Ten days later...

Ryelle's voice crackled through the faith-bond, distant and sharp as broken glass.

"Three more tried to kill themselves today. Jumped from the council hall roof. I caught two." A pause, heavy with things unsaid. "The third hit the flagstones before I could reach her."

Ebonheim sat in her shrine's central chamber, divine essence bleeding into the surrounding wood. The vines had stopped their spiral. The upward-flowing water trickled, then stopped. Even eternal spring blossoms seemed to droop at the edges of their impossible perfection.

She'd been meditating, but focus eluded her. Her awareness drifted constantly eastward, to the town she had saved and was failing.

"The factions are getting worse," Ryelle continued. "The Restored—that's what they're calling themselves—want you declared their patron goddess. They're building a shrine without permission. The Bereft just scream when anyone mentions Xellos. And the Defiant..." Her frustration bled through clearly. "They want the artifacts back. They miss the compulsion. They're organizing, Ebonheim. Planning something."

"Can you handle it?"

"Can I? Yes. Should I have to?" The question cut deeper than accusation. "This is divine governance. Not mortal politics. And right now, it's a damn mess."

"You knew what you were walking into," Ebonheim reminded her, gentle but firm.

"I knew I'd be your strength when you couldn't be there," Ryelle shot back. "Not your conscience. Not your executioner. This... this is a god's work. Not an avatar's. People are trying to worship me because they can't get through to you."

"And what do you tell them?"

"That they're idiots," Ryelle said flatly. "I'm just the muscle. The thinking happens elsewhere. But they don't listen. They see horns and draconic features and think 'divine power' without understanding the difference. Without understanding that I can't give them the peace they're begging for."

Ebonheim closed her eyes, drawing deep from her domain's Essence reserves, trying to bolster her fraying nerves. "Just keep order. Prevent violence. That's all I ask."

"Easy for you to say. You're not looking at their faces when they plead for the chains you broke."

The faith-bond connection severed, leaving Ebonheim alone with her thoughts.

Ten days. Ten days of receiving reports through her avatar and Silverguard runners. Ten days of agonizing over whether she'd made the right choice. Ten days of seeing her principle of freedom metastasize into chaos and despair.

The silence in the shrine was suddenly too loud. She pushed herself up, needing movement, needing perspective. She followed the well-worn path from her hidden grove toward the city proper.

The familiar sounds of her domain usually brought comfort—hammer on steel from the workshops, laughter from children playing by the stream, the murmur of conversations in the market square. Today, they sounded like noises from another world, another life that felt increasingly alien to her own divine responsibilities.

In the distance, the Artificers' district bustled with activity. Evelyne's tower rose above the other buildings, its upper levels glowing with the steady pulse of magitech experiments. Orin was probably there, elbow-deep in some impossible contraption, unaware of the crisis consuming the goddess who ruled their city.

Ebonheim turned away, walking instead toward the less traveled paths leading to the cabins scattered on her domain's outskirts. Toward Th'maine.

Smoke curled from the arcanist's chimney when she arrived at the clearing. Not the acrid smoke of burning wood, but something thicker, smelling of old paper and arcane spices. Sounds filtered through the cabin walls—rhythmic chanting that wasn't language so much as pure, resonant magic.

She knocked. Once.

The chanting stopped. After a long moment, the door creaked open. Th'maine stood silhouetted in the doorway, his expression sour as usual, scraggly beard twitching. He hadn't shaved or changed clothes since she'd last seen him.

"Goddess." The acknowledgment was perfunctory. "Your presence disturbs the delicate equilibrium of my current workings. Come to marvel at a simple mortal's foolishness?"

"I came for your wisdom," Ebonheim said, keeping her tone level.

"Wisdom." He snorted, but stepped aside, allowing her entrance. The cabin's interior was chaos—books stacked precariously, scrolls unrolled across every available surface, strange instruments humming with latent energy. In the center of the room, a complex circle of powdered silver and crushed crystals glowed with soft violet light.

"You're still working on the Divine System connection?" Ebonheim approached the circle carefully, recognizing the patterns from their previous discussions. "I thought you abandoned that after the... incident."

"Incident implies accidental. The feedback loop was a deliberate learning experience." He shuffled to a dusty chair, sinking into it with a weary sigh. "But you're not here to discuss my failed attempts at reverse-engineering the fundamental mechanics of divinity. You're here about Corinth."

Ebonheim stood by the glowing circle, her fingers almost brushing the humming perimeter. "I broke something that cannot be fixed. I gave them freedom, and they're tearing themselves apart trying to decide what to do with it."

"Freedom without foundation is not liberation," Th'maine said, his gaze distant. "It's abandonment. You removed the roof but never taught them how to build walls."

She looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"They were conditioned for years, Ebonheim. Thoughts shaped, emotions managed, choices guided. You didn't just free them from Xellos's control. You erased the very patterns of thinking they'd developed. They're trying to make decisions with minds that have forgotten how to decide."

He stood, moving to a precarious stack of books. From a drawer hidden in its base, he extracted a small device made of polished brass and crystal lenses—a divination focus.

"Look." He activated the device, projecting a shimmering image between them—a swirling vortex of colors, shifting patterns that resolved momentarily into scenes from Corinth. The Restored, constructing their unauthorized shrine. The Defiant, sharpening weapons in secret. The Bereft, huddled together, rocking, muttering fragments of prayers that no longer had meaning.

"The System recognizes faith," Th'maine explained, pointing to the projection with a trembling finger. "Even artificial faith. For two years, Xellos manufactured belief, and the Akasha registered it. That connection, however false, left residue. A spiritual muscle, atrophied but not entirely gone."

He tapped the device. Images changed to show ethereal threads connecting the townspeople—glowing lines of pale, sickly yellow that were fraying, snapping. "Without compulsion, those threads dissolve. The system they knew, the harmony they experienced—it was illusion. But humans can adapt to illusion. They can thrive in illusion. They become comfortable there. Now they're unmoored. And in their confusion, they'll grasp at anything—new gods, old masters, oblivion."

The projection shifted again, showing the young woman who had jumped. For a moment, her face flickered—first serene, then horrified, then resolute as she stepped into nothingness.

"They had to have the choice," Ebonheim whispered.

"Choices require frameworks," the arcanist countered. "They need shared understanding of what choices are possible, what outcomes matter. You gave them the absence of compulsion, not the presence of agency."

"So I should have left them enslaved?"

"I never said that." He deactivated the device, the images winking out. "I said you needed a transition. A period of deconditioning. Guidance instead of absence."

"Would they have accepted guidance from me after I destroyed their temples and shattered their peace?"

"Good question." He shuffled back to his chair, the weariness in his frame more pronounced than before. "You acted like a conquering god while claiming to be a liberating one. No wonder they're confused. You used force and then offered philosophy. Force first, philosophy always loses."

His words struck home, each one a stone added to the weight already crushing her chest.

"What can I do now?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

Th'maine stared at her for a long moment, his pale blue eyes seeming to look right through her, into the messy tangle of her divine essence. "You could claim them properly. Become their god. Offer them new faith to replace what they lost."

"I won't."

"Then you could abandon them. Walk away, let Talmaris or someone else take them. Offer them a different kind of certainty."

"Never."

"Then you must do the impossible thing." He leaned forward, his expression almost fierce in its intensity. "You must teach them freedom. Not just grant it. You must help them build the frameworks they lost. You must invest, goddess. Time, essence, presence. You must be what they need, not just what you want to be."

The cabin suddenly felt too small, too confining. His words pressed against her, offering no easy solutions, only harder choices.

She sighed, and the sound was more mortal than divine.

"Out of all the traits and characteristics you all desired to infuse me with, wisdom seems to be sorely lacking," she said, a rare self-deprecating humor that even surprised herself.

"Your creation was a collaboration between a grieving merchant, a community in crisis, and the Akashic System's interpretation of 'protective deity'." A ghost of a smile touched the arcanist's lips. "Wisdom wasn't high on the list. Protection was. You have that in abundance. The rest you're learning on your own."

His expression sobered. "But be careful, Ebonheim. You cannot give them what you do not possess. If you yourself are uncertain about the nature of freedom, how can you guide others to it?"

The statement landed like a judgment, but it rang with truth. Her own indecision, her paralysis of principle, was mirrored in the chaos of Corinth. She had given them not freedom, but the uncertainty that came from her own unresolved moral conflict.

A loud knock at the cabin door interrupted them.

"I am occupied!" Th'maine barked, annoyed at the intrusion.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

With an exaggerated sigh, the arcanist shuffled to the door and yanked it open. Lorne stood there, flanked by Kaela. The Silverguard commander's expression was carefully neutral, but Ebonheim could feel the urgency radiating from him.

"Apologies for the interruption, Master Th'maine," Lorne said, his eyes finding Ebonheim immediately. "We need you, goddess. Immediately."

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"What has happened?" Ebonheim asked, her calm tone betraying none of the alarm rising in her chest.

"A scout just arrived from the western plains. A large force is assembling near Dulgaan." He spread maps across the central table, calloused fingers tracing routes. "Three thousand soldiers, maybe more. Five Aetherframes—old models, but functional. They're drilling, organizing supply lines, preparing for an extended campaign."

Ebonheim studied the maps. Dulgaan sat northwest, five days' march from the edge of the Eldergrove Valley. Close enough to be an imminent threat, far enough that deployment would be a massive undertaking.

"Led by?" She already knew. Divine senses stretched across distances, tasting the pressure of another god's presence gathering force.

"Talmaris. God of Calendhaven, city three days north of Dulgaan." Lorne's jaw tightened. "Intelligence says he's conquered three neighboring settlements in the two decades. Efficient expansionist. Doesn't waste resources on prolonged sieges."

"What's his method?"

"Overwhelming force. Fast strikes. Offers surrender terms that sound reasonable until you read the details." Lorne pulled another document from his pack. "Here. Treaty he offered to Millbrook before he took them. Looks like cooperation between equals. Actually gives him control over their military, their trade routes, their governance structure. Within two years, Millbrook was just another district of Calendhaven."

Ebonheim scanned the document. The language flowed smooth as poison, each clause carefully worded to sound protective while systematically transferring all meaningful authority. Professional. Practiced. The work of a god who understood how to conquer without appearing to conquer.

"Dulgaan's letting him pass?"

"Their god agreed. Sees no profit in opposing him, apparently. Figures Talmaris will either take the valley or get stopped trying, either way Dulgaan avoids the mess."

Divine politics. Practical, amoral, efficient. Another god's ambition became a problem only if it directly threatened your territory. Otherwise? Let them fight. Watch the outcome. Adjust accordingly.

"When?"

"Week, maybe two. Depends on supply logistics and how fast Dulgaan processes the passage permits." Lorne met her eyes. "We have time to prepare defenses. Fortify the valley entrance, position our Aetherframes, mobilize the militia. Bjorn and Thorsten are already drawing up tactical plans."

She nodded slowly, mind calculating possibilities. Three thousand soldiers. Trained, equipped, led by a god with successful campaigns behind him. Against her domain's forces—militia, mercenaries, warriors who'd chosen to settle here. Could they win? Possibly. Would they die trying? Certainly.

"Thank you, Lorne. Tell Bjorn I'll want to see those plans tomorrow."

He left. She stayed, staring at maps that showed terrain and distances but couldn't measure the cost of defending them. When she turned to leave, she found Th'maine observing her with that unnerving directness.

"Well," the arcanist said, leaning against a dusty bookshelf. "Now you have an invading army to worry about, in addition to a town that wants to return to slavery."

"I can deal with Talmaris."

"Can you? Without abandoning Corinth?" One eyebrow lifted. "Divine focus is not infinite, goddess. A war requires your full attention. A crisis of faith requires your full attention. Both at once? Something will break."

"Then I'll just have to not break."

The words emerged with more confidence than she felt.

That evening, the council gathered.

They filled the chamber—Engin, Roderick, Bjorn, Thorsten, Evelyne, Kelzryn in his humanoid form, azure light pulsing through crystalline skin. Ryelle had returned despite Corinth's chaos, unwilling to miss this discussion. Others crowded the edges: Lorne, Ingrid, Hilda, representatives from each major faction.

Bjorn spread tactical maps across the table. "Three defensive positions. First here"—his finger stabbed the valley's narrow entrance—"where the forest closes in. Aetherframes positioned on high ground, militia dug in with crossfire angles. They'll take casualties just reaching our lines."

"Second position here," Thorsten continued, pointing to a secondary choke point. "If they break through the first, we fall back and force them to advance through kill zones. Magitech traps, prepared demolitions to collapse the pass if needed."

"Third position is the valley itself," Bjorn finished. "Guerrilla warfare. We know the terrain. We can make every step cost them blood."

Roderick leaned forward, steepling fingers. "We have the numbers. Twelve thousand capable of bearing arms if we mobilize everyone. Our Aetherframes are superior, likely. We have experienced Arcanists from two different enclaves. Defensively, we have every advantage. The math favors us."

"The math counts bodies," Engin said quietly. "Not the lives attached to them."

"War always counts bodies." Bjorn's scarred hands rested flat on the table. "Better theirs than ours."

Kelzryn remained silent throughout, a faint shimmer of azure light the only indication he followed the discussion. Ebonheim waited, knowing he'd speak when it mattered, not before.

"I've dispatched scouts to Dulgaan," Lorne added. "Two groups. One to monitor supply preparations, one to watch for forward elements. We'll have confirmation of departure timing before they march."

"Assuming they don't take an alternate route through the mountains," Thorsten countered.

"They won't," Evelyne said confidently. "Aetherframes need supply lines. Mountain paths are logistical nightmares for heavy equipment. They'll come through the main entrance, predictable and arrogant."

Silence settled over the room, everyone absorbing the plan. It was solid, well-reasoned, and militarily sound. But one element hadn't been addressed.

"How do we handle the god himself?" Ryelle asked bluntly. She stood against the wall, arms crossed, her draconic horns catching the lantern light. "This is exactly what I was made for. Let me lead the vanguard. Talmaris expects mortal forces. He won't expect an avatar hitting his formations before he reaches the valley."

"You'd die," Kelzryn said, not unkindly. "He's an Intermediate God. His personal power would crush you before you could engage his army."

Ryelle's jaw tightened, but she didn't challenge the assessment.

"If Talmaris moves, he'll commit personally," the dragon continued. "Conquest gods don't delegate their prize moments. He'll want to oversee the breaking of your domain personally."

"So where do you come in?" Bjorn asked, not challenging exactly, but probing the extent of Kelzryn's willingness to commit.

The ancient dragon studied the faces around the table. "My position is to remain neutral, primarily." His azure gaze settled on Ebonheim. "Unless your domain is attacked directly. As your scion, I am a defensive weapon, not an offensive one. A deterrent. Talmaris would know this."

"So we could count on you defending Ebonheim, but not supporting offensive operations in the valley?" Lorne clarified.

"If Talmaris attacks Ebonheim directly, I will respond with overwhelming force." Kelzryn's tone left no room for negotiation. "But I will not march beyond your borders to meet him in advance. My involvement escalates this from a border conflict to an all-out war between regional powers. That invites other gods to take sides."

Engin nodded grimly. "Talmaris is trying to force your hand, goddess. His goal is Corinth, not Ebonheim. But he knows that to get to Corinth, he has to go through your domain, one way or another."

"He's counting on her avoiding direct conflict," Roderick added. "City gods are territorial. They defend what's theirs but rarely extend beyond. Talmaris is betting she won't risk her main domain over eight thousand mortals she barely knows."

Ebonheim listened to the council debate troop movements and defensive strategies, their voices confident, their plans taking shape like well-fitted armor. Each suggestion, each tactical consideration, built upon a foundation they all understood: this was a battle they were prepared to fight.

But... they shouldn't have to.

"We're not mobilizing."

Silence crashed into the chamber. Bjorn looked up from his maps, hand frozen mid-point. Thorsten leaned back slowly, his expression shuttered. Ryelle stared at her as if she'd just declared they'd surrender.

Engin met her gaze, concern deepening the lines around his eyes. "Ebonheim, they're bringing three thousand soldiers to conquer us. We have to—"

"I won't spend your lives to prove I follow rules I never agreed to."

"This isn't about rules," Thorsten said, frustration bleeding through his usual calm. "This is about survival. You can't face an army alone."

"Watch me."

Ryelle stopped pacing. "You're going to fight them yourself? All of them? That's—" She caught herself, recalibrating. "Oh... you actually can. Don't tell me you're going to use... that."

"I have a power," she said carefully. "It will stop the army."

"And Talmaris?" Kelzryn asked. "Powers that stop armies don't typically leave energy for fighting other gods. He'll be fresh, and you'll be exhausted."

"I'll manage."

"This is pride." Bjorn's accusation carried the weight of old friendship. "You're proving something, but to who? We're warriors. We chose this life. Let us fight."

"I'm not asking you to stand aside because I doubt your courage or your skill." Ebonheim's hands pressed flat against the table. "I'm asking because I refuse to make you resources in someone else's expansion plan. Your lives, all your lives, are not ammunition."

Roderick leaned forward, studying her. "What exactly is this power you're planning to use?"

"It's best you don't know the details." Something private to hold, this terrible burden she would carry alone. "Just trust me. Talmaris is Intermediate rank, same as me. But I have advantages he doesn't. I'll win. And I'll do it without spending your lives to make it easier."

Thorsten shook his head. "You're asking us to stand by while you face an army alone. That's not strategy. That's martyrdom."

"It's leadership." Kelzryn's intervention silenced the rising arguments. His quiet certainty settled over the room like fallen snow. "She's choosing to bear the cost herself rather than distribute it across those she protects. Inefficient by most measures. But consistent with her nature."

"Her nature is going to get her killed," Bjorn said.

"Perhaps. But it's her choice to make." Kelzryn's gaze never left Ebonheim. "Though I question your reasoning. Gods who fight alone are seen as desperate or weak. It violates conventions. Armies clash first, then gods engage. To skip that step suggests either arrogance or inability to field forces."

"Let them think what they want." Ebonheim pushed away from the table. "Tomorrow, at dawn, I'm going to meet Talmaris's advance force. Alone."

The chamber fell silent again. Different this time. Not shock—recognition. They understood now. This wasn't a tactical decision or a prideful gesture. This was Ebonheim drawing a line, declaring her difference, accepting whatever consequences followed.

Ryelle spoke first. "I still think it's insane. But it's your brand of insane, so..." She shrugged. "I'll hold the valley. When you win—and you better win—Talmaris might send remnants or scouts. I'll make sure they don't get past the entrance."

Nods spread around the table. Not agreement—acceptance. She'd made her decision. They'd honor it, even while disagreeing.

Only Engin remained troubled, green eyes holding questions he didn't voice.

The meeting dissolved. People filed out, returning to their domains and duties. Making peace with a decision that felt wrong but couldn't be changed.

Engin lingered.

The shrine's garden bloomed with late autumn flowers, defying season through divine influence. Ebonheim walked among them, fingers trailing across petals, while Engin sat on a stone bench and watched.

"You're going to kill them all," he said finally. "Aren't you?"

She stopped. Didn't turn around.

"The power you mentioned. It doesn't disable or scatter or capture. It kills." He stood, approaching slowly. "I've known you long enough to read what you're not saying. You already know what you'll do. You just haven't said it aloud yet."

Ebonheim turned. Her oldest friend, her first believer, the man who'd helped build everything this domain had become. He deserved honesty.

"Yes."

"Three thousand people."

"Three thousand soldiers coming to conquer us."

"Does that make it better? I fled from gods who treated people as disposable. Who made choices about life and death without considering the cost. You're about to do the same thing."

"I'm not—"

"You are." His hand caught her wrist, not rough but firm. "The method might be kinder, the motivation different, but the result is identical. Three thousand people will die because you decided they're less important than us."

She pulled free, frustrated by how right he was. "What would you have me do? Trade lives to make the killing feel more proportional?"

Engin's shoulders slumped. "No. But I want you to understand what this changes for you. For us." He gestured vaguely toward the city beyond the garden. "This decision will mark you. Other gods will notice. They'll hear about what happened here—how you stood alone and annihilated an army rather than fight it conventionally. They won't admire your restraint. They'll see a god who breaks rules, who uses overwhelming, indiscriminate force when cornered."

"I'm not cornered."

"Aren't you? You're an Intermediate God of a small, upstart domain facing an expansionist god who follows established procedures. You can't outmaneuver him politically or out-spend him on resources or out-recruit him for followers. So you're doing the only thing you can do—unleashing a force so overwhelming it bypasses every rule and expectation of divine conflict."

He looked toward the shrine, where eternal light filtered through perfect leaves. "And when you use it? You become what people fear most. A god who decides who lives and dies based on calculations none of us can see. You'll be Ebonheim the Destroyer. Not Ebonheim the Protector."

"It's one battle."

"It's never just one battle with gods. You'll use this power, and they'll adjust. Next enemy comes with counters. Next challenge requires stronger solutions. Each decision ripples outward until the goddess who hated tyranny becomes something that terrifies people for other reasons."

"You think I haven't thought of this? That I haven't lain awake at night weighing exactly what you're saying?" Her hands clenched into fists. "This is why I need to do it myself. If I ask you to fight, the decision becomes yours, too. I won't spread this stain across everyone's conscience."

"There are no clean choices left, Ebonheim." His voice softened, becoming something more intimate than argument. "You told me once, when you were young and just discovering what it meant to be divine, that you feared becoming what you opposed. Do you remember?"

She nodded.

"I fear that too." He reached out, laid a hand on her shoulder. "But I also fear what happens to us if you let principle leave us defenseless. There are moments when the moral path leads through moral ugliness. The question isn't whether you'll be stained. The question is whether you'll stay gentle afterward."

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