The training yard buzzed like a disturbed hive, voices layering thick as smoke from the breakfast fires. Word had spread through Ebonheim's streets faster than spilled wine through cloth—the goddess and her avatar would settle their differences with steel and divinity, here beneath the noon sun.

Colorful banners snapped in the morning breeze—some hastily sewn from scraps of cloth, others bearing the rough-carved emblems of various guilds and factions. Makeshift seats sprouted along the yard's edges where clever vendors had dragged benches, barrels, even hay bales for the less fortunate.

Copper coins changed hands as bets flew thick—though most wagered on duration rather than victor. Everyone knew how this would end.

Everyone except Ryelle.

She stood at the yard's northern edge, rolling her shoulders while her kanabō rested against a weathered post. The weapon's iron studs caught sunlight like predator's teeth, each one a promise of bone-deep impact. Her forest-green cheongsam rippled with each movement, the high slits revealing the taut muscles of her thighs as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

The crowd's chatter washed over her—fragments of conversation, laughter, the clink of coins. Children perched on their parents' shoulders, wide eyes tracking her every gesture. Around her, voices rose and fell in a dozen languages, bets changing hands faster than a card sharp's shuffle.

"Ten coppers on the Goddess!" bellowed one, waving a leather purse. "She's been at this game longer than the youngling's been breathing!"

"Ha! You've seen the avatar fight!" countered another. "All fire and fury, that one. Goddess fights too clean—too careful!"

"Three-to-one odds favoring the goddess proper," called a Hrafnsteinn bookie, his voice cutting through the morning air like an axe through pine. "Who's brave enough to back the avatar?"

A cluster of younger Aslankoyash warriors pushed forward, coins jingling in their pouches. Serrandyl's influence, no doubt—the beastkin had always favored the underdog, especially when that underdog carried sharp teeth and a sharper attitude.

The festive chaos should have irritated Ryelle. Instead, she found the energy infectious, feeding something restless that coiled in her chest. These people had come to watch her prove herself—not as Ebonheim's shadow or divine experiment, but as something worth their attention in her own right.

Engin, Roderick, and Th'maine stood off to the side, watching from behind the cover of wooden shingles nailed to the training yard's palisade. Their faces bore mixed expressions: Engin's curious caution, Roderick's amused interest, and Th'maine's usual inscrutable disapproval.

Thorsten squatted beside a weapons rack, his massive hands working oil into the leather grip of a practice sword. His movements held the steady rhythm of ritual, but his blue eyes kept drifting toward the crowd with something between amusement and concern.

"Never seen the training yard this full," Serrandyl observed, perching on the fence rail beside him. Her crimson hair caught the sunlight like spilled wine, and her tail flicked back and forth as she surveyed the scene. "Think they're expecting blood?"

"Hoping for it, more like," Bjorn rumbled from where he leaned against a nearby post. The grey-bearded warrior's scarred hands rested on the pommel of his sword, but his stance spoke of relaxed observation rather than readiness for violence. "Been too quiet lately. Folk need something to get their blood up."

"It's not blood sport," Hilda's gentle reproof drifted from where she sat cross-legged on a woven mat, her druid's robes spread around her like flower petals. Sprigs of lavender and mint hung from her belt, filling the air around her with soothing fragrance that fought a losing battle against the crowd's earthier scents. "Our goddess and her avatar seek understanding through contest. There's nothing base in that."

Near the yard's eastern edge, Evelyne had claimed a spot on one of the makeshift benches, her usually immaculate appearance slightly disheveled from the crowd's press. Orin sat beside her, both artificers hunched over a complex-looking device that emitted whirrs and clicking sounds as Orin adjusted its dials and knobs.

"Recording everything?" Serrandyl called out to them.

"Documenting divine combat techniques for research purposes," Evelyne replied primly, though her green eyes sparkled with the same anticipation that infected the rest of the crowd. "Purely academic interest."

"Academic." Orin snorted, adjusting the device's crystalline sensors. "Right. That's why you brought the good recording crystals instead of the practice ones."

A familiar presence materialized beside her, silent as morning mist. Kelzryn's humanoid form seemed almost translucent in the early sunlight, the azure fissures in his pale skin pulsing with their own inner rhythm.

"Doubts?" he asked, his voice pitched low beneath the crowd's chatter.

"About the fight? No." Ryelle adjusted her grip on the kanabō's leather wrapping. "About what comes after? That's different."

The ancient dragon studied her profile, those impossibly azure eyes reading depths she hadn't known she possessed. "You fear disappointing her."

It wasn't a question. Ryelle's jaw tightened. "I fear being right about the Order and having no way to prove it before they act."

"Ah." Kelzryn's lips quirked upward. "The burden of certainty without evidence. A dragon's curse, you might say."

"And what do you make of it?" Ryelle's fingers drummed against her thigh, nervous energy seeking outlet. "This whole... display."

Kelzryn tilted his head, studying her with an expression she could never quite read. "You doubt yourself."

"I doubt the wisdom of picking a fight I can't win." Ryelle's laugh held no humor. "She has over a thousand abilities now. I have maybe a dozen, and half of those barely tested."

"Power is not merely the accumulation of abilities," the dragon said, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to resonate in the bones. "It is understanding when to use them, and when to refrain. Your goddess has learned this lesson. You have not."

Ryelle's hands clenched into fists. "So I'm destined to lose?"

"You are destined to learn." Kelzryn stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the otherworldly chill that seemed to emanate from his form. "But consider this—she expects you to fight as she would fight. Measured. Cautious. Testing and probing before committing to action."

"That's not who I am."

"No," the dragon agreed, a smile ghosting across his inhuman features. "It is not. So do not fight as she would fight. Fight as you must fight. Trust the fire that burns in your blood, the heritage that flows in your veins. And remember—sometimes the student must teach the teacher."

"Any advice? Or are you just here to be cryptic?"

Kelzryn was quiet for a long moment, watching Ebonheim emerge from the crowd's far side. The goddess moved through the press of bodies like water flowing around stones, her white robes unmarked despite the dust and chaos. The Ebon Bow rode across her back, its dark wood gleaming with an inner light that seemed to drink the morning sun.

Ryelle's breath caught despite herself.

Even after two months of existence, she still found it jarring to see her creator—her other self—in moments like this. Ebonheim didn't just look divine; she radiated it, that ineffable quality that made mortals fall to their knees and offer prayers to things beyond their understanding.

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"Dragons," Kelzryn said finally, "are creatures of instinct first, intellect second. We trust what our bones tell us before our minds catch up." His gaze shifted to meet Ryelle's. "Your instincts brought you here. Trust them now."

Before Ryelle could respond, the dragon melted back into the crowd, leaving only the scent of thunderstorms in his wake.

"I said not to be cryptic... jerk." The words held no heat.

The field's center had been marked with a rough circle of lime powder, perhaps thirty paces across. Ebonheim stood at its edge, hands clasped behind her back, looking more like a scholar prepared for debate than a combatant readying for battle. Her iridescent silver hair caught the light in ways that made it seem almost alive, and her golden eyes held an expression Ryelle couldn't quite read.

Calm? Regret? Anticipation?

"Quite the turnout," Ebonheim observed as Ryelle approached. "I believe half the city has found excuses to be elsewhere today."

"Both, probably." Ebonheim's mouth curved in what might have been amusement. "Though I suspect the odds are closer than the wagering suggests."

A horn's brassy call cut through the crowd noise, drawing attention to a makeshift platform where Engin stood with several other council members. The old leader raised his hands for silence, and gradually the chatter died to expectant murmurs.

"Citizens of Ebonheim!" Engin's voice carried clearly across the field. "We gather today to witness a contest between our beloved goddess and her divine avatar—a friendly sparring match to test skill and resolve!"

Cheers erupted from scattered sections of the crowd. Someone had brought drums, their rhythmic beating adding weight to the moment.

"The terms are simple!" Engin continued. "First to yield or be rendered unable to continue shall concede the match! No permanent harm, no lasting grudges!"

More cheers, punctuated by a few catcalls from the Aslankoyash section about "making it interesting."

"As our patron and champion look on, we too shall witness!" With that, Engin stepped down from the platform to applause and foot-stomping that drowned out all other sound for several minutes.

Ryelle stepped over the lime marking, letting her eyes sweep across the upturned faces. Some met her gaze openly, while others watched her from beneath lowered lashes. With a wry quirk of her lips, Ryelle inclined her head—the slightest of bows to the audience. Beside her, Ebonheim offered her own nod of acknowledgment, sending a ripple of approving commentary through the onlookers.

"Having second thoughts?" Ebonheim's voice carried just far enough to reach Ryelle's ears.

"About the fight? No. About the stakes? Maybe."

Ebonheim raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Just wondering how many abilities you've actually collected over the years." Ryelle's casual tone didn't quite mask the underlying challenge. "Rough estimate."

Ebonheim's expression didn't waver. "Is this curiosity or research?"

"Both."

A long silence followed.

"One thousand, one hundred, and forty-nine. Or thereabouts," Ebonheim replied at last, her tone flat. "Perhaps three hundred of those suited for direct combat."

Ryelle felt her heart skip a beat. She'd known the gap was wide, but hearing it stated so baldly drove home the vast chasm between their respective capabilities. She forced a small smile and inclined her head in acknowledgment.

"Good to know where you stand."

"However," Ebonheim continued, raising her voice to address the assembled watchers, "such an advantage would make for poor sport and poorer instruction. I propose limiting myself to only those abilities I possessed during my Ascendant stage—when I was but one divine rank above where Ryelle stands now."

"More handicaps?" Ryelle's protest carried across the yard. "I didn't ask for—"

"You didn't ask," Ebonheim agreed, "but I insist. This is meant to be instructive, not humiliating."

Ryelle bristled but held her peace as whispers rippled through the crowd.

"Fine. Your rules."

"Good." Ebonheim stepped back, creating more space between them. Her hand drifted toward the Ebon Bow slung across her back, fingers tracing its familiar curves without yet drawing the weapon. "Shall we begin?"

The crowd's noise faded to expectant silence, thousands of breaths held in unison. The entire city waited, hushed, as their goddess and her avatar faced each other across the sun-warmed earth.

Ryelle closed her eyes, dragging a long, slow breath through her nostrils. The mingled scents of sweat and ale, churned mud and spring flowers filled her senses. Her pulse pounded an insistent rhythm against her ribs, urgent and impatient.

Her eyes opened.

And the world erupted into motion.

There was no hesitation, no wary circling or tentative testing. Ryelle burst forward like a storm unleashed, her kanabō whistling a death-song as she swung it in a two-handed overhead smash that promised ruin to anything it struck.

The air between her and Ebonheim rippled, and suddenly the goddess was gone, replaced by an afterimage that disintegrated in the iron club's wake.

A half-second later, Ebonheim reappeared a short distance away, her expression unruffled by the abrupt maneuver.

"Hey! You didn't have that ability back then!" Ryelle accused.

Ebonheim's apologetic smile answered before she did, "Sorry—this ability was always on, I'll remove it... I forgot."

The words had barely left Ebonheim's lips when the first arrow materialized—not drawn from a quiver, but conjured from pure essence, its shaft gleaming with golden light.

Enchanted Essence Bolt. The first of Ebonheim's abilities she'd learned, back when the goddess was barely more than a frightened girl made of light and desperate hope.

Ryelle could recall the memory—not her own, but inherited—of practicing with Hilda in these very training grounds, learning to manifest arrows from nothing but will and essence.

She threw herself sideways, the Enchanted Essence Bolt passing so close to her shoulder that she felt its heat through her cheongsam. The projectile struck the ground behind her with a sound like breaking glass, dissolving into sparkling motes and leaving a crater the size of a dinner plate.

The message was clear—Ebonheim's "restraint" was still more than capable of ending this fight in moments.

The crowd roared approval, but Ryelle was already moving. The kanabō swept in a wide arc as she charged, her feet hammering against the packed earth. Close quarters—that was her advantage. Force Ebonheim into melee range where the bow became a liability.

Another essence bolt materialized on the string, but this time Ryelle was ready. She ducked low, letting the projectile pass overhead, and continued her advance.

Twenty meters.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Ebonheim stepped backward, maintaining distance with the practiced ease of someone who had fought this battle a hundred times before. The bow sang again, and again, each shot forcing Ryelle to dodge or weave.

None found their mark, but that wasn't the point. Each evasion slowed her advance, bought precious seconds for the goddess to maneuver.

Five meters. Close enough.

Ryelle planted her left foot and launched herself forward, the kanabō rising in a devastating overhead strike that would have cracked stone. But Ebonheim was no longer there. The goddess flowed backward like water, one hand trailing toward the ground.

Vines erupted from the earth where her fingers brushed, thick as a man's arm and quick as striking serpents. They coiled around Ryelle's ankles, her knees, seeking purchase. She snarled and brought the kanabō down in a chopping motion, iron studs shredding plant matter, but more vines rose to replace those destroyed.

The Bramble King's gift—Ryelle remembered this power from their shared memories. Ebonheim had used it against bandits, against the Kungwan creatures, against anything that dared threaten her domain. The vines weren't just restraints; they were extensions of the goddess's will, as responsive as her own limbs.

Ryelle twisted, feeling thorns scrape against her skin through the tough fabric of her cheongsam. The plants sought to bind her arms, to render the kanabō useless, but she had advantages Ebonheim's previous opponents lacked.

Draconic heritage flowed in her veins, granting strength beyond mortal limits. The vines stretched, strained, began to tear.

But they had served their purpose. While Ryelle fought free of the entanglement, Ebonheim had gained distance and time. The Ebon Bow came up again, string drawn to her ear, another essence bolt forming between her fingers.

This one took Ryelle in the shoulder, spinning her around with the force of impact. Divine energy seared through her cheongsam, leaving a blackened hole in the green fabric.

Pain bloomed like a flower of fire, but she remained standing. Draconic resilience—another gift from Kelzryn's essence, toughening her flesh beyond mortal endurance.

The crowd's roar washed over them like a wave, voices raised in appreciation of skill and spectacle. Ryelle heard her name called out, mixed with Ebonheim's, as if they were gladiators in some ancient arena rather than family settling a dispute.

She flexed her wounded shoulder, testing the damage. The essence bolt had burned through skin and muscle, but the bone remained intact.

Painful, but not crippling. She could still fight.

Already, her own divine energy was rushing to the wound, weaving torn flesh back together, healing burns. Within moments, only the ruined fabric would betray any sign of injury.

"First blood to you," she called to Ebonheim, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Let's see if you can score the second."

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