The training grounds held the peculiar stillness that belonged only to the hour before sunrise, when the world balanced on the knife's edge between night and day.

Ryelle's boots scuffed against the packed earth as she worked through her forms, each movement deliberate, testing the limits of her divine frame against increasingly complex combinations.

Sweat gathered along her hairline despite the morning chill, her breath visible in small puffs that dissipated quickly in the stirring air.

Two months of existence, and already her body craved this—the honest burn of muscle, the satisfaction of impact against resistance, the way combat forms settled her restless mind into something approaching focus.

Her kanabō swept in a wide arc, the iron-studded weapon cutting through air with a satisfying whistle. She pivoted and brought it down in a bone-crushing strike, imagining it cracking into the skull of some unlucky aggressor.

Despite the brutality of the imagery, her mind was oddly at peace, a stark contrast to the storm raging within when she first arrived at the training grounds.

The sound of steel ringing against steel drifted from the far side of the grounds. Ryelle paused mid-swing, golden eyes tracking toward the noise. A cluster of figures moved near the weapon racks, their movements precise despite the poor light.

Silverguards. Early risers, like herself.

She planted her kanabō in the earth and approached, recognizing Lorne's distinctive silhouette even in the grey pre-dawn. The commander faced off against two younger guards, his sword a silver blur as he demonstrated some technique that left his opponents scrambling to keep up.

"Counter-timing," Lorne explained as Ryelle drew near, his voice carrying the authority of long experience. "Your opponent commits to an attack, you wait until the last possible moment, then—" His blade intercepted the incoming strike and flowed seamlessly into a riposte that stopped just short of his partner's throat.

"Morning," Ryelle announced her presence with characteristic directness.

The younger guards stepped back, offering respectful nods. Lorne lowered his weapon, a slight smile creasing his weathered features. "Lady Ryelle. You're abroad early."

"Habit." She gestured toward the scattered practice weapons. "Mind if I watch? Haven't seen proper sword work in... well, ever."

"Feel free." Lorne wiped his blade clean with a cloth, the metal catching what little starlight remained. "We were just finishing. Dawn patrol starts soon."

One of the younger guards—Deneve, Ryelle remembered from the council meetings—stretched her sword arm, working out the kinks. "Commander, mind if I ask about the new rotation schedule? Some of the lads are confused about the western assignments."

"What sort of confusion?" Lorne's tone remained casual, but Ryelle caught the slight sharpening of his attention.

"Nothing major. Just that we're seeing more Order patrols in sectors we used to cover regularly. Makes coordinating routes a bit awkward." Deneve sheathed her sword with a fluid motion. "Not complaining, mind you. Less ground to cover means more thorough coverage of what remains."

The other guard nodded agreement. "Ardeunius seems to have things well in hand out there. Professional outfit."

"Indeed," Lorne agreed. "They've taken a considerable burden off our shoulders."

Ryelle had been largely silent during the exchange, but at Lorne's words, she couldn't help but interject. "Ever get the feeling they're... well, hiding something?"

Lorne's gaze swung to meet hers. "Lady Ryelle?"

"Like they might be up to shadier business than just patrolling the wilds," Ryelle continued, feeling the heat of Lorne's stare. "Call it a hunch."

For several breaths, Lorne said nothing. Then he turned back to Deneve and the other guard.

"You two, head out. I'll wrap up here."

"Yes, sir." Deneve tossed Lorne another salute before turning away, her companion in tow.

When they were out of earshot, Lorne angled his body towards Ryelle. "Out with it. What worries you about the Order?"

Ryelle crossed her arms defensively. "I'm not saying they're traitors or anything, but that castle they're holed up in wasn't always empty, was it? Not to mention they're almost as secretive as the Ethervein."

Lorne's eyes narrowed. "They've provided us excellent service, Lady Ryelle. Don't cast aspersions where none are warranted." His tone remained polite, but there was an edge underlying his words that Ryelle had never heard directed at her before. It seemed she had finally found a way to provoke him—and she wasn't sure she regretted it.

"Easy, I'm not trying to step on any toes." Her voice softened a fraction. "I just... worry."

The older man exhaled loudly, his hands resting on his hips as he studied her. Finally, he relented with a tired nod. "As do I, for a multitude of reasons." He plucked his sheathed sword from the rack, strapping it back in place over his shoulder before turning to regard her.

"What would you suggest, then?"

Ryelle raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Me? Er..." She hesitated for a moment, suddenly realizing that she had never been asked to contribute to such deliberations before—at least, not so formally. The weight of responsibility settled on her as it never had previously, driving out her usual bluster and confidence.

"Honest answer?" she said, biting at her lip as she considered Lorne's question. "I would send someone undercover to suss out what they are about."

When Lorne did not immediately dismiss the idea, she added quickly, "Not to cause trouble. Just... to make sure there's no trouble brewing already, if that makes sense."

Lorne's thoughtful silence stretched for several more moments. His fingers drummed a steady rhythm against the pommel of his sword before he sighed. "Very well. I'll make the arrangements." He paused, then looked directly at her. "Is your schedule clear in the near future, Lady Ryelle?"

"Clear as a mountain stream."

A brief smile touched the hard-edged planes of his features. "Then consider yourself part of these 'arrangements'."

Ryelle's jaw slackened for an instant before she could summon her wits to form words. "Wait... me?"

Lorne's smile deepened. "You did say you wanted real combat experience, didn't you?"

The morning sun painted La Salle de Mécanique in shades of copper and gold as Ryelle pushed through the workshop's heavy doors. The familiar cacophony of construction greeted her—hammers striking metal, the whir of precision tools, the occasional creative curse in several languages.

Evelyne stood before Cepheid's partially reassembled frame, her elegant features marred by a frown of concentration. The ancient Aetherframe's core section lay exposed, revealing crystalline matrices that pulsed with faint inner light. Across the workshop floor, Orin hunched over a table covered in diagnostic equipment, his mechanical fingers dancing across controls with surprising delicacy.

"Any progress?" Ryelle asked, approaching Evelyne's workstation.

The artificer startled, then offered a tired smile. "Some. We've mapped roughly sixty percent of the internal systems, though understanding what we've mapped..." She gestured helplessly at the incomprehensible complexity before them.

"It defies conventional analysis," Orin called from his table without looking up. "The energy matrices operate on principles that shouldn't be stable according to established theory."

"Established theory is clearly incomplete," Evelyne retorted, her voice carrying the edge of an old argument. "Just because we don't understand the underlying mechanisms doesn't mean they're impossible."

Ryelle studied the exposed innards of her divine armor, noting patterns that seemed almost familiar, as if viewed through thick glass. "What about practical applications? Aren't both your guilds researching how to integrate Cepheid's systems into our conventional Aetherframes?"

"That's proven challenging." Evelyne ran a hand through her disheveled locks, looking more frazzled than usual. "Even after ten years of research, we're essentially working in the dark. Integrating individual components is one thing, but understanding the underlying theory to advance the field? That remains elusive."

"Part of the problem is our inability to reconstruct Cepheid's neural interface," Orin chimed in. "We can replicate basic functionality—movement, structural integrity, perhaps even limited flight capability. But the deeper systems, the ones that allow divine bonding..."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He spread his hands in a gesture of frustrated ignorance.

Evelyne's expression darkened. "That's also assuming we can even determine safe operating parameters. Some of these power conduits show stress fractures that suggest massive energy overloads. If we're wrong about the tolerances..."

"It could explode?" Ryelle asked with the casual interest of someone who expected to be wearing the device in question.

"Or worse," Evelyne replied grimly. "Uncontrolled Magitech failures have a tendency toward creative destruction."

Orin adjusted a sensor array, frowning at the readings. "Speaking of unusual energy signatures, I've been detecting some interesting anomalies from the western sectors. Probably nothing significant—background magical radiation varies naturally across the valley—but the patterns are... curious."

"Curious how?" Ryelle's attention sharpened.

"Organized. Structured. Most environmental magic follows organic patterns—flows that follow natural features, ebb and tide cycles, seasonal variations. But what I'm seeing from the Old Drakon Castle area suggests artificial influence. Deliberate manipulation of local energy currents."

Evelyne looked up from her work. "Could be residual effects from the fortress's defensive wards. Ancient strongholds often leave permanent magical imprints."

"Perhaps," Orin agreed, though his tone suggested doubt. "Though the timbre feels... recent. Active, rather than historical."

Ryelle filed away another piece of the puzzle forming in her mind. Binding reagents, unfamiliar personnel, active magical manipulation in the area where the Order had established their base. Each detail meant little in isolation, but together...

"Keep monitoring those readings," she told Orin. "If the patterns change, I want to know immediately."

Both artificers looked surprised at the command tone, but neither objected. Orin nodded slowly. "Of course. Though might I ask why the sudden interest in western energy fluctuations?"

Ryelle offered a deliberately casual shrug. "Just curious about our neighbors."

The council chambers felt cavernous with only one occupant. Th'maine sat hunched over the great table, surrounded by scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and crystalline instruments that hummed with barely contained magical energy. His grey beard bristled as he peered through a magnifying lens at some arcane diagram, occasionally muttering under his breath in languages Ryelle didn't recognize.

"Research or recreation?" she asked, settling into a nearby chair without invitation.

The elderly arcanist glanced up, blinking owlishly behind thick spectacles. "A bit of both, I suppose. I've been researching demonic influence patterns—how they manifest, how to detect them, methods of identification." He gestured at the scattered materials before him. "Recent events have made such knowledge seem rather more practical than theoretical."

"Find anything useful?"

Th'maine leaned back in his chair, joints creaking like old leather. "Fascinating stuff, actually. Demonic corruption rarely operates through brute force—too obvious, too easily countered. Instead, it works through subtle influence, gradual compromise, turning existing structures to its purpose rather than destroying them outright."

Ryelle felt her attention sharpen. "What kind of structures?"

"Organizations, primarily. Religious orders, military companies, trade guilds—any group with established hierarchy and clear chain of command." Th'maine pulled forward a leather-bound journal filled with cramped notes. "Demons are remarkably efficient at identifying key individuals and applying pressure at precisely the right points to achieve maximum leverage."

"How would you recognize such influence?"

"Behavioral changes, usually subtle ones. Shifts in priorities, new procedures that serve no obvious purpose, personnel changes that follow suspicious patterns." The old arcanist tapped his quill against the journal's edge. "The key is distinguishing between natural organizational evolution and artificial manipulation."

Ryelle studied the scattered research materials, noting charts showing various corruption patterns and their identifying markers. "Hypothetically, if you suspected an organization was compromised, what would you look for?"

Th'maine's eyes sharpened with interest. "Hypothetically? I'd examine three primary areas: financial irregularities, particularly requests for materials with dual-use applications; communication patterns, especially new contacts or changed reporting structures; and most tellingly, magical signatures around their base of operations."

"Magical signatures?"

"Demonic influence leaves traces—subtle alterations in local energy patterns that persist for weeks or months. An experienced practitioner can detect them with the right instruments, though the process requires close proximity and considerable time."

Ryelle chewed her lower lip, mentally pulling threads together. The pieces still resisted an elegant weave, but the general pattern was clear enough.

"Let's say you had such a practitioner and his instruments," she said carefully. "If you were to inspect, oh, the Old Drakon Castle and its surrounds, where would you start?"

Th'maine's bushy eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Well, firstly I'd need authorization from Lorne, or preferably Ebonheim herself. Secondly—"

Ryelle waved an impatient hand. "For argument's sake."

He cleared his throat. "Hypothetically, I'd begin with a complete auric scan of the keep—physical structure, wards, energy matrices, everything. Then I'd cross-reference those readings against historical records to identify any unauthorized modifications. Assuming..."

Th'maine trailed off, his expression suddenly distant.

"Assuming?" Ryelle prompted.

The arcanist shook himself from whatever reverie had claimed him. "Ah, just musing on methodology. Little more than academic curiosity."

Ryelle knew evasion when she saw it, especially delivered so poorly. But she let it pass unchallenged; pushing Th'maine rarely yielded useful results. Instead, she steered the conversation back on course. "Assuming you found evidence of tampering, what next?"

He fixed her with a penetrating stare. "Why the sudden interest in the Order's operations?"

"Just trying to understand potential threats," Ryelle replied carefully. "Better to be overprepared than caught off guard."

Th'maine regarded her silently for a moment longer before nodding slowly. "Prudent, if perhaps overly cautious. Though I should warn you—if such corruption were actually present, direct confrontation would be inadvisable without overwhelming evidence. Demons excel at turning accusations of infiltration into weapons against their accusers."

"Of course," Ryelle agreed easily. "But it never hurts to know your neighbors, does it?"

Th'maine coughed lightly, the sound bordering on amusement. "Indeed not." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him. "Given the hypothetical situation you describe, my next steps would depend on what we discovered. But rest assured, Ryelle, I would advise Ebonheim and Engin immediately—and of course, your own... unique perspective would be welcome."

Ryelle inclined her head at the recognition, however backhanded.

"And I appreciate your counsel in turn," she replied. "Now, how would you go about detecting those magical signatures around the keep? For purely academic reasons, of course."

The market square buzzed with midday activity as Ryelle made her way between stalls laden with goods from across the valley. Merchants hawked their wares in a dozen languages, while customers haggled with the practiced intensity of people who viewed commerce as a form of entertainment.

She found Serrandyl near the livestock pens, engaged in animated discussion with a Hrafnsteinn trader over the merits of various goat breeds. The Aslankoyash woman's tail lashed with barely contained energy as she gestured toward a particularly robust specimen.

"That one's got the temperament of a storm giant," Serrandyl was saying. "Look at those eyes—pure defiance. Perfect for mountain terrain, terrible for anyone who values their sanity."

The trader, a weathered woman with intricate braids, laughed appreciatively. "Spoken like someone who knows goats. Most buyers want docile animals that won't challenge them."

"Most buyers are idiots," Serrandyl replied with characteristic bluntness. "A goat that doesn't think for itself won't survive a week in the high country."

Ryelle approached as the transaction concluded, the trader leading away a string of notably ill-tempered animals while Serrandyl counted coins with satisfaction.

"Expanding your herd?" Ryelle asked.

"Father's orders. Apparently, we need to diversify our livestock holdings." Serrandyl tucked the coins into a leather pouch, her expression wry. "Can't argue with the logic, even if goat herding wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I decided to settle down."

They walked together toward the food stalls, where the scent of roasted meat and exotic spices created an almost overwhelming sensory symphony. Ryelle selected a meat skewer from a vendor while Serrandyl acquired some sort of pastry stuffed with spiced vegetables.

"You know," Serrandyl said around a mouthful of pastry, "I've been hearing odd stories from some of the traveling merchants."

"What kind of stories?"

"About the Order. Nothing dramatic—just small things that don't quite fit. Changed behavior, new faces, different priorities." Serrandyl's golden eyes held a thoughtful gleam. "One trader mentioned trying to arrange a meeting with Ardeunius about bandit activity on the western trade routes. Got shuffled around between subordinates for days before finally getting a brief audience. Said the whole experience felt... off."

Ryelle paused, skewer halfway to her mouth. "Off how?"

"Bureaucratic. Formal. Nothing like the direct, no-nonsense approach Ardeunius showed during the siege." Serrandyl shrugged, tail flicking with agitation. "Could be nothing. Organizations change when they transition from temporary operations to permanent installations. But..."

"But your instincts are telling you something's wrong."

"Exactly." Serrandyl fixed Ryelle with an appraising look. "You get it. Most people want to wait, gather more information, follow proper channels. Sometimes, though, proper channels are exactly what you can't trust."

Ryelle's throat tightened. "Have you spoken to Lorne about this?"

"Lorne? That man practically bleeds formality." Serrandyl picked a flake of crust from her pastry, popping it into her mouth. "I suspect he knows more than he's letting on, but he'll insist on following protocol until he has proof that won't disappear if he prods it too directly."

They finished their impromptu meal in companionable silence, watching the ebb and flow of market activity around them. Farmers brought produce from outlying settlements, craftsmen displayed their latest creations, children darted between stalls with the boundless energy of youth. The scene radiated contentment and prosperity—everything Ebonheim had worked to build.

Everything Xellos might be planning to take away.

"If something were wrong," Ryelle said carefully, "hypothetically speaking, what would you do?"

Serrandyl's grin showed entirely too many teeth. "Hypothetically? I'd start by scouting their base of operations. Not that I'm advocating breaking rank, mind you. Just a theoretical exercise in risk analysis."

"Of course," Ryelle agreed, her own smile no less predatory. "Hypothetically, if you found evidence of—well, call it unauthorized modifications—what then?"

"Confrontation." Serrandyl's casual tone belied the razor-edged tenor beneath the words. "No point letting a problem fester. Better to excise it before it spreads."

Ryelle could appreciate the sentiment. Combat had an elegant simplicity to it—clear enemies, defined objectives, swift resolutions. Diplomacy, with its layers of misdirection and shades of half-truth, felt messy by comparison. Still, she recognized the limits of direct action.

"We'll need evidence," she said firmly. "Something Lorne and the others can use, both to identify any threats and counteract them effectively."

"Agreed." Serrandyl sighed, the sound carrying more exasperation than regret. "Pity though—it would've been so much neater the other way."

Ryelle allowed herself a small smile. "Isn't it always?"

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.