The afternoon found Ryelle pacing the length of her chambers like a caged predator, energy building with nowhere to spend itself. Each conversation had left her with more questions than answers, fragments of information that felt significant without forming any clear picture.

Lorne's concern about the Order's recent activities. Orin's observation of energy signatures around Old Drakon Castle. Th'maine's research into demonic influence methods. Serrandyl's distrust of sudden changes in behavior or alliances.

Each detail could mean anything. Or nothing.

But her instincts insisted otherwise, that same restless certainty that had driven her to question the Order's presence at Engin's dinner party. Something was happening in the western valley, something that deserved closer attention than diplomatic courtesy typically allowed.

The problem was proof. Suspicion without evidence was just paranoia, and paranoia directed at supposed allies could damage relationships Ebonheim needed to maintain. But waiting for clearer evidence might mean waiting too long.

That left covert investigation as the remaining option. Exactly the path Ryelle would prefer; the directness appealed to her. However, she understood well enough that what pleased her wasn't always what benefited Ebonheim.

At least Lorne had agreed to her plan. In principle.

"Consider yourself part of these 'arrangements'."

His words still sent a flutter through her stomach. He had given her a chance to be useful—useful and true to herself.

Assuming the Order was truly compromised. And assuming covert action didn't spark a diplomatic incident.

But dwelling on the risks would get her nowhere. Better to focus on her strengths. On what she could contribute, on the unique perspective she brought.

Because as things stood, uncertainty left room for danger. And danger in the valley might mean catastrophe before they understood the threat.

Ryelle would ensure that didn't happen.

With an irritable exhale, she turned from the window and strode for the door. Ebonheim herself needed to hear what Ryelle had learned. Whether she would act on it would be entirely her goddess's choice.

But the choice would be an informed one.

When Ryelle arrived at the divine shrine, Ebonheim was kneeling beside the pool of living water, surrounded by flickering votive candles and sweet-scented flowers. The atmosphere hummed with the gentle energy of worship, and the silver goddess's expression was distant, almost wistful.

"New power still flows freely, I see," Ryelle observed, lingering just beyond the candlelight's edge.

Ebonheim turned her gaze toward Ryelle, smiling slightly. "This shrine has certainly seen more prayers in the past week than I've ever received." Her fingers dipped into the pool, ripples flowing outward from her touch. "So many hopes and dreams, entrusted to me. The weight is... humbling."

Ryelle joined her goddess beside the pool, careful to avoid stepping on any offerings. "I suppose it's all part of being a patron deity. People give you their faith, and you protect them in return."

"Yes," Ebonheim agreed, withdrawing her hand from the water. "I wish I could say I'm up to the challenge. But I'll admit, at least to you, some trepidation." She plucked a pink-petaled flower from the ground, twirling it between her fingers. "There's so much I don't know. About my divine role, about this world, about myself."

Ryelle watched the ripples slowly subside. "So learn. How many times have you lectured me about the importance of understanding my powers, of knowing when to hold back and when to push forward? Same principle applies."

Ebonheim chuckled softly. "The pupil instructs the teacher? Perhaps I should worry less." She glanced sideways at Ryelle. "And yet, you didn't come all this way to discuss philosophy, I'm sure."

Ryelle thought back over the day's conversations, recalling each doubt, each warning. How could she express the cumulative weight of these worries without seeming unfounded and fearful? She had no hard evidence, only scraps of information and hunches, and she knew how much Ebonheim disdained uncertainty and ambiguity.

"Ebonheim, what do you know of the Order of the Burning Shield?" Ryelle asked, opting for a light opening salvo.

"They're a military outfit known for their ruthless efficiency in hunting down creatures and entities that threaten the safety and welfare of cities. They're respected for their skill, and their discipline, but as far as I know, they're not known for kindness. Their primary concern is eliminating any threats that challenge the status quo."

Ryelle mulled over that description. "And how well do you know them?"

"Not very. They do what they do out of a sense of responsibility to the greater good. To order. I don't think there's much beyond that for them."

That fit with what she'd observed during the festival. "And their commander... Ardeunius? He's been with the Order since the beginning?"

"He's a well-respected veteran. His loyalty is beyond question, and his track record is outstanding. But like all the Order, he's only concerned about the big picture," Ebonheim said thoughtfully before looking back towards Ryelle, "Why do you ask?"

Ryelle took a deep breath and continued, "During the festival, I couldn't shake the feeling that something about them felt off. I can't put my finger on it, but it's just... wrong."

Ebonheim waited quietly, inviting Ryelle to continue.

"And I'm not the only one who feels that way. Serrandyl thinks they've changed since they settled in the area—new faces, new behaviors. Lorne says there's been confusion between our routes and theirs. Th'maine's research suggests patterns of demonic influence in their fortress..."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

She trailed off, recognizing the absurdity of her string of conjectures. Without explicit proof, they were just paranoid musings.

"I just think they're hiding something," she finished lamely.

"Ryelle," Ebonheim said, her tone gentle but firm. "They're a military company. Secrecy is part of their role. That doesn't make them nefarious."

"I know that." Ryelle's hands clenched into fists as frustration welled up within her. "But what if something has gone wrong? What if this secrecy is meant to mask their true intentions? To delay our discovery of their true objectives until it's too late?"

Her goddess smiled indulgently. "And what 'true intentions' might justify such distrust, given their exemplary record?"

"I don't know!" Ryelle burst out. "All I'm sure of is that Xellos never lost interest in us. That whatever plot led him to our doorstep is probably not over yet. And that every instinct I have tells me we're overlooking something significant."

"I see," Ebonheim said with a sigh. She rose and faced Ryelle fully, her expression serious yet kind. "Instincts are important. But they mustn't rule over reason and facts."

"I understand." Ryelle looked away, feeling suddenly foolish for her outburst.

"I'm not dismissing your concerns," Ebonheim continued. "If anything, I'm glad you came to me. But we need more than feelings and doubts if we're to take action against an ally."

"I know." Ryelle met Ebonheim's gaze once more. "That's why I want to investigate—quietly, carefully. To either confirm or dispel these... misgivings." She added quickly, "With discretion. Lorne's already approved the initial plan."

"No."

Ryelle blinked, disbelieving. "I'm sorry?"

"Sending one of my people to snoop around in an ally's castle, without permission or explanation? It's unconscionable. Even if we find something untoward, we'll look like the guilty party, skulking around and rifling through their things. It would destroy our reputation, to say nothing of relations with their Order."

Ryelle opened her mouth to retort, but Ebonheim wasn't finished. "It's one thing if the situation was dire—if lives were at stake, if we knew they were planning an attack. But mere suspicion? That's not enough to sacrifice our own principles."

"You'd rather wait until it's too late?" Ryelle snapped before she could stop herself. "Wait until they show their hand openly, until whatever scheme they have gains momentum? How many must die before suspicion turns to concern?"

She gestured angrily toward the shrine. "You talk of responsibility to this city and its inhabitants. Isn't preventing harm part of that burden? Or do you only react after suffering has already befallen those under your protection?"

Ebonheim stiffened at Ryelle's barrage.

A long, brittle moment stretched between them. Ryelle's jaw clenched, her breath coming harsh in her nostrils. Behind her eyes, the fire of her divine essence flared.

Finally, Ebonheim spoke. "I appreciate your passion. Truly." Her tone was calm, too calm, a studied facade of composure. "And you've reminded me of a truth I sometimes lose sight of—nobody's perfect, not even me. We can make mistakes. And that means we should be ready for whatever surprises may come our way. However... there's a time and place for aggressive action, and a time and place for discretion. Provoking an ally isn't a wise course of action."

"So instead of preparing for conflict, we just hope everything goes smoothly? That sounds... cowardly."

"Cowardly? That's your opinion of me?"

Ryelle closed her eyes, her expression pinching at the corners. "That's not what I meant."

Ebonheim stepped nearer. "Then what did you mean, exactly?"

Ryelle met her gaze without flinching. "Doing nothing while a potential threat looms? Hoping for the best? That's passivity, not prudence. It invites disaster."

"And yet, that's precisely what I've done in the past." Ebonheim raised an eyebrow. "Or am I mistaken?"

Ryelle bristled. "Don't."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know what you're implying," she said curtly. "That because this approach worked before, it must be suitable now. Don't."

Ebonheim's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm simply stating—"

"You're discounting the danger because it suits your inaction!"

Silence crashed between them. Ryelle's hands clenched and unclenched at her sides; her fingernails dug into her palms as her blood pounded hot and urgent in her ears.

"Ryelle." Ebonheim's voice was dangerously gentle. "You will stand down, and you will listen to me. This is not a topic open to debate."

Ryelle ground her teeth audibly, her jaw muscles flexing. But she held her tongue.

Ebonheim continued, "Until there's evidence of a problem—an actual issue we can address—I'm not taking any action that risks our standing with the Order of the Burning Shield. We can't let baseless suspicions undermine our most crucial alliance."

"They aren't baseless—"

"Enough." Ebonheim didn't raise her voice, but the command lashed out with undeniable authority.

It was only the second time Ryelle had ever felt the divine force of compulsion from her goddess. Her body, already wound as tight as a coiled spring, stiffened further, her inner fire seeming to flicker and dim under the weight of Ebonheim's will.

"We're done here. You're dismissed," Ebonheim finished coldly. She turned away from Ryelle, kneeling once more beside the pool of living water, her reflection shimmering in its crystalline surface.

For a long moment, Ryelle stood rooted to the spot. Ebonheim's dismissal echoed in her mind, the words reverberating as though shouted down a long tunnel.

"A duel..." The whispered words fell from Ryelle's lips unbidden, her voice barely above a breath.

But Ebonheim heard. She froze, her attention riveted on the pool. In its mirror, she met Ryelle's gaze.

"A duel," Ryelle repeated, louder this time. "Tomorrow, at noon. I challenge you, Ebonheim."

The goddess didn't flinch, didn't move. But something in her eyes changed—first surprise, then a glint of something else. Steel? Sadness?

Slowly, she rose, her movements fluid yet conveying unambiguous danger.

"To what end?" Ebonheim's question was pitched low, her voice soft.

"If I win, you let me scout the Burning Shield's base." Ryelle crossed her arms over her chest, her stance obstinate. "Without protest."

"And if I win?"

"I..." Ryelle faltered, unprepared for the contingency. "I'll apologize for my disrespect," she said at length.

"That's it?"

The hint of a derisive smirk tugged at Ryelle's lips. "I imagine it'd be quite the apology."

Ebonheim lifted her chin slightly, as if she was peering down her nose at Ryelle. "Very well."

"You accept?"

"On one condition." Ebonheim stepped closer, her gaze boring into Ryelle like twin lances of living flame. "We don't duel. We spar. A friendly contest, no ill intent." Her tone left no room for argument. "This isn't a matter of life or death, and we are—despite our disagreement—not at odds."

"Fine," Ryelle agreed curtly, her eyes not leaving the goddess's. "And the stakes remain unchanged?"

"Unchanged."

"Then it's settled."

They stared at each other for another heartbeat, then Ryelle turned away from the shrine, stalking off into the gathering dusk.

"A friendly contest," she muttered under her breath. "Just how friendly remains to be seen."

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