Ebonheim's response was another arrow of light, this one aimed at her center mass.

Ryelle didn't try to dodge—instead, she charged straight into it, accepting the impact against her ribs in exchange for closing distance. The bolt struck like a hammer blow, driving the air from her lungs, but her momentum carried her forward.

The kanabō swept in a horizontal arc, seeking Ebonheim's midsection. The goddess bent backward like a dancer, the weapon passing inches from her face, then snapped upright and retreated in the same fluid motion. Beautiful form, perfect technique—and utterly infuriating.

Ryelle pressed her attack, the kanabō becoming a blur of wood and iron. She had trained with Thorsten, with Serrandyl, with anyone willing to face her in combat. Dozens of sparring matches had taught her to read opponents, to anticipate their movements, to find the gaps in their defense.

But Ebonheim seemed to exist in the spaces between attacks. Each strike found only air, each thrust met only emptiness. The goddess flowed like water around stone, always just beyond reach, always perfectly positioned for her next shot.

Another essence bolt struck Ryelle's thigh, then another took her in the left arm. Each impact sent fire racing through her nerves, but she gritted her teeth and continued forward. Pain was just another sensation, another piece of information to be processed and dismissed.

The crowd's noise seemed distant now, muffled by the rushing of blood in her ears. Sweat stung her eyes despite the morning chill. Her breath came in harsh gasps, searing her throat.

She had taken blows before—Thorsten liked to complain that she had a bad habit of "gift eating"—but never this many, this quickly.

"Yield," Ebonheim said softly, nocking another arrow. "This proves nothing except that experience matters."

Ryelle spat blood—when had she bitten her tongue? "Not. Done."

She surged upward, ignoring the fire in her leg, charging straight at the goddess with kanabō raised high. Ebonheim's eyes widened fractionally—the first crack in her composure. The bow came up, arrow nocked but not fully drawn—

Ryelle's weapon smashed into the Ebon Bow's upper limb. Wood cracked like thunder, the divine weapon spinning from Ebonheim's grip to clatter against the far wall. The crowd erupted in shocked gasps.

But Ebonheim was already moving, her hand describing quick patterns in the air. The world around Ryelle exploded into motion as trees at the yard's edge stirred to life, their branches creaking like old bones as they pulled free from earth and stone.

Forest's Call. Three ancient oaks lumbered forward on root-feet, their canopies swaying with the breeze. Branch-arms swept toward her like living clubs, each one thick as her torso.

Ryelle dove between the first tree's legs, rolled under its grasping limbs, came up swinging at its trunk. Her kanabō bit deep, sending bark flying in sharp-edged chunks. The tree groaned, sap weeping from the wound like golden blood.

A branch caught her across the back, lifting her from her feet to send her tumbling through the dirt. She rolled, spat grit, found herself facing all three treants as they closed in with ponderous determination.

The crowd was on its feet now, shouting encouragement and warnings in equal measure. Someone was calling for bets on whether she'd survive the next thirty seconds.

Ryelle grinned through split lips. Now this was more like it.

She planted her feet and let the draconic heritage sing in her veins, power flowing down her arms into clenched fists. When the first tree swung its massive limb, she met it head-on, her kanabō exploding against branch-flesh in a shower of splinters and sap.

The impact jarred her to the shoulder, but the branch snapped like kindling. The tree staggered, its root-feet churning earth as it fought for balance.

Behind it, Ebonheim had retrieved her bow and was examining the crack along its upper limb. Their eyes met across the chaos of animated wood and flying debris.

"Impressive," the goddess called, raising her voice above the treants' groaning. "But futile."

The bow's string hummed again. This time the arrow came wreathed in wind—Tempest of the Grove, Ryelle's borrowed memories supplied. The projectile struck her center mass and exploded into howling air, cyclone-force winds slamming her backward into one of the treants' waiting branches.

The world spun. Up became down, earth and sky trading places in a nauseating whirl. She hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs, kanabō spinning away across the packed dirt.

Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Ebonheim's voice. "Yield, Ryelle. You've fought bravely, but—"

"Not done." The words came out as a wheeze, but she forced herself upright on shaking arms. Blood ran from her nose, tasted of copper and failure.

The treants loomed over her, branches poised to strike. Ebonheim stood behind them, bow partially drawn, arrow nocked but not yet aimed. Waiting for her to show sense.

To admit defeat.

Like hells.

Ryelle pushed herself to her feet, swaying like a drunk. The crowd had gone quiet again, sensing the fight's climax approaching. Even the betting pools had fallen silent.

She looked at her kanabō lying just out of reach, then at the goddess whose patient expression held equal parts respect and pity. The treants' branches rustled like autumn leaves, ready to end this farce.

Kelzryn's words echoed in her mind: Your instincts brought you here. Trust them now.

Ryelle closed her eyes, letting every sensation wash over her—the sweat trickling down her back, the bruises throbbing under her skin, the scent of churned earth and sap and spring flowers.

Then she charged.

Not toward her weapon—toward Ebonheim herself. The treants' branches swept down like falling timber, but she was already past them, ducking under their arc with desperate speed. The goddess's eyes widened as she realized the avatar's intention.

The bow came up, arrow fully drawn, aimed at Ryelle's heart. At this range, there was no missing, no deflecting. Divine fire would punch through her enhanced flesh like paper.

Ryelle didn't slow.

The arrow released. She twisted, felt starfire sear along her ribs as the projectile grazed rather than pierced. Pain lanced through her side, but she was still moving, still closing the distance.

Ebonheim raised her free hand, and the air around her began to shimmer with golden light.

Divine Aura, Ryelle recognized—one of the more powerful defensive abilities from Ebonheim's early arsenal.

The barrier that sprang into existence around Ebonheim gleamed like crystallized sunlight, and Ryelle's charge ended in jarring impact against its surface. Divine energy crackled around her, seeking to push her back, to make her retreat and fight at range where Ebonheim's advantages were overwhelming.

Instead, Ryelle pressed forward, her fists hammering against the barrier with rhythmic determination.

Each blow sent cracks spider-webbing across its surface, though they sealed themselves almost as quickly as they formed. The aura pushed back with mounting force, but Ryelle's draconic heritage lent her strength that purely divine defenses couldn't easily repel.

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Behind her, the treants lumbered closer.

Desperation lent her strength. Ryelle's fists became blurs of motion, each impact against the divine barrier sending shock waves through the air. The crowd's cheers reached deafening levels as cracks began to spread faster than they could heal, golden light bleeding through the fractures like blood from a wound.

Ebonheim's aura flickered.

Shrank.

Ebonheim tried to backstep, to create space for another shot, but Ryelle was already there. Her arms closed around the goddess's waist in a crushing embrace, lifting her from the ground as momentum carried them both forward.

They hit the earth together, Ryelle on top, pinning Ebonheim's bow arm beneath her weight. The goddess struggled, trying to create space, but Ryelle's superior strength held her fast.

"Yield," Ryelle gasped, blood speckling her lips.

"No." Ebonheim's golden eyes blazed with something that might have been pride. Her free hand moved in another gesture, and the vines surged up around them both, trying to separate the combatants.

Ryelle ignored the thorns biting into her back and legs. She had Ebonheim pinned, had finally closed to point-blank range where none of those elegant archery techniques could save her. All she needed was one decisive strike to end this.

But looking down at the goddess beneath her—disheveled now, her hair fanned across the dusty ground, her robes torn from their struggle—Ryelle felt something shift in her chest. Not the wild aggression that had driven her this far. Something deeper.

Something that had been sleeping since her creation suddenly stirred.

Heat built in her throat, rising from depths she hadn't known existed. The sensation was alien yet familiar, like remembering a dream upon waking. Power that tasted of storms and ancient fire, borrowed from a dragon's essence and made her own.

Ebonheim's eyes widened as she felt the temperature change, saw the faint glow beginning to emanate from Ryelle's throat and mouth.

"What—" she began.

Ryelle opened her mouth and breathed.

Pure mana erupted from her lips in a torrent of silver-blue flame that turned the air itself luminous. The dragon's breath washed over Ebonheim from point-blank range, too close and too sudden for any defense to matter.

The Divine Aura flared and died like a candle in a hurricane.

The breath weapon carved through divine protections as if they were paper, striking Ebonheim full in the chest with enough force to crater the earth beneath her body. The vines around them fell to ash, and the treants stopped their advance, root-feet trembling in the scorched soil.

When the flames died, Ryelle pulled back to assess the damage.

Ebonheim lay motionless beneath her, golden eyes wide with shock. Soot streaked her face and arms, but her skin showed no burns, no lasting injury. Her divine nature had protected her from actual harm.

Her clothing, however, had not been so fortunate.

The dragon's breath had incinerated the top half of Ebonheim's white robe completely, leaving her from the waist up with nothing but ash and embarrassment.

The crowd's roar died to stunned silence as Ryelle scrambled backward, both combatants suddenly very aware of Ebonheim's exposed state.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then someone in the Hrafnsteinn section let out a piercing whistle of appreciation, and the spell broke.

Half the crowd erupted in cheers and laughter while the other half scrambled to avert their eyes or offer cloaks. Children asked loud questions that made their parents blush while merchants calculated the odds of selling commemorative tapestries.

Some older men in the Hrafnsteinn section held up scorecards with perfect tens in the goddess's honor.

"Oops," Ryelle said finally, breaking the awkward silence between them.

Ebonheim sat up slowly, one arm crossed over her chest, her face cycling through expressions of shock, embarrassment, and something that might have been rueful amusement.

"Well," she said, her voice carrying clearly despite the chaos. "That was unexpected."

"I'm... sorry? About the..." Ryelle gestured vaguely.

"The dragon's breath, or the public indecency?" Ebonheim asked, attempting a brittle humor.

"Both?"

"I suppose your point is made." Ebonheim made a casual gesture with one hand, and her clothes reformed as if they had never been destroyed. She pushed herself to her feet, one hand smoothing out her hair.

The crowd's disappointed groans were audible even over the general din.

Ryelle groaned. All that effort, for a temporary inconvenience.

"You win," she said, her legs finally giving out. She sat down hard on the cold ground, heedless of the mess of soil and debris. "I yield."

"Do you?" Ebonheim approached slowly, her golden eyes bright with something that might have been pride. "That was remarkable, Ryelle. I've never seen anyone channel pure mana like that."

"I lost," Ryelle said flatly. "Your aura absorbed the worst of it, didn't it? You're barely singed."

"You surprised me," Ebonheim corrected. "Completely. And in combat, surprise is often more valuable than raw power." She extended a hand to help Ryelle to her feet. "Where did you learn to breathe dragon fire?"

"Not fire. Mana." Ryelle accepted the help, her legs still shaky. "And I didn't learn it. It just... happened."

Ebonheim's expression grew thoughtful. "Kelzryn's essence. It's more integrated than I realized." She paused, studying Ryelle's face. "You've been hiding capabilities from me."

"Not hiding. I didn't know I could do it until I tried." Ryelle wiped sweat from her brow, tasting salt and exhaustion. "Does it matter? You still won."

"Did I?" Ebonheim's smile was strange, almost sad. "You wanted to show me that waiting for perfect information is sometimes the same as waiting for disaster. That decisive action has value even when it carries risk."

The crowd was beginning to disperse now that the show was over, though many lingered to discuss what they'd witnessed.

Ryelle caught fragments of conversation—speculation about the dragon's breath, admiration for both combatants, and more than a few crude jokes about Ebonheim's momentary exposure.

"You also wanted to prove that you're capable of more than I've given you credit for," Ebonheim continued. "That limiting you to training exercises and diplomatic functions is a waste of your potential."

Ryelle said nothing, but she felt a flutter of hope in her chest.

"The Order of the Burning Shield," Ebonheim said quietly. "You believe they represent a genuine threat to our people."

"I do."

"Based on instinct and circumstantial evidence."

"Yes."

Ebonheim nodded slowly. "Very well. You have permission to investigate. But," she held up a hand as Ryelle started to smile, "with conditions."

"Name them."

"Lorne goes with you. His experience will complement your... directness." Ebonheim's tone suggested this was non-negotiable. "You gather information only. No confrontations unless absolutely necessary for survival."

"Understood."

"And if you find evidence of genuine wrongdoing, you report back immediately. No heroic solo missions." Ebonheim's eyes fixed on Ryelle's, the golden orbs holding depths of concern. "I won't lose you to reckless bravery."

The words hit Ryelle unexpectedly hard. She'd been so focused on proving herself that she'd forgotten the goddess's perspective—that creating an avatar meant accepting responsibility for its wellbeing. Ebonheim wasn't just limiting her; she was protecting her.

"I'll be careful," Ryelle promised. "We both will."

"See that you are." Ebonheim's expression softened slightly. "You fought well today. Better than I expected, if I'm honest."

"High praise from someone with a thousand abilities."

"Experience matters more than raw power." Ebonheim looked around at the plaza, taking in the scattered debris from their battle. "Though I suspect you'll have plenty of both before long."

Kelzryn materialized beside them, his timing perfect as always. "An educational display," he rumbled, his azure eyes fixed on Ryelle. "You listened well."

"Your advice helped," Ryelle admitted.

"My advice was merely to be yourself." The dragon's smile revealed too many teeth. "The breath weapon, however, was entirely your innovation. Impressive control for a first attempt."

"First attempt?" Ebonheim's eyebrows rose. "You mean she's never done that before?"

"Pure instinct," Kelzryn confirmed. "She reached for power she didn't know she possessed and wielded it without hesitation. It was... exhilarating to watch."

Ryelle flushed under the weight of their combined attention. "I just didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the crowd. But I didn't mean to..."

"To embarrass me in front of half the city?" Ebonheim's tone was dry. "I assumed as much. Though I suspect the imagery will fuel tavern songs for years to come."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. It was tactically sound—catch your opponent off-guard, disrupt their composure, exploit the opening." Ebonheim's gaze turned inward, seeing something beyond the here and now. "I've won battles with less."

She started walking toward her shrine, motioning for Ryelle and Kelzryn to join her. The crowd parted before them, offering congratulations and sympathetic shoulder slaps as they passed.

Ryelle followed, her own steps less steady. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving her feeling hollow and shaky. But underneath the exhaustion was something else—satisfaction. She'd held her own against a goddess, had surprised someone with a thousand years of divine power.

More importantly, she'd proven her point about the value of decisive action.

"When do we leave for the castle?" she asked.

"In a few days," Ebonheim replied. "That gives Lorne time to prepare, and you time to recover from today's exertions." She paused, glancing back at Ryelle. "Are you ready for this? Truly ready?"

Ryelle thought about the question, weighing her excitement against the very real dangers they might face. The Order of the Burning Shield was an unknown quantity. If they were truly compromised, infiltrating their stronghold would be extraordinarily risky.

But that was exactly why it needed to be done.

"I'm ready," she said, and meant it.

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