pleasure, be trusted with complete vulnerability, then demonstrate the ultimate control by ending it cleanly? Could I teach someone to crave my guidance so completely that losing it would feel like losing air?
The idea was both terrifying and exhilarating. The ultimate test of dominance—not just claiming surrender, but releasing it when the time came. Proving that my control was so complete it extended even to letting go.
