The practice dummy exploded into dust and gravel under Ryelle's fist.

She stared at the scattered remains of what had once been a solid block of granite, her knuckles still smoking from the impact. Around her, the private training ground bore witness to an hour of methodical destruction that left every target reduced to rubble or scrapes in the dirt.

None of it helped.

The kanabō's weight settled familiar and solid across her back as she turned away from the wreckage. Her breathing came steady and controlled despite the workout, divine constitution making physical exhaustion a distant memory rather than an immediate concern. But the restlessness that had driven her here still coiled in her chest like a caged serpent, unrelieved by mere destruction.

Ten days had passed since Old Drakon Castle. Ten days since she'd nearly died fighting a single greater demon, only to learn that Mayakara were the least of her problems. Ten days, and she'd managed to repair the damage to her divine body, but the injuries to her pride would take much longer to mend.

Only Ebonheim's timely arrival had saved her from becoming another footnote in demonic history.

Footsteps approached across the training ground's packed earth. Ryelle didn't need to turn to identify their owner—only one person moved with that particular combination of divine grace and mortal hesitation, as if her feet weren't quite sure whether they belonged to a goddess or a village girl.

"Feeling better?" Ebonheim asked.

"No." Ryelle kicked at a chunk of granite, sending it skittering into the treeline. "Feeling exactly the same."

Ebonheim settled onto one of the wooden benches that ringed the training area, her simple dress pooling around her ankles like spilled cream. She surveyed the destruction with eyes that held neither judgment nor surprise, merely the patient attention of someone accustomed to cleaning up after her avatar's darker moods.

"Talk to me," she said.

"About what? How I failed?" Ryelle gestured at the ruined targets. "How your great weapon couldn't handle one demon without you swooping in to save the day?"

"You didn't fail. You exposed a corruption that had been—"

"I got my ass kicked." The words came out harsher than intended, sharp enough to make a nearby sparrow abandon its perch. "That demon played with me like a cat with a wounded mouse. If you hadn't shown up when you did, I'd be decorating his trophy wall right now."

Ebonheim was quiet for a moment, her fingers worrying at a loose thread on her sleeve. The gesture reminded Ryelle that her goddess was still so young in many ways—a newborn among her divine peers, despite her calm assurance and inherent compassion. Yet even those qualities were a double-edged sword, inviting adoration from some and contempt from those who saw her idealism as naïveté.

"Marcus was a Mayakara," Ebonheim said finally. "Greater demons aren't opponents you face alone if you can avoid it."

"But I couldn't avoid it. That's the point." Ryelle turned to face her creator, frustration bleeding into her voice. "I'm supposed to be your strength, your sword, your solution to problems that require force. But when it mattered—when people were depending on me—I wasn't strong enough."

"You're as strong as a Lesser God in the Dawn Stage. That's considerable—"

"It's not enough." Ryelle's hands clenched into fists, divine energy crackling between her fingers like trapped lightning. "And it's never going to be enough, is it? Because I can't grow stronger. I can't ascend or gather faith or unlock new divine abilities. I'm exactly as powerful as you made me, and that power has a ceiling."

The accusation hung between them like smoke from a funeral pyre. Ebonheim's expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to catalog before settling on something that might have been guilt.

"That's not..." she began, then stopped. Started again. "You're an avatar, yes. But that doesn't mean—"

"It means I'm a tool." The words tasted like ashes. "A very expensive, very powerful tool, but still just a tool. And tools don't improve themselves."

Ebonheim stood abruptly, her divine nature making the air shimmer around her like heat distortion. When she spoke, her voice carried harmonics that made the ground beneath their feet vibrate in sympathy.

"You're not a tool. You're—"

"What am I, then?" Ryelle stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of starlight that swirled in Ebonheim's golden eyes. "If I'm not your instrument, then what have you created me to be? What do avatars do?"

"They..." Ebonheim faltered, the divine harmonics fading from her voice. "They serve."

"They serve." Ryelle nodded, the confirmation hitting her like a physical blow. "Exactly. They serve until they're not strong enough to serve anymore, and then they become liabilities instead of assets."

"That's not going to happen."

"It already happened! Ten days ago, it happened!" Ryelle's voice cracked like a whip across the training ground. "I fought one demon and nearly died. One. What happens when we face three? Or five? Or a full incursion? What happens when the next threat requires more power than I can provide?"

"You survived the demon, and we purged their influence. That's what matters."

"I didn't purge anything. You did." Ryelle lifted her hand, studying her open palm like a map that held the secrets of her failure. "My purpose is to do for you what you can't—or won't—do yourself. But I can't do that if my hands are tied by this..." She made a sharp gesture encompassing her entire body. "... this limit on my power."

Ebonheim fell silent. The wind picked up, stirring fallen leaves and the remaining gravel from demolished targets. Ryelle turned away, unable to meet her creator's gaze any longer. She'd wanted a sparring partner, not a confidante, but somehow the words had spilled out anyway.

The touch on her shoulder came as a surprise, gentle and warm against her divine skin. "I didn't create you to be a weapon, Ryelle. I created you to be... more complete than I am. To fill gaps in my understanding and capability."

"By being stronger than you."

"By being different than me. Strength comes in many forms."

Ryelle barked a laugh that held no humor. "Marcus demonstrated exactly how much my 'different forms' of strength mattered. He read my attacks before I made them, positioned himself where my weapons couldn't reach, and struck from angles I couldn't defend. Raw power means nothing without the skill to apply it effectively."

The admission hurt more than she'd expected. For someone created to embody divine strength, acknowledging inadequacy felt like admitting her entire existence was fundamentally flawed. The thought sat in her chest like a stone, cold and heavy and impossible to dislodge.

"I created you to act on my behalf," Ebonheim said softly. "To be a champion, not a general. But that doesn't mean you can't become more." She withdrew her hand from Ryelle's shoulder and returned to the wooden bench, settling there as if the weight of the world had grown suddenly heavier.

Ryelle studied her goddess's face, so achingly beautiful and so painfully earnest in her desire to alleviate Ryelle's frustration. But words could only go so far when what they needed was action.

When Ebonheim spoke again, her voice carried a note of reluctant understanding.

"What do you want me to say? That you're right about power being the only answer? Because I won't. I believe in other solutions." The goddess laced her fingers together in her lap. "But I also respect your need for agency. To shape your growth and purpose in a way that makes sense to you, not just because I believe it."

Hope blossomed unexpectedly in the pit of Ryelle's stomach. She held herself still, refusing to let the feeling take hold until she'd heard all her goddess had to say.

"While I can't provide you more power, I can offer you opportunity. You have access to my resources, my knowledge, and my divine authority. Use them. Travel the land, seek out challenges that will make you better, and do what you think is necessary to fulfill your goals." Ebonheim paused, her eyes finding Ryelle's. "The choice is yours, but I believe in you."

Something in Ryelle's chest loosened at those words—some knot of tension that had been coiled tight since her failure at Old Drakon Castle. The absolution wasn't what she'd expected, but it was better, an offering of autonomy she hadn't dared ask for out loud. And wrapped in that same permission was an unspoken recognition that Ryelle was right.

Ebonheim didn't say it, but Ryelle had earned this concession through her words and actions.

"I want you to let me find another way to get stronger." Ryelle met her creator's eyes directly, putting every scrap of conviction she possessed into her voice. "If I can't grow through divine progression, then I need to learn through training. Real training, against opponents who will push me beyond what I thought possible."

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"And you have someone in mind for this training?"

"Liselotte."

Ebonheim's eyes widened at the name and stared at her as if Ryelle had suddenly sprouted a second head.

"L-Lise? Liselotte?" Ebonheim stammered, then stood up on her feet, still clearly overwhelmed by the suggestion. "The Harpy Queen Liselotte?! Ryelle, why her?"

Ryelle knew that Liselotte was her creator's friend, but the two had a complex history that she didn't fully understand despite their shared memories. All she knew was that Liselotte had the one thing she needed: power greater than her own.

"Liselotte is strong—far stronger than I am," Ryelle said. "She's not divine, but she's a greater spirit. Her magic and combat experience would be invaluable. I need to be tempered, like iron in a forge. Liselotte could be my fire."

Ebonheim walked over and put her hands on Ryelle's shoulders, her expression comically aghast.

"R-Ryelle, she's... temperamental doesn't begin to cover her nature. She views everything through the lens of predator and prey. Training with her would be—"

"Dangerous. Exactly." Ryelle's lips quirked up in a faint, lopsided smile. I need to fight opponents who have every advantage over me. Speed, mobility, experience, the willingness to actually hurt me if I make mistakes."

"She might kill you."

"She might try. But I'm divine enough to survive her worst, and she's skilled enough to push me beyond anything I've faced before." Ryelle's voice gained momentum as she spoke, the logic crystallizing in her mind. "You've told me her philosophy—strength is the supreme law. She respects power, but only when it's properly applied. If I can prove myself to her, actually earn her respect through combat..."

"You'll have learned how to be more than just raw force given form," Ebonheim finished. Her expression showed understanding warring with protective instincts. "But Ryelle, the risks—"

"Are why it needs to be her." Ryelle straightened, squaring her shoulders. "I've sparred with allies who want to keep me safe. I've fought enemies who wanted me dead. I need to train with someone who wants to see how strong I really am."

"I—" Ebonheim began, then stopped. Shook her head. "I can't argue with that, though part of me wants to. But understand what you're asking. She won't have mercy because you were created from my divinity."

"I'm counting on it."

"But if things go wrong, there's only so much I can do. Liselotte isn't just temperamental—she's territorial, proud, and utterly convinced of her own superiority. If you go to her territory and ask for training, she'll interpret it as either weakness seeking charity or strength offering challenge. Either interpretation could end badly."

"Then I'll have to convince her it's neither."

"How?"

Ryelle grinned, her draconic features stretching to reveal sharp teeth. "By proving I'm worth her time."

Ebonheim sighed, her face communicating deep, long-suffering resignation. When she spoke again, it was with the voice of a goddess acquiescing to the inevitable.

"Promise me you'll respect harpy territory and customs. Promise me you won't let pride goad you into fights you can't win. Promise me you'll come home if I call for you."

"I promise."

"And promise me you'll remember why you wanted to become stronger in the first place."

That gave Ryelle pause. The answer seemed obvious—to protect Ebonheim, to serve her people, to be worthy of the trust placed in her. But under Ebonheim's steady gaze, those simple certainties felt less solid than they had moments before.

"I promise," she said again, hoping the words would grow truer with repetition.

Ebonheim nodded slowly, acceptance settling over her features like armor donned for necessary battle. "Then go. Learn what you need to learn. But Ryelle..."

"Yes?"

"Come back to me whole. Not just in body, but in spirit. Don't let Liselotte's philosophy consume what makes you who you are."

"I won't."

But even as Ryelle spoke the words, she wondered if she truly understood what they meant.

The forest changed as Ryelle traveled eastward from Ebonheim's domain.

Familiar oak and maple gave way to stranger trees whose bark held iridescent sheens and whose leaves whispered secrets in languages that predated human speech. The undergrowth grew denser, more tangled, filled with plants that seemed to watch her passage with vegetable intelligence.

Her footsteps followed game trails that wound through terrain increasingly touched by the magical forces that had shaped the Eldergrove. Ancient power lay in the soil here, accumulated over centuries until the very earth hummed with residual energy. It felt different from the divine essence that flowed through Ebonheim's territory—wilder, less focused, more dangerous.

She'd left before dawn, slipping away while morning mist still clung to familiar paths. No grand farewells, no ceremonial send-offs. Just Ryelle, her weapon, and provisions enough for a journey that might last days or weeks, depending on Liselotte's mood.

Her destination lay four days to the east, through valleys that grew increasingly strange as she approached the territory claimed by the Harpy Queen, who from floating islands that drifted through the sky like aerial mountains, a realm where the rules of earthbound existence meant less than the ability to soar above them.

Ryelle made good time through the familiar portions of the journey, divine constitution allowing her to maintain a pace that would have exhausted mortal travelers.

The forest around her grew thicker as afternoon shadows lengthened. Ancient trees pressed close to the road, their branches forming a canopy that filtered sunlight into green-tinted twilight.

By mid-afternoon, she had covered enough ground to reach territory she knew less well. The paths here showed signs of recent use—boot prints in soft earth, broken branches at shoulder height, the lingering scent of cook fires and horse sweat. Merchant caravans, most likely, following trade routes that connected distant settlements to Ebonheim's growing markets.

But something about the signs felt wrong.

Ryelle knelt beside a clear set of tracks pressed into mud that hadn't quite dried from yesterday's rain. Five people, she judged, wearing boots that showed the kind of consistent wear patterns that suggested military training. Their stride length indicated a marching pace rather than the irregular gait of casual travelers.

Not merchants, then. Soldiers.

She followed the tracks for a dozen paces before they vanished onto harder ground that wouldn't hold impressions. But their direction had been clear—northeast, toward the border regions where Ebonheim's influence faded and the territories of other Eldergrove Lords began.

Curious, but not necessarily alarming. Military patrols weren't uncommon in border regions, and several nearby settlements maintained armed forces for protection against bandits and worse threats. Still, something about the tracks nagged at her—a wrongness she couldn't quite identify.

The feeling persisted as she continued east, accumulating evidence that might have meant nothing individually but formed a pattern when considered together. Too many paths showed signs of recent cutting, creating routes where none had existed before. Trees bore fresh blazes that marked trails to unknown destinations. Animal tracks suggested creatures fleeing rather than migrating, moving with the desperate haste of prey that knew predators followed close behind.

None of it made sense in isolation. Together, it painted a picture of organized activity in regions that should have been wild forest.

As the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, Ryelle reached the edge of territory she recognized. Ahead lay the strange borderlands where the Eldergrove's deepest mysteries dwelt—floating islands, ancient ruins, creatures that existed at the intersection of natural and supernatural. Behind her, the familiar forests of home carried scents and sounds that belonged to a world where gods walked among mortals and divine power shaped reality according to will and wisdom.

She made camp in a clearing that overlooked a valley stretching toward harpy territory, her divine nature eliminating the need for fire or elaborate shelter. The kanabō rested within easy reach while she chewed travel rations that tasted like sawdust and ambition.

Stars emerged one by one as darkness claimed the forest, their light filtering through branches that swayed to winds she couldn't feel. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called in tones that suggested questions without answers. Smaller creatures rustled through undergrowth that whispered secrets in languages she couldn't understand.

Normal forest sounds. Peaceful. Reassuring.

So why did they make her skin crawl?

Ryelle shifted position, her hand finding the kanabō's familiar weight. Every instinct she possessed screamed that something was watching her from the darkness beyond her clearing—not with the curiosity of natural predators, but with the calculated patience of a sentient observer.

She remained still, controlling her breathing while she listened for sounds that didn't belong. Minutes passed without revelation. Whatever watched her possessed patience that matched her own, content to observe rather than act.

Eventually, the sensation faded. Either her watchers had departed or they had withdrawn to distances where even divine senses couldn't detect them. Neither possibility offered much comfort.

Sleep came eventually, but brought dreams of spider-limbs striking from shadows while voices spoke in perfect unison about improvements and cooperation and the necessity of accepting inevitable change. She woke twice to investigate sounds that might have been footsteps circling her camp, but found only darkness and the lingering scent of something that tasted like old metal and forgotten promises.

Dawn brought relief and the promise of motion. Ryelle broke camp quickly, eager to leave the clearing that had felt more like a trap than a refuge. The forest seemed normal in morning light—trees stood where they belonged, undergrowth grew in natural patterns, animals called to each other with voices that carried no hidden meaning.

But the tracks she found at the valley's edge told a different story.

Boot prints, fresh as morning dew, circled the position where she had camped. Five sets, matching the tracks she had discovered the previous afternoon. Her watchers had been real, not paranoid imaginings spawned by exhaustion and stress.

More disturbing was their discipline. The tracks showed no signs of carelessness—no broken branches, no disturbed vegetation, no evidence of their presence except the marks they had chosen to leave. Professional work, executed by people who understood both stealth and surveillance.

Ryelle studied the prints for several minutes, memorizing their size and wear patterns. If she encountered these particular boots again, she would recognize them. But that knowledge provided little comfort when weighed against the implications of organized intelligence gathering in regions that should have been empty wilderness.

She resumed her journey with heightened awareness, divine senses extended to their maximum range. The day passed without further incident, but the feeling of being observed never completely faded. Whoever had watched her camp possessed patience and resources that suggested more than casual interest in her movements.

The sun was beginning its descent toward the western horizon when Ryelle crested a hill and caught her first glimpse of her destination. Floating islands drifted through the sky ahead like aerial mountains, their impossible presence a reminder that she was approaching realms where earthbound assumptions held no sway.

The sight should have been awe-inspiring, a reminder of the Eldergrove's capacity for wonders that challenged mortal understanding.

Instead, it reminded her of the challenges waiting ahead. How did you fight an opponent who could attack from any direction while you remained bound to the earth? How did you develop tactics for engaging enemies who treated the sky itself as their battlefield?

The questions that had driven her from Ebonheim's training ground still burned in her chest, unrelieved by distance or determination. But at least now she had a chance to find answers from someone who understood combat in dimensions she had never mastered.

Liselotte Skytalon, Queen of the Harpies, Lord of the Eldergrove.

Teacher, if Ryelle proved worthy of instruction.

Executioner, if she didn't.

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