The kanabō kissed air where Thorsten's head had been a heartbeat before.

Ryelle snarled, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deeper than her throat—a place where dragon blood simmered beneath her borrowed divinity. She pivoted, the weapon's studded length carving a second arc that should have caught him in the ribs.

Should have.

The mountain of a man danced backward, his boots barely disturbing the packed dirt of the training yard. For someone so massive, the Hrafnsteinn warrior moved like water over stone—deliberate but impossible to grasp.

"Too wide," he grunted, axe still sheathed across his back. "Your arms know the strike, but your hips don't. You're fighting your own momentum."

Ryelle spat onto the dirt. "My hips are fine. It's your dodging that needs work."

Sweat prickled across her brow, trickled between her shoulder blades beneath the forest-green cheongsam that hugged her form. Five days since her creation—since she'd stepped fully-formed from the crucible of Ebonheim's will—and already they thought to teach her restraint. To tame what had been made wild.

The morning sun glinted off her obsidian horns as she adjusted her grip on the weapon. Not too tight. Not like before, when the raw wood had bitten splinters into her palms until she'd bled and cursed and laughed at the novelty of it. Pain. Pleasure. The sweet ache in muscles pushed beyond what they should bear.

These were her birthright, these sensations. The only inheritance Ebonheim had truly given her.

"Again," she demanded, rolling her shoulders.

A ring of onlookers had gathered at the yard's edge—mostly Hrafnsteinn warriors and younger Aslankoyash, their eyes greedy for the spectacle. They'd watched her yesterday, too, when she'd gone three rounds against Serrandyl before the red-maned beastkin had finally pinned her.

Not defeated her. Just momentarily stopped her.

Thorsten's beard twitched, a shadow of amusement hiding in its salt-and-pepper depths. "Once more. Then water and rest."

"Water, yes. Rest?" She bared her teeth. "We'll see."

This time she didn't telegraph her strike. The kanabō blurred upward from a deceptively loose grip, aiming for Thorsten's jaw in a path no mortal weapon should travel—too fast, too fluid for its weight. Divine essence thrummed through her arms, lending the blow a fraction of power that would've cratered stone.

His eyes widened a fraction. Not fear. Recognition.

He twisted, the blow whistling past his ear close enough to stir his beard. His hand snaked out, clamping onto her wrist like an iron manacle, using her own force to unbalance her.

Ryelle found herself suddenly airborne, the world spinning in a dizzying tumble of sky-dirt-sky before her back slammed into the ground hard enough to punch the air from her lungs.

Silence fell across the yard. Even the birds seemed to pause their chatter.

Ryelle lay there, dust coating her sweat-slick skin, the taste of copper blooming in her mouth where she'd bitten her tongue. Then a sound bubbled up from her chest, raw and genuine—laughter.

"Better," she wheezed, grinning up at the canopy of blue. "Almost had you worried."

Thorsten loomed over her, extending a weathered hand. "You're learning. Quicker than most."

She clasped his forearm, letting him haul her upright in a single motion. "Not quick enough."

"You've existed five days," he reminded her, voice dropping to avoid carrying to the spectators. "Most warriors take years to master a weapon."

"I'm not 'most warriors,'" she retorted, rolling her neck until it popped. The sound reminded her of branches breaking, of bones testing their limits. "I'm part of a goddess. I should already know."

"Maybe that's not how it works," Serrandyl called from where she lounged against the fence, her crimson hair catching the sunlight like spilled wine. "Maybe you get the raw strength but have to earn the skill—same as the rest of us poor mortals."

Ryelle snorted, but the words stuck barbs in her pride.

A goddess who couldn't fight properly was just a girl with fancy horns and golden eyes. She'd been made for action, for confronting what Ebonheim wouldn't—or couldn't. What use was all this leashed power if she couldn't direct it?

"Water," Thorsten repeated firmly, already moving toward the stone trough fed by an ever-flowing spring.

She followed, the kanabō dragging a furrow through the dirt behind her. Its weight felt right in her hands, an extension of intent rather than mere wood and metal.

The weapon had been a gift—hurriedly crafted by the smiths at Ebonheim's request, blessed with whatever hasty enchantments could be managed in a single night. Like her. Created swiftly to serve a purpose not fully articulated.

The water tasted of minerals and old roots, clean and sharp against her tongue. She drank deeply, watching the crowd disperse now that the morning's entertainment had concluded. Their faces still held that uncertain mixture of awe and wariness, like witnessing an unfamiliar beast whose temperament remained unproven.

"You're making them nervous," Serrandyl noted, joining them at the trough. The beastkin warrior dipped a ladle into the water and drank with deliberate slowness, ruby eyes never leaving Ryelle's face.

"Good," Ryelle said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Nervousness keeps people honest."

"And how would you know that? You've barely existed long enough to understand people at all." There was no malice in Serrandyl's words—just the blunt assessment Ryelle had quickly come to expect from her.

Ryelle tapped her temple with a clawed finger. "I have her memories. Impressions. Enough to know that comfort breeds complacency."

"Whose memories? Ebonheim's?" Thorsten asked, resting his massive forearms on the trough's edge.

"Some," Ryelle admitted, her brow furrowing. "Not all. It's like... remembering someone else's dreams. I know what she's seen, but not how she felt about it." She flexed her fingers, watching the play of muscle beneath olive skin. "The knowing is there, but the meaning isn't always."

She shook her head briskly, the messy silver waterfall of her hair cascading behind her. No matter.

Thorsten turned to Serrandyl. "You've faced her twice now—what's your assessment?"

Serrandyl rolled her shoulders, considering. "Raw talent. Room to grow. She's faster than any warrior has a right to be—but sloppy. Overconfident." Her gaze lingered on Ryelle as she spoke. "Stronger than me, even now. I can only match her if I'm wearing my gauntlets."

"I could tell," Ryelle admitted. Her ribs twinged in recollection where Serrandyl's armoured fists had found them. The bruises bloomed vivid on her flesh, like storm clouds drifting beneath pale skin. Proof of her fallibility.

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"She adapts quickly—hard to catch the same way twice," Serrandyl continued. "But she hasn't learned to protect herself, hasn't experienced consequences." Her gaze darted over the numerous cuts and abrasions that decorated Ryelle's body. "She understands injury as a fact but not a price. There's no fear of harm to temper her actions."

Ryelle let out an explosive breath.

They were right, of course, in their own mundane ways. And that rankled more than any physical wound. Restlessness bubbled in her veins, seeking an outlet—seeking purpose.

Thorsten chuckled. It seemed even humour shook his body like thunder. "So, basically like you were back in the day."

A smile flashed across Serrandyl's face, there and gone again. Her gaze lingered on her husband.

"Worse, old man," she chided, reaching out to punch Thorsten lightly in the chest with her gauntleted hand. A normal man would have winced and bruised from a blow that sounded like a hammer striking stone. Thorsten didn't even sway.

He grunted, and pushed her punch away in annoyance. Serrandyl giggled.

Something clicked for Ryelle in that moment, her golden eyes watching the easy affection between them, the casual understanding born of years and experiences.

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than distance.

Needed space. Air.

Clapping one hand onto Serrandyl's bare shoulder, brushing past Thorsten's massive frame, Ryelle left them to their moment. She heard them murmuring behind her—the low burr of his voice entwined around the cadence of her replies.

But Ryelle let the noise fall away, subsumed by the metallic scent of cold iron in the air, the breeze tugging playfully at the hem of her cheongsam.

These new feelings. The reality of touch, sound, and weight. They seemed such mundane miracles—moreso than her newfound divinity—and she felt somehow that this was a wrong decision, feeling so entranced by them. As if her nature weren't to relish the material and the experiential.

Ryelle lengthened her stride, letting the rolling forest paths pull her forward and outward, away from the echoes of camaraderie. Solitude called louder than any lecture today.

Tomorrow, perhaps, she'd continue to learn the shape of restraint. To coax discipline from aggression.

But for now? Her knuckles yearned for a truer resistance, and her throat ached in a way that left her longing for wine. She remembered tasting wine in fragments that weren't memories.

Yes.

With that, she set off for a wine vintner and an afternoon of exploration. Because why not?

Ryelle woke to sunlight filtering through the thatched window of Ebonheim's cabin. The mid-morning sun made intricate lacework across her face, slowly baking her eyes open.

Her limbs felt leaden, temples throbbing in a steady, drumbeat echo of her pulse. Nausea roiled in her gut.

This must be what Serrandyl called a hangover.

Memories from last night jolted around her brain in bright, scattered flashes: music pounding through the thick stone walls of her chosen tavern, a warm press of bodies on some makeshift dance floor. Cups, so many raised in jubilant cheers or in challenge; a riot of colours sliding past her nose as she made her way from tavern to tavern.

Then came the starburst brightness of a duel fought in moonlight in the dusty streets, sticks clattering in wild harmony with their laughter, finally dispersing when Serrandyl bodily hauled her from the road. Then she was carried on the beastkin's back up the sloping trail to Ebonheim.

A tiny whimper of misery escaped her lips.

Next time, Ryelle resolved—muzzle pressed against the pillow she tightly held—not so much alcohol. There was fun and then there was this. It felt like Thorsten had cracked her upside the head with a tree trunk.

Repeatedly. Which, in training, he had actually once done... with an actual wooden club. It hadn't hurt this much, though. The headache was far worse than the clubs had been.

Her stomach lurched ominously again as movement approached. By her best count, Ryelle's temples flared eleven times in quick succession, in response to each footfall. Ebonheim's feet whispered across the room, a balm compared to the painful sound of the stove fire being raked by another's booted toe.

"Hilda thought you might appreciate her hangover tonic," Ebonheim's voice came, soft as summer moss, but still causing discomfort on Ryelle's hangover. A clatter of a tray and soft slosh of pouring liquid filtered through the tangled nest of covers atop her head.

"Ngh," Ryelle responded eloquently into the down. Feathers and fate help her, everything hurt. She'd already endured pain before, but now that it came to a headache after alcohol, that was a different sort of struggle for her.

Fighting headaches with brute strength would not do much good, at least in her hangover-addled mind, that much was certain for her.

"I must say, you caused quite the stir last night." Ebonheim's reproof was gentler, coming to settle beside the crumpled lump of her Avatar on the bed.

Her fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "I noticed quite a few people carrying away shattered chairs, along with buckets—apparently, they were deeply needed. Now then. Can you sit? Or do you prefer to be a blanket snake?"

Slowly, achingly, Ryelle coaxed herself up on an elbow. It turned out it was difficult to do when everything from the neck up screamed in outraged betrayal of the divine plan. Pushing back the covers, she squinted in the dim light at Ebonheim.

Goddess though her Progenitor was, Ryelle decided right then that Ebonheim was too painfully cheery first thing in the morning.

"The yellow one, from Hilda, is for nausea and to soothe your belly, she says to drink it now. You stink of alcohol and wine," Ebonheim hummed.

"Gnnn." Ryelle pushed herself slowly upright and sniffed at each small, stoppered bottle. The yellow liquid had the stinging smell of vinegar cut with the bitter edge of herbs. It was vile, and so that had to be the one.

She knocked the whole vial back, grimacing at the sharp, burning taste. "That's so much worse than the ale and wine." She coughed again, shuddering a bit more as the concoction bubbled in her belly.

Another belch surfaced, and she let it rise without hesitation. To be polite and not burp might invite another war between her insides and the rest of her. That had not worked before.

"It's the dandelion," Ebonheim chuckled, an amused glint in her eye as she handed over the next bottle. "That one has the willow in it—hopefully, that takes the drumline out of your temples, yes?"

"Someone's playing the drum and I really need them to stop," Ryelle grumbled but lifted the small, brown bottle regardless and slammed that concoction back as well.

This one was numbing at the least, with a cold aftertaste that burned just a bit. The mint of this mixture was much better than dandelion for sure.

She smacked her lips, and burped again, a long and loud belch rattling from her lips. "Ugh... that's a little better."

Ryelle rubbed her eyes and swept her tangle of silver hair back from her face. Slowly, cautiously, she brought herself up to a sitting position. "Thank Hilda a lot for me, then? Why couldn't I just heal up this hangover?"

Ebonheim hummed softly and eased Ryelle into her shoulder. For a while, there was no need to move; no sound filled the air but the quiet breathing of one another.

"I'm not going to pretend this was anything other than ill-advised," Ebonheim finally murmured, the coolness of her cheek a blessing against Ryelle's fevered forehead. "But... perhaps, a lesson hard learnt is worth more than one offered with only words."

"So not mad?" Ryelle's words came faintly, relief unspooling with every exhaled note.

Ebonheim snorted softly. "Oh, I didn't say that."

"Hrm. But..." Ryelle started, trailing off when Ebonheim's gentle hands started to ease away the headache.

"My avatar, inebriated, strolling along the tops of houses is one thing... when not engaged in a duel with not one, but two town drunks!" Ebonheim tsked slightly, and then brought over a basin for Ryelle's most recent bout of vomiting.

That passed and left Ryelle wanting to drink the third potion, but Ebonheim snatched up the bright green bottle just before it met its target. Ryelle stared longingly, willing her mind and her shaking arm to lift once again in pursuit of her target.

"Not until you answer for the broken glass. Rostyslav is very cross." Ebonheim swished the bottle from side to side for emphasis, the viscous green fluid rolling inside, hypnotic and so very close...

"I'll pay him back, how much is it?" Ryelle muttered in half-lucidity, still watching the vial intently. Rost was the glassblower of the city and an artist by his own reckoning.

She honestly didn't care and only knew it because Rost made that loud and very well known among the tavern crowd, whether she wanted to or not.

"Two crowns for the glassware, another for the bottle."

"Can you pay for it? Add it to my tab." Ryelle groaned, reaching for the basin again.

"I don't carry any money. I am the goddess here, you know. I get things for free." Ebonheim tittered in response. "Happily, Rost has a task that needs doing that he's offered to wipe his losses on. Do take that before you go, yes?"

"Alright. Thank you," Ryelle muttered, before greedily downing the last potion.

Tangy, syrupy liquid coated her tongue; relief from headache and sickness had been offered, so she took it. "That's better... is the aftertaste really banana?" Ryelle stared quizzically at the empty bottle, the unpleasant scum from the last taste sticking resolutely in her mouth. Another burp joined her.

"Don't ask me—I don't experience most mortal maladies," Ebonheim hummed, patting her back as she shuddered. "Better?"

"Yes," Ryelle groaned, leaning against her goddess, head aching still yet somewhat in remission, and stomach rolling lazily away from outright war. "What's his job?"

"He is overdue with glass samples for several art patrons abroad. They need to be delivered by someone trustworthy—do you think that fits you?" Ebonheim replied with another of her maddening little knowing smiles.

The twinkle in her golden eyes should have sparked alarm.

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