Talis settled beside me in the water, his expression growing thoughtful. "Lysion was everything the texts promised a partner should be. Strong, devoted, understood the forms perfectly. We connected on every level—physical, spiritual, tactical."
"But?"
"But it was meant to be complete in twenty-eight days, and it was." His voice carried no bitterness, only acceptance. "Beautiful while it lasted. Complete when it ended. We both honored what we'd shared and released it with gratitude."
That was the ideal every militant was taught to strive for. Perfect connection followed by perfect detachment, love that burned bright and clean before being released to the gods without clinging or regret.
"No lingering attachment?" I asked.
"None." Talis's smile was genuine, peaceful. "I think of him fondly, but the bond served its purpose. We're both stronger for having experienced it and for having let it go."
"And if he wanted to renew?"
Something flickered in Talis's expression—toobrief to interpret. "Renewal is... complex. It changes the nature of what you're building. Makes it about permanence rather than perfection."
Alyon snorted from his pool. "Talis is being diplomatic. Truth is, most warriors who try renewal end up bond-sick. Addicted to connection, unable to function independently. They lose themselves in the partnership and forget they're supposed to be servants of Korrath first, lovers second."
I'd heard whispers about bond-sickness—militants who'd failed to sever cleanly, who became obsessed with their partners to the point of losing military effectiveness. It was considered a form of spiritual weakness, proof that the warrior had never truly understood the discipline the bond was meant to teach.
"How do you know the difference?" I asked. "Between healthy attachment and... sickness?"
"Healthy attachment strengthens you as an individual," Talis said carefully. "Sickness makes you incomplete without the other person."
"But how can you tell while you're in it?" The question came out more urgent than I'd intended. "How do you know if what you're feeling is sacred connection or just... need?"
Alyon laughed, but not unkindly. "That's the whole point. You don't know. That's what makes it a test of character rather than just a pleasant interlude."
We moved to the final pool—blood-warm, scented with herbs that promoted clarity of thought. Here, according to tradition, we were supposed to visualizeour approaching bond, prepare ourselves mentally for the challenges and opportunities ahead.
I closed my eyes and tried to summon an image of the scholar I'd be partnered with in a week. Academic, certainly. Probably physically refined rather than combat-hardened. Intellectual approach to partnership that might clash with militant directness.
But what I found myself imagining wasn't appearance or personality. It was a feeling—something I'd never experienced but somehow craved. The sense of being known completely, understood without explanation, accepted despite flaws.
The longing that rose in my chest was so intense it was almost painful.
"Rion." Talis's voice was gentle, concerned. "What is it?"
I opened my eyes, realizing my hands were clenched on the pool's edge, knuckles white with tension.
"I'm afraid," I said quietly. The admission felt like stripping naked in front of the entire temple.
"Of failure?"
"Of success." The words came out in a rush. "Of finding something I want to keep and having to let it go anyway. Of discovering that everything I've been taught about strength and discipline is just... empty protocol designed to keep us from becoming fully human."
The silence that followed was deafening. Both men stared at me with expressions I couldn't read.
Finally, Alyon spoke. "Those are dangerous thoughts, boy."
"Are they wrong?"
"That," Talis said quietly, "is what you're about to find out."
The days that followed stretched like a slow campaign, each one bringing me closer to something I couldn't name but felt pulling at my chest like an undertow. Seven days to prepare. Seven days to ready myself for a partnership that felt more like stepping off a cliff than entering a bond.
I threw myself into training with the desperate focus of someone trying to outrun his own thoughts. The practice yards became my refuge, the familiar rhythm of sword work and tactical drills a balm against the uncertainty that gnawed at me during quiet moments.
But even combat couldn't quiet the questions that had surfaced in the sacred baths. What if everything I'd been taught about bonds—about strength, about dominance, about what it meant to be a warrior—was just elaborate theater designed to mask deeper truths we weren't brave enough to face?
