The oracle house is a round stone room with one bench and one slit of light. You ask once. The answer is a body rule for the rest of the day — hold, strip, wrestle, pour — never a prophecy about a boy. The attendant is a man with an even face. He does not decorate the sentence.
Ask
Sit. Speak. The house repeats you in a flatter voice, then adds the rule. Examples the desk already uses: go to the palaestra bare; pour at the altar before you leave the island; do not sit the satyr grove today. None of this is enlistment. The rule expires at the ferry.
Adult only
The old myths loved youths. This house does not. Every petitioner and every named god is an adult man. If your question smells like a boy-hero story, the attendant closes the slit and you walk back to the dock.