The council chamber reeked of old parchment, dried ink, and the particular musk of worried humans in close quarters.

Ryelle lingered in the doorway, nostrils flaring at the cocktail of scents that painted a picture more honest than any words.

Fear. Frustration.

The acrid tang of sleep-deprived bodies and minds straining against problems too complex for simple solutions.

Ten years had altered this room little, if her borrowed memories served. The same scarred table dominated the space, ringed now by more chairs to accommodate Ebonheim's swelling leadership.

Maps covered the walls in a patchwork of territories, trade routes, and military notations—the visual record of a settlement that had outgrown its humble beginnings.

Ebonheim sat at the head of the table, her white robes catching the light from the glow-globes mounted on the walls.

Where Ryelle burned hot and present, all muscle and sinew and barely leashed power, her creator projected a calm that felt simultaneously admirable and infuriating. Still waters that gave no hint of the depths beneath.

Their eyes met across the chamber. No words passed between them, but Ryelle felt the silent question in that golden gaze—one that mirrored her own. How much of each other did they truly share? Where did goddess end and avatar begin?

"Ah, our newest arrival," Engin noted, drawing the room's attention as Ryelle slipped inside.

Ten years since she'd—no, since Ebonheim had gifted him a sip from the Chalice of the Eternal Nectar, granting him extended life. Now pushing seventy, the former mayor-turned-councilor looked like a man still in his early fifties, lean, wiry, and vigorous.

The memory shimmered, not quite hers but accessible like a book she'd read long ago.

"I figured I should be here," Ryelle stated, stepping fully into the room.

She made no attempt to soften her presence or tuck away the bloodied scrapes on her knuckles from the morning's sparring. Let them see what she was—a weapon made flesh, not a diplomat.

Kelzryn stirred from his position near the cold hearth, his humanoid form somehow managing to coil like a serpent despite its bipedal shape. The ancient dragon's azure eyes tracked her movements with unnerving intensity.

"Your timing is apt," he said, his voice reverberating oddly even in the enclosed space. "We were discussing matters that may soon require... direct action."

Roderick Sedley snorted from his seat, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the tabletop. Time had lined his face but done nothing to dull the peacock-brightness of his attire.

"What my draconic friend means is that we're being systematically robbed, and diplomatic niceties are getting us nowhere."

Ryelle moved to stand behind an empty chair but made no move to sit. "Three-Rivers Crossing," she said. "Serrandyl mentioned a trade dispute."

"More than a dispute," Roderick corrected, pulling a ledger from beneath a stack of papers. He flipped it open, jabbing at columns of figures with a manicured finger. "Systematic economic warfare. Corinthian merchants underpaying our people by forty percent for prime goods while charging triple for basic necessities."

"Can't our people just refuse to trade?" Ryelle asked, the question seeming obvious.

"It's more complicated than that," Engin sighed. "Three-Rivers is the main exchange point between our valley and the eastern settlements. Some goods must pass through, and relationships must be maintained."

"And our merchants aren't just getting poor prices," Roderick continued, warming to his subject with the righteous indignation of a man who took commerce very personally. "They're being intimidated. Goods mysteriously damaged in inspection, arbitrary 'quality control' fees applied, delays that cause perishables to spoil."

Bjorn's heavy fist thumped the table, making ink pots jump. The years had turned his beard from flame to ash, but none of the fire had left his eyes. "Send me and a dozen Hrafnsteinn. We'll show these Corinthian merchants what real quality inspection looks like."

"Violence would only justify retaliation," Ebonheim said, her voice quiet but cutting through the chamber like a knife through still water. "That may be exactly what Xellos wants."

The name hung in the air like a sour note.

Xellos. The other god.

The one whose shadow had stretched across their valley for ten years now, growing longer with each passing season.

Ryelle found her lip curling instinctively at the mention. A borrowed antipathy, perhaps, or something deeper—a fundamental difference in essence that demanded she regard him as an enemy.

"What does Xellos want?" she asked, directing the question to the room at large. "Besides cheap furs and overpriced cloth?"

A momentary silence fell, the kind that follows a child asking why the sky is blue—a simple question with answers too vast for easy telling.

"Control," Kelzryn said finally, the word falling from his lips like a stone into a still pond. "Influence. The subtle reordering of all things to his preference, with minimal resistance."

"He cultivates facades of benevolence," Ebonheim added, her fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. "But there's always calculation beneath. The trade issues are just the visible symptoms of something deeper."

Bjorn scoffed. "You're overthinking it. He's a bully, plain and simple. Bullies push until someone pushes back."

"And how do you suggest we push back?" Engin asked, spreading his gnarled hands. "We've sent two formal messages already expressing concerns. Each one receives the same polite dismissal citing 'market fluctuations' and 'quality standards.'"

Ryelle felt a grin spreading across her face, sharp and eager. "Send me."

All eyes turned to her—some startled, others speculative.

"You?" Roderick asked, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "No offense, but you've existed for all of two weeks. Diplomatic missions require... finesse."

"Who said anything about diplomacy?" Ryelle retorted, planting her palms on the table and leaning forward. "I'm not talking about another polite letter. I'm talking about going to Three-Rivers, seeing what's happening for myself, and making it clear that Ebonheim—both of us—won't be pushed around."

"Absolutely not," Ebonheim said, the words dropping like an axe-fall. "You're not ready."

Ryelle straightened, something hot and defiant surging under her skin. "Not ready? I was created for exactly this—to be your hand in the world. That's why you made me stronger, more direct."

"I made you to act when the time was right," Ebonheim corrected, her serenity showing its first crack—a tightness around her eyes that spoke of tension carefully leashed. "We still know too little about your limits, your connection to me, what happens if you're—"

"If I'm what? Damaged? Destroyed?" Ryelle's laugh held no humor. "Isn't that the point? Better me than you?"

The air in the chamber grew thick with unspoken things—questions about creation and purpose, about the ethics of making a being designed to face risks in another's stead. Ryelle could almost taste the discomfort radiating from the council members who suddenly found the maps on the walls fascinating.

"That was never the point," Ebonheim said, and for just a heartbeat, Ryelle could see genuine pain in those golden eyes so like her own.

"Then what am I for?" she demanded, knuckles whitening where they pressed against polished wood. "Why create something you won't use?"

Lorne Miradan cleared his throat, the Silverguard commander's voice cutting through the tension like a well-honed blade. "Perhaps we're getting ahead of ourselves. We haven't even decided on a course of action regarding Three-Rivers."

"I have a suggestion," Evelyne offered, adjusting her spectacles. Ten years had barely touched the artificer's elegant features, mostly thanks to the Chalice's blessing. "We send Roderick back with clear documentation of the discrepancies, requesting a formal audit by independent merchants from Kerkenberge. That puts external pressure on Corinth without direct confrontation."

A sensible suggestion. Measured. Cautious.

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Ryelle bit her tongue to keep from growling in frustration.

"Even if they agree to an audit, which I doubt, that's weeks of preparation, travel to Kerkenberge to find willing participants, then more weeks of implementation," Roderick countered. "Meanwhile, our people continue losing livelihoods."

Bjorn punched the table again, more forcefully this time. "By the gods, just let me go! We'll solve this problem with steel!"

And so it continued—round and round like a dog chasing its own tail, proposals circling the table, each tied to the next with arguments for and against until Ryelle felt she might vibrate out of her skin with frustration. Caution and boldness. Politics and pragmatism. And always, always the unseen weight of Xellos' influence shadowing the discussion.

"Enough," Ebonheim finally said, her voice calm but carrying the finality of a judge's gavel. "We've weighed the options. For now, we continue pursuing diplomacy. Roderick, draft another correspondence expressing our concerns. Engin, compose a message to Kerkenberge formally requesting independent arbiters for a future audit. Perhaps the offer of oversight will bring Corinth to the negotiating table."

Ryelle flexed her jaw but said nothing as the council filed out, some animatedly discussing the decision, others somber. Bjorn's parting slap on her shoulder did little to soothe the sharp-edged restlessness humming through her veins.

"You've existed for two weeks," Ebonheim reminded her as they left the chamber. "Two weeks. And already you're itching for a fight."

She laughed, the sound low and edged with something not entirely mirthful. "Isn't that what you made me for? To be the strength you won't let yourself wield?"

Ebonheim's expression clouded briefly. "No, that's not it at all."

Ryelle shrugged, a quick, sharp movement. "Maybe not consciously. But it's the truth. I can feel it here." Her fist pressed against her sternum. "Even if you don't say it out loud."

Before Ebonheim could respond, Ryelle turned on her heel and strode off in the opposite direction, steps fueled by pent-up energy searching for a target. The muscles in her shoulders and jaw were aching from clenching by the time she found herself at the edge of the forest, dusk deepening the shadows under the ancient boughs.

Somewhere between the gnarled roots and thick trunks, night was drawing its cloak over the land. Creatures slunk and skittered and skulked, each on their own secret errands beneath a sky bruising toward twilight.

Ryelle lifted her chin, scenting the air. Moss and earth and the rich decay of autumn leaves filled her nostrils. And beneath it all, faint but unmistakable, the electric wildness of magic that hummed in the bones of this place like a living thing.

She raked her fingers down the rough bark of an oak's trunk. Her borrowed memories told her this forest was older than human history, perhaps even older than draconic memory. Roots drank deep from wells of power forgotten even by the eldest gods.

"Not all power is forgotten, little spark."

Ryelle whirled, a growl bubbling up in her throat. But instead of an enemy, she found Kelzryn's humanoid form coalescing from the deepening shadows. His horned head tilted in amusement.

"My apologies," he rumbled, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. "I did not mean to startle you."

She huffed out a breath, tension unknotting from her shoulders. "You didn't startle me," she corrected. "I just didn't hear you. Or see you. You're... sneaky."

"An old dragon in a very old forest," Kelzryn mused, tendrils of his true self—his magic, his presence—seeping around him like mist. "It is easier than you might think to move unseen here."

"Why are you following me?" she demanded bluntly, too restless for pleasantries. "Or did you just happen to manifest out here?"

Kelzryn made a gesture somewhere between a shrug and settling his shoulders. "The forest feels your turmoil, just as it feels Ebonheim's. You're both of this place, yet also apart from it."

"And that concerns you," Ryelle said, more statement than question.

Kelzryn inclined his head, the smallest of nods. "What concerns me is a godling conflicted, and a goddess acting contrary to her own best interests. Both have the potential to..." His azure gaze sharpened. "Disrupt the balance of things."

Ryelle snorted, an inelegant sound she knew would make Engin wince if he were here. But Engin wasn't here, was he? Nor was Ebonheim with her irritatingly serene demeanor and her frustrating habit of considering every possible facet of a situation before acting.

"You mean Xellos' idea of balance," Ryelle said, her words carrying more bite than she intended. "With him holding all the cards and us playing nicely, hoping not to offend him."

"For now," Kelzryn conceded. "But balances can shift. Pieces can change position. You may be one such piece."

"I'm tired of hearing about ' balances,' and 'disruption,'" Ryelle spat, anger surging anew. "All anyone talks about is maintaining the status quo and not aggravating Xellos. What about aggravating Ebonheim? What about her being too cautious?" She was pacing now, agitated steps carving a circuit in the loam. "She acts like just asserting ourselves would be an act of war!"

"In some ways, it would be," Kelzryn said. "The stakes are higher than you realize."

"Exactly!" Ryelle halted abruptly, her golden eyes blazing in the gathering dark. "Higher than I realize because I'm two weeks old! I need experience, not protection. I need to be out there, doing, learning, making my own choices." Frustration churned inside her, a maelstrom of emotion seeking an outlet. "I'm not asking to wage war on Corinth. I just want to solve a problem."

Kelzryn regarded her silently for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice held a gravity that stilled the night around them.

"War takes many forms, Ryelle. Not all battles are fought on the field, nor all weapons forged of steel."

She exhaled sharply, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. "So you're telling me to fall in line, to go along with the council's plan."

"I am telling you to consider the whole chessboard," the ancient dragon countered, his eyes twin points of icy intensity. "There are threads connecting Corinth, Kerkenberge, the eastern routes—all leading back to Xellos. Before you cut one, be certain you understand what else it may sever."

Ryelle dragged her fingers through her hair, the physical sensation grounding her, reining in the worst of her restlessness.

"I get it. I do." She looked up at him, willing him to understand. "But there has to be a point where considering turns into paralysis. Where planning becomes an excuse for inaction."

"Such is the risk," Kelzryn allowed. "Which is why a balanced strategy is essential. A move that appears reckless to one observer may in truth be the fulcrum upon which the larger game pivots."

"Are you saying I'm that fulcrum?"

"I'm saying," Kelzryn paused, weighing his words, "that the true role of any piece is often known only to the player directing the game."

Silence pooled between them, broken only by the soft creaking of trees and the far-off hoot of an owl. Ryelle closed her eyes, drawing a long, steadying breath redolent of earth and green and night.

"So what you're saying is I should trust Ebonheim's plan," she finally said, and she heard the tiredness in her own voice.

"I'm saying trust her to know her own mind," Kelzryn replied. "And trust yourself to know your own."

On those cryptic words, he dissolved back into shadow, the forest resuming its nightly rhythms as if he'd never been there at all. Ryelle watched the space he had occupied for a long moment, considering the shape of the silence he left in his wake.

"Trust myself..." she murmured to the night. Easy to say, when she was the youngest, the newest, the least experienced among them all. What did she truly know of herself, of the threads connecting actions to consequence?

Nothing, whispered the treacherous voice of doubt. Less than nothing.

With a frustrated growl, she turned and stalked back toward the settlement, the moon edging above the trees to light her path.

Ebonheim's cabin stood silent, silvered by the risen moon.

The goddess herself sat outside, knees drawn to her chest, her chin propped atop them. She seemed wrought of starlight and shadow, her iridescent silver hair nearly aglow. At the crunch of Ryelle's footsteps, Ebonheim raised her head, golden eyes mirroring those of the avatar that had stormed off hours earlier.

Ryelle approached with halted steps. Instead of launching into the speech she'd rehearsed during her march back, she found herself fumbling for words.

"I, uh..." she started, rubbing the back of her neck. "Sorry. About earlier. At the council." The apology felt stiff, formal—an artificial construct learned by rote, not born of genuine experience.

Ebonheim shook her head. "No, I should be the one apologizing." She unfolded her legs and climbed to her feet, brushing off her white robes. "You're right, in a way. I did create you to be my strength. But not as some disposable tool or weapon."

"Then why?" Ryelle asked, unable to keep the edge of frustration from her voice. "Why make a being that's tougher, stronger, if not to have someone to deal with the hard problems?"

Ebonheim took a small step closer. "To share the weight," she said softly. "The weight of responsibility, of being a guardian. We're not a tool and wielder, Ryelle. We're partners."

The word hung in the air between them, sharp and glittering in the starlight. It felt at once dangerous and fragile.

Ryelle looked away, staring into the depths of the night forest. "Partners don't keep each other on a leash."

"And parents don't throw their children into the deep end without teaching them to swim first," Ebonheim said, her tone a mix of weariness and resolve.

"I'm not your child." The words were barely above a whisper, yet they seemed to echo endlessly between the trees.

Ebonheim's hand twitched upward as if to reach out, but then fell back to her side. She exhaled slowly. "But I did create you. So in some sense, I am responsible for you. That's a weight I can never put down."

Ryelle could feel the goddess' gaze on her, as tangible as a caress. She swallowed thickly, throat tight.

"I'm not asking you to put that weight down," Ryelle finally said. "Just to... to let me take some of the burden from you. To let me help, even with the hard things. The risky things." She looked up, meeting Ebonheim's luminous stare. "To trust me."

Ebonheim's expression shifted, the planes of her face softening. "Oh, Ryelle," she breathed. "I do trust you. With my life—literally. I just need you to trust me, too."

Something inside Ryelle's chest unclenched at those words. It wasn't fire that flooded her veins, but something else entirely. Trust, fragile and new, its roots tentative but sinking deeper with each passing moment.

"I do," she said, and realized it was true. For all their clashes, her faith in the goddess who had made her was unwavering. "I do trust you, I think. It's just..."

She trailed off, grappling for the right words. It was hard to articulate the urgency that gripped her, the sense that time was slipping through their grasp.

"You feel an... impatience," Ebonheim supplied. "A drive to act, to move, to make a difference. Now, if not sooner."

"Is that wrong?" Ryelle asked, her brow furrowing.

Ebonheim's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Not at all. Think back on our shared memories. Remember when I was more impulsive, more brash?" She shook her head fondly. "Engin used to say I rushed in without fully considering the ramifications."

Ryelle could feel those recollections rising in her mind's eye, tinged with the amber glow of nostalgia.

"Sometimes haste is necessary," Ebonheim continued. "But not always. A gift of growing older—and wiser, I'd like to think—is recognizing which is which." She held out her hand. "I promise, there will be battles for you to fight, Ryelle. Difficult choices to make. But not yet, not without preparation, training, and most of all, trust."

Ryelle hesitated for just a moment before grasping Ebonheim's hand, feeling the warmth of her skin, the strength in her grip. A connection forged anew.

"Trust," she echoed. "I think I can learn that."

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