The Feast Hall, grander now than the rough-hewn longhouse Ebonheim vaguely recalled from her own confusing genesis, still held the scent of old fires, roasted meats, and the faint, persistent tang of spilled ale.

Sunlight slanted through the high, arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the beams—tiny galaxies swirling in the quiet aftermath of their latest council session.

The pressing matter of Corinthian trade aggressions and the unnerving discovery in the mines had been debated, dissected, and delegated for now, leaving a strange absence in the air, a space filled only by the crackle of the central hearth and the low murmur of shifting bodies on benches.

Ebonheim sat at the head of the long, scarred table, the very same table where, many years ago, a different council, fueled by desperation, cheap mead, and perhaps a touch too much of Th'maine's questionable pipe weed, had drunkenly sketched out her own existence.

The irony wasn't lost on her, a wry taste lingering like stale wine. Now, she was the established deity, the one proposing creation, though of a different, more purposeful sort.

Almost two decades.

An Intermediate God now. The thought still felt strange, ill-fitting, like borrowed robes.

Roderick stretched his legs with a theatrical groan. "Well, that was about as productive as trying to teach a troll table manners." He rubbed his temples where his peacock-bright hat had left indentations. "Remind me again why we don't just send Bjorn to have a friendly chat with these Corinthian merchants?"

Bjorn's answering chuckle sounded like rocks grinding together. "Because last time someone suggested I have a 'friendly chat,' we ended up rebuilding half of Sven's brewery."

"That wasn't entirely your fault," Thorsten rumbled, stroking his beard. "The barrels shouldn't have been stacked so close to the—"

"The point," Engin interrupted, though his eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth, "is that we need solutions that don't involve reconstruction costs."

Serrandyl's tail flicked against her bench leg, the rhythmic tapping echoing in the hall. "Boring solutions, you mean. Where's the fun in that?"

Th'maine snorted from his position near the far end of the table, where he'd been pretending to ignore the conversation while fiddling with some crystalline contraption. "Says the woman who considers a successful day one where something hasn't caught fire."

"Hey!" Serrandyl's indignant squawk made several people jump. "That was only twice this month. And the second time doesn't count because Orin's device was supposed to smoke."

"It wasn't supposed to melt through the workshop floor," Evelyne observed dryly, adjusting her spectacles.

The gentle ribbing continued, voices overlapping in the comfortable chaos of people who'd weathered storms together. Ebonheim let it wash over her, her fingers worrying the edge of a parchment corner until it curled like an autumn leaf.

"Listening to all this," she began, her voice cutting through the chatter, "Xellos testing our borders, our people squeezed at every turn—I keep circling back to the same problem." She paused, golden eyes scanning the weathered faces around the table. "We're always reacting, always one step behind. And I'm bound here, to the domain, while he..." Her voice trailed off, then sharpened. "The Akashic System has been offering me something. An option I've been avoiding, but perhaps it's time to stop avoiding it."

The easy atmosphere shifted, shoulders stiffening, hands stilling on tankards.

"What sort of option?" Th'maine asked, his contraption falling silent.

"Divine Avatar," Ebonheim said, the words tasting strange, heavy. "The ability to create an independent aspect of myself. Someone who could act beyond these borders."

Silence pooled thick as winter honey.

"Independent?" Roderick leaned forward, merchant's instincts scenting opportunity. "How independent are we talking?"

"Autonomous," Ebonheim replied. "A separate entity, but sharing my essence. My power, though limited to what I was when I first manifested."

Thorsten's beard bristled like an agitated hedgehog. "A piece of you running around on its own? Sounds like asking for trouble. How do you control it? What if it goes rogue? Gets captured? Turns against us?"

Serrandyl perked up, her earlier sulk forgotten. "Or what if it's more fun than you are?" She grinned at Ebonheim's flat stare. "Just saying. Could be an improvement."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence," Ebonheim said, her tone desert-dry.

"She has a point though," Bjorn mused, stroking his ash-colored beard. "An independent entity with divine power, acting in your name but beyond your direct command? That's not a small thing to unleash on the world. In the delicate political landscape we're navigating with Corinth, Dulgaan, and Kerkenberge? It sounds like a diplomatic incident waiting to happen."

"Or," Evelyne countered, her eyes bright behind wire-rimmed spectacles, "an excellent way to have a representative of your will and interests beyond the valley without risking yourself. The potential for miscommunication or unintended offense is real, but manageable, given the right protocols. Think of it as a... highly empowered ambassador, with built-in authenticity and credibility."

Serrandyl nodded her head vigorously. "Agreed. Having a roving extension of our lovely Goddess could be a boon. Quick checks on far-off operations, swift responses to critical situations outside our borders, a personal touch in negotiations."

"There's also the strategic value," Roderick interjected, leaning forward, elbows on scarred wood. "An embodiment of your power and authority, unfettered by your other obligations within the vale. If you'll allow me to put my merchant's hat on for a moment." He smirked, knowing he never took that hat off. "It's an unprecedented market expansion. Our Lady's name and image, not just on caravans and goods, but as part of the continental conversation. A diplomatic, divine brand ambassador."

The others chuckled at that.

Ebonheim stifled a laugh, imagining some embodiment of her spirit trotting about, striking deals, shaking hands, her face plastered on trade agreements instead of banners.

"Or strategic disasters," Thorsten countered. "You can't stuff divine power back in the bottle once it's loose. And if it does get itself destroyed and weaken you, that's no small setback, especially with Xellos watching from Corinth like a patient spider."

"But necessary, perhaps?" Hilda spoke softly. "The valley is no longer the hidden sanctuary it once was. The Verdant Pathways, while bringing prosperity, have also brought us closer to the world's troubles. Staying entirely within our borders may no longer be a viable strategy for ensuring peace."

Th'maine nodded slowly. "And think of the research potential! An avatar that can travel, interact with ancient sites, perhaps even retrieve artifacts or knowledge related to the System itself without endangering the primary divine source! The possibilities..." He trailed off, lost in arcane speculation.

Engin stroked his beard, salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. "The risks are considerable, but so are the potential gains. The avatar could be a discreet, powerful asset if used judiciously—an extension of Ebonheim's influence, not just a reflection of her power."

"And an opportunity to expand the faith," Roderick added eagerly. "A walking, talking representation of our domain, a beacon for those seeking stability and protection. Think of the goodwill, the potential converts."

Thorsten scowled. "A beacon of what? That we can't handle our own problems and need to split our Goddess into fragments to cope?"

"To extend her influence and reach those who otherwise would be beyond us," Hilda countered gently. "Like water seeping into dry soil, Ebonheim's essence could spread far, enriching more than the valley alone."

Argoran shook his head. "Or it could be as a wildfire that burns without regard. The Aslankoyash honor Ebonheim as a goddess who safeguards and nurtures. What message does an aggressive, forceful manifestation send?"

"A message that we're not to be trifled with," Bjorn said firmly. "If Ebonheim's presence can be felt beyond the valley, it not only extends our reach, but might just give Xellos and others pause. That alone is worth the risk."

Engin raised a weathered hand, stemming the flow of arguments. "Before we debate consequences, perhaps we should understand what we'd be creating. What would this avatar be like, Ebonheim? A copy of you?"

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Ebonheim's fingers stopped their nervous drumming. She'd been wrestling with that very question, turning possibilities over in her mind like river stones. "Not a copy. Someone... different. I can set parameters—appearance, personality traits, capabilities—but the avatar would grow, learn, become its own being."

"So we're not just creating a divine messenger," Hilda observed quietly. "We're creating a new life."

The weight of that settled over them like morning mist, heavy and transformative.

Serrandyl broke the reverent silence with characteristic bluntness. "Well, if we're making a new goddess, can we make her less prone to diplomatic solutions and more prone to solving problems with violence?"

Ebonheim's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Violence isn't always the answer, Serrandyl."

"No, but it's usually faster than whatever complicated plan you're about to suggest." Serrandyl's grin took the sting out of her words. "Besides, wouldn't hurt to have someone around who can throw a proper punch. No offense, but your idea of intimidation is offering people tea and asking about their feelings."

"I do not—"

"You absolutely do," Thorsten rumbled, his own mouth twitching with amusement. "Remember the bandit incident last spring? 'Perhaps we can reach an understanding,' you said. While they were actively stealing our grain wagons."

Heat crept up Ebonheim's neck. "That approach worked, didn't it? They left peacefully."

"After I threw their leader into the river," Bjorn added helpfully.

"The point," Ebonheim said with as much dignity as she could muster while her council dissolved into snickers, "is that this avatar could complement my approach. Handle situations that require... different solutions."

"Different how?" Engin asked, though his eyes still sparkled with mirth.

Ebonheim considered, trying to articulate the restless energy she sometimes felt, the urge for direct action that she so carefully controlled. "More decisive. Less hesitant. Willing to confront rather than negotiate."

"Aggressive," Th'maine translated bluntly.

"Assertive," she corrected.

"Same thing, different wrapping," Serrandyl laughed. "I like it already. What else? Make her taller? Give her bigger weapons? Oh! Can she breathe fire?"

"She's not a carnival attraction, Serrandyl."

"Yet," the beastkin muttered, earning another round of chuckles.

The easy humor was helping, Ebonheim realized. The terrible weight of the decision felt lighter when shared, the risks more manageable when faced with friends who could find laughter even in uncertainty.

"She?" Thorsten grunted, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Why assume it's a she?"

"Because I'm a she?" Ebonheim retorted, raising an eyebrow. "It's a fragment of my essence."

"Could be a he-fragment," Thorsten mumbled stubbornly, crossing massive arms. "Or something else entirely. Something... fiercer. More teeth."

Serrandyl slammed a gauntleted fist on the table, making parchments jump like startled mice. "Exactly! She should be tough! A warrior! Someone who can crack skulls first and ask questions later!"

"Aggression without discipline is just recklessness," Bjorn cautioned, his voice carrying the weight of old campaigns. "It needs strength, aye, but tempered with control. A warrior's focus."

"Perhaps more cunning is required?" Evelyne suggested coolly, fingers steepled before her. "Subtlety can be as potent as brute force. An avatar capable of infiltration, manipulation... strategy."

Roderick chuckled, swirling amber liquid in his glass. "Or perhaps a silver tongue? An avatar who can negotiate trade deals, charm suspicious border lords, and spin a convincing lie when needed? Far more effective than cracking skulls, in my experience."

Th'maine scoffed, the sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "Petty mortal concerns. Its true potential lies in understanding the arcane! It should be attuned to magical energies, capable of deciphering ancient runes, interfacing with..."

"Enough," Hilda said softly, her voice cutting through the burgeoning chaos like a blade through silk. They all fell silent, turning to the elder druid. "You are all attempting to mold this avatar in your own image, or into what you perceive is needed most."

She looked directly at Ebonheim, green eyes holding depths of ancient wisdom. "But the avatar is a fragment of your essence, Ebonheim. While distinct, it must resonate with your core being. What do you envision? What aspect of yourself, perhaps unrealized, do you wish it to embody?"

Ebonheim felt the weight of their gazes.

Hilda was right. This wasn't about creating a perfect tool designed by committee. It was about giving form to a part of herself. A part that could do what she couldn't... or wouldn't.

She thought of her own hesitation, her innate desire for peace, her careful, sometimes slow, approach. She thought of the times direct action might have been better, the times a fiercer presence was needed.

"I want her to be... different," Ebonheim said slowly, finding the words like stones pulled from deep water. "More... direct. More decisive. Less afraid to confront, to push back. Ambitious, yes, like Serrandyl said, but not purely aggressive. Instinctive." She paused, then added, a spark igniting in her eyes. "And strong. Physically strong." She remembered her own initial, underwhelming Strength attribute. This avatar would not share that weakness.

"Strong?" Thorsten grunted, a hint of approval warming his gruff tone. "How strong?"

"Strong enough to wield... something substantial," Ebonheim mused, hands sketching shapes in the air. "Not a bow. Something for close work. Something... emphatic." She pictured a weapon, heavy and imposing. "Like a large iron club."

Serrandyl whistled low, the sound sharp as a blade. "A club? Now you're talking! Most warriors here use swords or axes. A bit overrated if you asked me."

That earned a grunt from Thorsten.

"An interesting choice," Engin murmured, quill scratching notes on parchment. "Primitive, yet undeniably effective."

"So, an assertive, melee-focused warrior," Bjorn summarized, nodding slowly like a mountain settling. "A different path from your own."

"But sharing the same heart," Hilda added gently, her smile soft as morning mist. "Protecting the same home."

Ebonheim nodded, feeling clarity settle like sediment in still water. "Yes. But her appearance..." She thought of her own form, eternally youthful, clad in simple white. "She should resemble me, perhaps. The olive skin, the silver hair... but more..."

"Muscled?" Serrandyl supplied eagerly, ruby eyes bright as fresh blood. "Scars? Tattoos?"

"Toned," Ebonheim corrected, smiling faintly. "Prepared for physicality. But there's something else." She took a breath, remembering the surge of energy when she freed Kelzryn, the lingering resonance of his ancient power. "When I freed Kelzryn... I absorbed a fragment of his essence. It changed something within me, subtly. I want the avatar to reflect that."

Th'maine leaned forward, his earlier curiosity replaced by intense focus, crystalline device forgotten. "Draconic essence? Fascinating! How would it manifest?"

"Horns," Ebonheim decided, picturing them sharp and proud. "Not large, but distinct. Sharp, like obsidian. And her eyes... golden, like mine, but with..." She remembered Kelzryn's gaze, ancient and piercing. "...slitted pupils."

A collective intake of breath swept the table like wind through grain. Dragon horns and slitted eyes on a form resembling their goddess. It was a startling, potent image.

"Dragon-touched..." Bjorn muttered, stroking his beard with thick fingers. "That adds... complexity. Power, certainly, but dragons are not known for their gentle temperaments."

"Or their predictability," Roderick added dryly, though his merchant's eyes gleamed with possibilities. "Capricious, you said, Ebonheim? Seems fitting."

"Fitting, perhaps, but potentially volatile," Evelyne noted, though a spark of scientific interest lit her eyes like struck flint. "The integration of draconic essence with divine... the resulting stability is unknown. The potential for unpredictable energy fluctuations..."

"Adds spice!" Serrandyl declared cheerfully, tail lashing with enthusiasm. "Who wants a boring avatar anyway?"

Ebonheim looked around the table, seeing the mix of apprehension and intrigue painted on familiar faces.

This avatar... this fragment... would be a force unlike anything the valley had seen. Strong, instinctive, ambitious, marked by the ancient power of dragons, yet born from the gentle heart of Ebonheim. A paradox given form.

"So," Engin said, bringing them back to practicalities, his quill scratching notes, "we have a concept. An assertive, draconic-marked warrior. What about her attire? Surely not plain white silk?" He gestured vaguely at Ebonheim's own simple gown.

"Definitely not," Serrandyl snorted, nose wrinkling in disdain. "Needs something tough! Woven vines, maybe? Or hardened leather dyed like dark moss? Something that shows she's not afraid to get her hands dirty. And maybe some sharp bits? Thorn patterns?"

"A Cheongsam," Evelyne stated, adjusting her spectacles with precise movements. "But adapted. Cut for movement—high slits, perhaps reinforced seams. The fabric could be woven from enchanted fibres, mimicking the resilience of Ebonwood but allowing for the fluidity a martial artist requires. Elegant, certainly, but undeniably functional."

"Isn't that the kind of garment that Kelzryn wears?" Roderick asked, eyebrows climbing.

"Yes," Evelyne answered, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. "I'll admit, even though we butt heads quite often, I've always regarded his sense of fashion exquisite."

Roderick tapped his glass thoughtfully, amber liquid catching firelight. "Intriguing. A blend of tradition and... wildness. The fabric could be dyed in deep forest greens or earthy browns, perhaps with subtle embroidery mimicking Ebonwood grain or the iridescence of dragonfly wings? Clasps fashioned from polished river stones or carved antler? Presentation remains key, even for an avatar built for conflict."

Hilda smiled softly, her eyes seeming to look inward to places of moss and memory. "Threads spun from moonlight on water, dyed with the ochre of the deep earth and the green of first spring leaves. Patterns of intertwined roots, perhaps, signifying her connection, however altered, to this valley."

And so began the strangest afternoon of Ebonheim's long existence—sitting around a scarred wooden table, designing another version of herself like tailors planning a dress. The conversation meandered through practical considerations and ridiculous suggestions, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional heated debate.

The cost felt less daunting now, the risk more manageable. Not because it had changed, but because it would be shared. Whatever came of this choice, they would face it together.

As they prepared for the manifestation ritual, Ebonheim caught Th'maine's eye. The old arcanist was studying her with the intensity he usually reserved for particularly complex magical theorems.

"Second thoughts?" she asked.

His lips quirked in what might have been a smile. "Third and fourth thoughts, actually. But that's what makes it interesting." He gestured toward the space they'd cleared near the hearth. "Besides, when has anything we've done here been sensible?"

Ebonheim laughed, the sound bright and clear in the gathering dusk. He was right. From the very beginning, from that first drunken night when desperate refugees had dreamed a goddess into being, nothing about Ebonheim had followed the rules.

Why should this be any different?

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