As the days passed, Ryelle found herself spending more time away from the cabin and its peaceful surroundings. Instead, she often ventured into the heart of Ebonheim's domain, seeking the din and bustle of the city bearing the goddess's name.

The settlement itself was a living thing, ever-shifting, expanding its reach into the forested valley like tendrils of sprawling growth. Buildings of rough-hewn timber and fieldstone rose among the pines, while roads and footpaths traced serpentine trails throughout.

Everywhere Ryelle looked, there were people. Humans, chiefly, but also clusters of beastkin, engaged in conversation or trade. An alchemist's shop overflowed with racks of clinking glass vials and dried herbs; next to it, a blacksmith's forge belched heat and smoke as weapons and tools were hammered into shape.

Across the street, a magitech workshop belonging to the Ethervein Enclave promised innovations to come; progress marched to the hum of Mana-Engines. Amid all this, the taverns—three that Ryelle had counted so far—brimmed nightly with laughter and song, a place where memories were made as often as they were lost.

It was in this seething mass of life that Ryelle felt most herself. There was an energy to the place, a heartbeat that drove existence forward. For all the woods' calm, it was the chaos and noise of Ebonheim that called to her, that resonated with the pulsing rush she sometimes felt coiled within her breast.

If her observations earned her curious glances, or even an occasional shout of recognition— "Hail, Ebonhe—" before being swiftly corrected to "Er, Ryelle!" —she learned to brush these off. In some ways, her silver hair and gold eyes seemed to mark her as kin to the goddess proper; in others, it underscored her nature as something fundamentally other.

This paradox suited Ryelle just fine. After all, she was still piecing together who "Ryelle" was, beyond "not Ebonheim". Each day brought new discoveries—be they flavors, customs, or quirks—that contributed to this burgeoning sense of self.

Like her newfound love of spicy foods. Or her delight in watching birds as they flitted through the treetops. Or the unexpected comfort she felt curled by a crackling fire, a book in her lap, with Ebonheim seated across from her in a matching armchair.

These little moments were hers, as surely as the strength flowing in her muscles, or the growing confidence in her step.

And then, of course, there was the training.

Engin had been true to his word.

He arranged combat training sessions for her, typically at the start of each day. She'd spar with anyone willing to face her—members of the Silverguard Company, Aslankoyash warriors, or even adventurers passing through. The variety helped her to adapt to different fighting styles and techniques, honing her own skills in the process.

But that wasn't the end of her days.

Ryelle spent the remainder of her time on less combat-oriented, but no less important, skills. Ebonheim, ever generous with her time and expertise, taught her more about the settlement and its surroundings, while Engin introduced her to the various occupations that kept Ebonheim flourishing.

"Engin," Ryelle remarked one morning, looking up from the account book she was supposed to be balancing, "I think I'll stick to punching things over this number wizardry."

Engin chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room.

"Ryelle, we all have our talents," he acknowledged with a twinkle in his eye. "You're just more inclined towards the physical, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. However, a certain level of administrative prowess is essential to oversee a community as we do."

His fingers, deft and practiced, skimmed over the page.

"See here," he continued, pointing towards a section of the ledger, "this outlines the proposed grain distribution for the upcoming month. Without a plan, we'd struggle to ensure everyone is fed and the settlement continues to run smoothly."

"Ebonheim can just create more food if we run short, right?" Ryelle's brow furrowed. "So why worry about numbers?"

"Yes, she could, but divine blessings should complement human efforts, not replace them. We should strive for self-sufficiency as a settlement."

Ryelle sighed, but nodded. "Alright, I'll try to understand this better," she conceded, "but I doubt I'll ever find it as thrilling as, say, battling a rampaging wolverine."

Engin's laughter erupted again. "This takes me back. Almost two decades ago, I had to convince Ebonheim similarly."

"The apple truly doesn't fall far from the divine tree, does it?"

With a grin that said he hadn't finished his point, Engin leaned in a bit more. "However, knowing when to duck flying badger piss is more useful than you might think."

This brought Ryelle to a quizzical halt, her expression painted with intrigue. "Do I dare ask?"

"Easier to show than tell, I think." He grabbed a piece of scrap paper and a nearby pencil, and with quick, practiced strokes, sketched out a rough map of Ebonheim. "Say we're here, and a bandit attack is imminent. They're approaching from the west. Given your knowledge of Ebonheim's grain reserves and supply lines, what do you do?"

Ryelle's eyes scanned the sketch, her mind racing. The scenario wasn't hypothetical; she'd overheard Lorne and Ebonheim discussing increased bandit activities in the outer territories just yesterday.

Finally, after considering the lay of the land in conjunction with Ebonheim's critical resources and vulnerabilities, an idea dawned on her face.

"Diversion," she said, her voice tinged with urgency. "Bandits are after wealth, right? Why not 'leak' false information about a huge shipment of precious metals heading east? That would divert them away from our settlement and buy us time to prepare. With less risk to people, and more for valuables we likely don't possess."

Engin's mouth curved into a smile. He tapped the paper with the tip of his pencil. "See? Practical strategy from an administrative point of view. Valuable in the right situation."

Ryelle laughed. "If you can draw plans on the fly, you'd make for a deadly accountant."

"Adaptability," the former merchant mused, his smile reaching his eyes. "The mark of a true leader."

Those words lingered with Ryelle long after the conversation ended, echoing in her thoughts. Engin was right. Understanding their resources, their limits, was vital.

Perhaps Ryelle would never be the god behind the divine magic that allowed Ebonheim the goddess to conjure food to feed an extra dozen mouths, or create shelter from the raw void. That wasn't her role; her purpose was to be the strong arm that reached out to assist when needed, and to shield when danger threatened.

Understanding the city's people, its operations, was just another form of strength.

Three days later...

Ryelle tugged at the collar of her dress, cursing whatever celestial forces conspired to bring about this evening's events. Engin had requested her presence—nay, insisted upon it—at a formal dinner, and he had been adamant in one point: she needed to "dress for the occasion."

But why? She was a force for strength and action, not some preening peacock. She felt utterly ridiculous in the floor-length garment of deep magenta. The softness of the fabric was disconcerting, the constant swishing of cloth around her ankles a distraction. Already she missed the freedom of her usual attire.

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"Stop fidgeting with it," Ebonheim chided gently, walking beside her through the settlement. Her own grace and composure seemed effortless in her long white dress. Her silver hair was intricately braided, her face radiant, glowing warmly against the encroaching dusk.

"Who knew clothing could be so... cumbersome." Ryelle grumbled, tugging at the fabric again. "I've nearly tripped twice now, and we're not even there yet. Is it too much to ask for a decent pair of pants instead?"

Ebonheim's laughter chimed out brightly. "Ah, such is the plight of godhood! To be tasked with demonstrating elegance and refinement in all things—even attire."

Ryelle glowered, though there was no real heat behind it. "Har, har. It would be nice if I didn't look like a fool tripping over myself in front of all those important guests. Especially since I've got two left feet."

"Now, now," Ebonheim soothed. "Remember, your charm lies in your direct, unfiltered nature. Be yourself. You won't need to dance if you don't want to."

Ryelle had to laugh at that.

It was true; there was something disarming about her brazen attitude. It often caught people off guard. Maybe she could use that to her advantage tonight. With newfound resolve, she held her head a little higher.

As they approached Engin's estate, the grandeur became more pronounced, and not just because of the festive banners that adorned the entrance. It was indeed as luxurious as she remembered it, with finely crafted decorations and tasteful furnishings. It was as though Engin, in his modesty, wanted to ensure that his home reflected wealth and stability without being showy.

Torches lining the pathway cast a warm, flickering light that painted the surroundings in hues of gold and amber. Ryelle could already hear the distant hum of conversation and soft music that hinted at the gathering about to unfold.

Ebonheim paused briefly before they reached the door, turning her knowing eyes on Ryelle.

"Relax," she said, her voice soft. "You're not here to impress anyone. You're simply showing your support and interest in our growing community." With a reassuring smile, she added, "Besides, I think our dear Engin might enjoy playing the role of host a little too much."

Ryelle smirked at that. It was a running joke that Engin, for all his wisdom and capability, occasionally displayed a somewhat boastful side. But, she thought, wasn't everyone entitled to a touch of pride now and then? He seemed to always put others, especially Ebonheim, first.

With a deep breath, she nodded. "Alright, let's see what this party is all about."

Entering the grand hall, Ryelle's senses were immediately inundated with a flurry of activity.

A duo of musicians provided ambient music, their lyre and violin seamlessly blending together into a gentle, easy melody, while servants circulated discreetly, attending to the guests' needs. The latter were a sea of finery, their outfits ranging from brightly colored robes to practical, yet expensively tailored attire.

Merchants, tradesmen, and representatives from various craft guilds were all present, mingling and networking, their conversations a mixture of shrewd negotiations and shared camaraderie.

Ryelle felt a nudge at her side—it was Ebonheim, subtly motioning her attention toward a familiar figure weaving through the throng. Engin approached them with a broad smile, his salt-and-pepper beard as immaculate as his richly embroidered tunic.

"Ladies, you honor us with your presence! My home is yours."

Despite the formal address, Ryelle didn't miss the softening in his eyes or the slight bow of his head as Ebonheim stepped forward to envelop him in a warm embrace.

The gesture, so natural and heartfelt, belied their public roles, and Ryelle couldn't help but feel like she was intruding on something deeply personal. She averted her gaze, suddenly finding great interest in the intricate patterns of the carved ceiling beams.

Ebonheim and Engin, having shared their private moment, now turned to her. A glint of amusement danced in Engin's eyes as he addressed Ryelle directly. "You clean up as nicely as a summer storm, Ryelle—surprising and refreshing."

His words, clearly meant in jest, elicited a grin from Ebonheim. Ryelle raised an eyebrow, acknowledging the gentle barb. "If there's going to be more flattery of this sort tonight, Engin," she said, with a mock scowl, "I might just have to try my hand at being more diplomatic."

He chuckled. "An event in itself. I'm sure your blunt force approach will endear you to everyone here in no time. Now, come. There are important people to meet, connections to cultivate, and, of course,"—his eyes twinkled—"good food and wine to be savored."

Ebonheim pinched Ryelle's arm lightly as Engin turned to lead them towards the central gathering.

"Don't drink too much," she whispered. "Your inebriated honesty might be a bit much even for this crowd."

Ryelle stifled a grin. "Would a hangover really be worse than this damn dress?"

With Ebonheim by her side, Ryelle found the evening's trials not only manageable, but at times, amusing. Observing the power plays and subtle shifts in dynamics was like watching a well-choreographed dance—one she had no desire to join.

She spotted Roderick, who was his usual gregarious self, cheerfully engaging with a gaggle of merchants. Beside him, his bodyguard Simon cut an imposing figure, standing tall and vigilant despite Roderick's joviality.

Elsewhere, Lorne and a few of his Silverguards mingled, their professional reserve seemingly set aside for the evening. Across from them, a group of men clad in red and gold livery chatted and drank wine.

The sight stirred a memory, and Ryelle nudged Ebonheim gently. "Who are they?" she asked, nodding towards the group.

Ebonheim followed her gaze. "They're from the Order of the Burning Shield. The man speaking with Lorne is Ardeunius, their commander."

"I remember him from the council meetings," Ryelle said, trying to recall his contributions. "The Order... isn't that the mercenary guild that isn't aligned to any god?"

Ebonheim nodded. "The Burning Shield, yes. They've been operating out of Old Drakon Castle since their initial agreement with us."

Ryelle's brow furrowed. Something about the Order bothered her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what. She'd ask Lorne about it later. Surely, he'd have more insight about their business here.

As they made their way to a quieter corner of the room, Ebonheim continued, "They don't often venture out these days. Some internal affairs, I hear, but I don't pry. They're self-sufficient, and they provide a valuable service."

Ryelle hmphed, not entirely convinced.

Her skepticism must have shown on her face because Ebonheim gave her hand a reassuring pat. "They keep an eye on the western region beyond the valley, helping maintain safety and order. It frees Lorne and his soldiers to focus on other urgent issues within the city."

"That's all well and good," Ryelle admitted, "but something doesn't feel right. Call it a gut feeling, but we need to keep an eye on them. Just in case."

Ebonheim opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment, Engin appeared by their side. "Everything alright here?" he asked, looking between Ryelle and Ebonheim. "The roast boar is ready to be served."

"Boar!" Ryelle's eyes lit up, "Now we're talking. Let's eat! I'm starved." She hurried off, leaving Engin and Ebonheim in her wake.

The night marched on, conversations flowing as smoothly as the wine. Ryelle had to admit, despite her misgivings, she could learn to enjoy such gatherings—especially when the cuisine matched the evening's caliber.

As Ryelle moved towards the banquet table to satisfy another hunger pang, Lorne fell into step beside her.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, his tone surprisingly light.

"As long as there's food and no one is asking me to dance, I'm happy." They reached the table, and Ryelle gestured towards the spread. "Have you tried the roast boar? It's better than the stuff they serve at the tavern."

Lorne glanced at the platters of food, his usual stoicism melting into a rare grin. "Ah, the tavern's best days may indeed be behind it. But I assure you, when you've had enough roast boar in your days, it all starts to taste the same."

"You jest," Ryelle accused him, even as she grabbed another rib to complement her already loaded plate.

"I would never dream of it," Lorne replied, reaching for a pitcher of cider to fill an empty goblet.

Ryelle's attention was caught by the sight of Roderick engrossed in conversation with several guild representatives. Their discussion looked heated, with gestures and furrowed brows aplenty.

"That looks intense," she said, nodding in their direction. "It's never boring when Roderick is around, is it?"

Lorne grunted his agreement. "Agreed. If I were a betting man, I'd say he's haggling for some ridiculous price. The man's either a genius trader, or we'll be paying for our next expedition by selling our left shoes."

"You're going on an expedition?! I want to go! Where is it? When?"

Ryelle could already feel the blood pumping in her veins. Here was a chance for her to prove herself, to see beyond the boundaries of Ebonheim, to taste the thrill of combat again.

Lorne shook his head. "We've only just started making plans. Roderick will share the details once he's done with whatever scheme he's hatching there." He paused, then continued in a quieter voice, "Keep this between us, but Engin thinks it might be an excellent opportunity for you to get field experience."

Ryelle's eyes widened. An official excursion sanctioned by Engin himself? The boar suddenly tasted a lot better. "Any hints about what we'll be facing?"

Lorne sighed, looking resigned. "Knowing the type of contracts we take... probably another troublesome creature, maybe a few of them."

She was practically bouncing on her toes with excitement. "Like gryphons?"

"Are you sure you're not Serrandyl's avatar?" Lorne joked, which made Ryelle smile. "I hope not, but whatever it is, I'll send Urien to give you fair warning before we set out."

Ryelle was almost giddy. She turned back toward the table's bounty, deciding that a celebratory second helping—or was it third?

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