The meadow between domains held its breath.

Neither Ebonheim nor Corinth could claim the patch of wild grass and scattered stones that marked where influence met influence, where divine authority acknowledged its own limits. Here, the flowers bloomed without favor, the wind brought no particular scent of home, and the earth beneath their feet belonged to no god's design.

Ebonheim arrived first, her passage marked by subtle changes that followed in her wake—wildflowers lifting their heads toward her light, grass greening where her sandals touched soil that had been brown with autumn's approach.

She chose a spot near an old oak whose gnarled trunk suggested centuries of weathering storms without divine intervention, then settled cross-legged on the earth to wait, hands folded in her lap, divine senses stretched outward like roots seeking water.

Xellos appeared between one heartbeat and the next.

No fanfare announced his arrival, no dramatic entrance to mark his presence. He simply stepped from shadow into sunlight as if he'd been walking the meadow's edge all along, dark robes unmarked by travel and pale hands clasped behind his back in casual contemplation.

"Ebonheim." He offered a smile that reached his eyes but somehow didn't warm them. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. These border disputes can escalate so quickly when left to lesser officials."

"Xellos." She remained seated, watching him settle onto a fallen log that positioned him at eye level despite her lower position. "Though I suspect border disputes are the least of our concerns."

"Oh?" His hands folded in his lap, fingers intertwining with understated ease. "I confess, your message suggested urgency but lacked specifics. Something about regional security?"

The words held just enough confusion to sound genuine. Ebonheim studied his face, noting how his expression arranged itself into patterns of polite interest that revealed nothing deeper than surface courtesy.

"Demons," she said. "Specifically, Asura demons infiltrating the Order of the Burning Shield at Old Drakon Castle. Mayakara shapeshifters who spent months corrupting knights from within."

Xellos went very still. Not the careful stillness of someone trying to appear calm, but the absolute motionlessness of a predator evaluating unexpected prey behavior. His dark eyes fixed on her face with intensity that made the morning air feel colder.

"That's... concerning," he said finally. "The Order was supposed to be our first line of defense against exactly that sort of threat. How extensive was the infiltration?"

"Two Mayakara wearing the faces of men honored within the Order. An artifact in the lower levels that corrupted minds, stripped away individual will, turned knights into extensions of demonic purpose." Ebonheim let each detail settle in the space between them like stones dropped into still water. "Communications from external sources coordinating the operation. Regional stability initiatives."

"External sources." Xellos tested the phrase, rolling it around his mouth like wine he wasn't sure he wanted to swallow. "Did these communications mention specific organizations? Individuals? Settlements?"

"They mentioned Corinth."

The accusation hung in the air between them, neither quite spoken nor entirely implied. Xellos absorbed it without flinching, his expression shifting through what might have been surprise, concern, and finally a kind of weary recognition.

"Of course they did," he said, weariness weighing down his voice. "Corinth has been coordinating regional security measures with multiple settlements. Trade agreements, patrol schedules, information sharing about potential threats. It would be strange if our name didn't appear in official communications."

"These weren't official communications. They were coded messages directing the corruption of an elite military organization."

"Coded messages can be intercepted. Falsified. Used to implicate innocent parties in schemes they had no knowledge of." Xellos spread his hands in a gesture that suggested both openness and helplessness. "You know how demons operate, Ebonheim. Deception is their primary weapon. Why corrupt an organization when you can corrupt it and blame someone else?"

The logic was sound. Too sound. Ebonheim felt the wrongness of it even as her mind acknowledged the reasonable explanation. Like a lock that opened easily because someone had oiled the mechanism in advance.

"You're suggesting someone used Corinth's name to deflect suspicion from themselves."

"Demons specialize in misdirection." His voice took on earnest conviction. "They would have had plenty of time to plan this infiltration, Ebonheim. Time to study regional politics, identify potential scapegoats, plant evidence that would lead investigators exactly where they wanted them to look."

"And where exactly would that be?"

"Away from their true masters. Away from the real sources of coordination and support." His smile held bitter acknowledgment of unpleasant realities. "I've been tracking unusual activity in the region for months. Strange reports from traders, whispered rumors among travelers, patterns that suggested organized demonic activity. But every time I got close to answers, the trail led to dead ends or false leads."

Ebonheim studied his face, looking for tells that would reveal deception beneath the careful sincerity. She found none.

Not for the first time, she felt the frustration of dealing with Xellos—his ability to craft words into blades that cut away unwanted conclusions, his talent for weaving webs of possibility where only suspicion should lie.

Around them, the meadow had grown quieter, as if the morning birds sensed tension building between the two gods. Even the wildflowers leaned away from the space where their conversation carved reality into competing versions of truth.

"You've been investigating demonic activity. Yet you never mentioned this to me during our previous meetings."

"Because I had suspicions, not evidence. Accusations without proof are just paranoia wearing official clothes." His fingers drummed once against his thigh before stilling completely. "Besides, your domain has enough challenges without borrowing trouble from mine. The mine instabilities, the border tensions, the complexities of rapid growth—why add demon hunters to your list of concerns unless I was certain?"

"The mine instabilities that conveniently coincided with Corinthian expansion into contested territory."

"Conveniently." The word tasted bitter in his mouth. "Yes, I suppose from the outside it would look convenient. A god's subjects discover valuable resources just as tensions escalate with neighboring settlements. The timing does invite suspicion."

"Does it?"

"Of course it does. I'd be suspicious too, in your position." Weight settled in his voice—someone acknowledging uncomfortable truths. "But consider the alternative explanation. Demons infiltrating the Order, corrupting their minds, preparing them for... what? Some larger operation that required regional instability as cover. What better way to ensure chaos than by engineering conflicts over valuable resources between allied settlements?"

Divine essence stirred within Ebonheim, responding to frustration that had nowhere safe to discharge. These explanations fit together too neatly, answered every question while revealing nothing meaningful. Like a puzzle box designed to open only for the person who'd built its locks.

"You have an answer for everything," she said.

"I have experience with demonic deception. It tends to leave similar patterns." His voice remained level, but something shifted in his posture—a subtle straightening that suggested preparation for confrontation. "Though I understand why you'd find comprehensive explanations suspicious. Sometimes the truth is too convenient to be believable."

"Sometimes lies are too convenient to be accidental."

The accusation landed between them like a blade thrown in challenge. Air around Xellos began to thicken with power that pressed against the meadow's neutral ground like storm clouds testing the strength of mountain peaks.

"I see." New harmonics entered his voice, undertones that made the wildflowers shiver despite the absence of wind. "So we've moved past questions into accusations. Past investigation into judgment."

"I'm trying to understand what happened at Old Drakon Castle. Why demons infiltrated an organization dedicated to hunting their kind. Why coded communications referenced your settlement. Why everything points toward coordination from Corinth."

"And I'm trying to explain how demons could have orchestrated exactly this conversation. How they could have corrupted evidence, planted false trails, engineered circumstances that would put us at each other's throats instead of working together against the real threat." Shadows began to pool around his feet, not quite extending beyond his immediate space but visible enough to make his intentions clear. "But if you've already decided I'm guilty, then explanations become meaningless."

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Divine power filled the meadow like pressure before a thunderstorm. His aura expanded outward, shadows deepening until they drank light from the morning air. Temperature dropped several degrees, and the neutral ground shivered under the weight of authority that belonged to gods rather than mortals.

Ebonheim responded without conscious thought.

Golden radiance erupted from her form, bright enough to burn away shadows and warm enough to make the wildflowers bloom in accelerated spring. Her aura didn't just match his display of power—it overwhelmed it, pushing back darkness with the inexorable patience of dawn claiming night.

The difference was unmistakable.

Where his power pressed against resistance, hers flowed through obstacles like water finding natural channels. Where his authority demanded acknowledgment, hers simply existed with quiet confidence that had outgrown the need to prove anything.

Intermediate God, Dawn Stage versus Lesser God, Zenith Stage. Just a single difference in divine rank, yet in terms of raw power, it made the difference between an ocean and a pond.

His shadows retreated, aura contracting until it barely extended beyond his physical form. Expression cycling through surprise, calculation, and finally rueful acceptance—someone who'd just discovered pieces missing from their favorite game.

"Well," he said quietly, darkness fading until only natural shadow remained. "That's... unexpected."

"Is it?" Golden radiance dimmed to normal levels, but she kept power ready beneath the surface. "You appear to have expected a great deal about this conversation."

"I expected negotiations between equals. Discussions of mutual interest between neighboring gods who understood the benefits of cooperation." His smile had lost its warmth entirely now, becoming something sharp-edged and calculating. "I didn't expect to discover that one of us had been promoted without informing the other."

"Divine advancement doesn't require announcements."

"No, but it does change the nature of regional politics considerably." He leaned back against his log, fingers steepled as he studied her with new intensity. "An Intermediate God bears different authority than a Lesser one. Different responsibilities. Different... expectations from the celestial hierarchy."

The words held implications that made her divine essence recoil. He wasn't just acknowledging her advancement—he was suggesting it changed everything about their relationship, their negotiations, the balance of power in the valley.

Which meant he'd been counting on that balance remaining unchanged.

"Perhaps," he continued, "this conversation has been approaching the problem from the wrong direction entirely."

"Has it?"

His hand disappeared into shadow that hadn't been there a moment before, reaching into darkness that folded space around his wrist. When he withdrew it, he held something that made the morning air taste of sulfur and old graves.

Two heads, severed cleanly at the neck. Demonic features frozen in expressions of rage and disbelief, their alien anatomies marking them unmistakably as greater Asuras. Mayakara, from the look of their shapeshifting capabilities preserved in death.

"These are the real architects of the Order's corruption," he said, setting the grisly trophies on the grass between them. "Vajrakha and Amritaki, both members of the Sutrath hierarchy's upper echelons. I've been hunting them since you rescued me from Old Drakon Castle a decade ago."

Ebonheim stared at the severed heads, divine senses confirming their authenticity while her mind struggled to process the implications. Real demons. Greater Asuras. Recently killed, judging by the residual aura clinging to their remains.

"You've been hunting demons," she said carefully. "For ten years. Without mentioning it."

"Without being able to mention it." His voice held the weight of someone sharing secrets that had cost him dearly. "They had agents everywhere, Ebonheim. In the Order, in trade guilds, in settlement councils across the region. One careless word, one hint that I was tracking them, and they would have vanished back to Sutrath before I could stop them."

"So you worked in secret."

"I worked in their shadows. Let them think I was another corrupted god, another tool they could use for their regional destabilization efforts." He gestured toward the heads with hands that trembled slightly. "The coded communications that referenced Corinth? I authored them. False intelligence designed to fool demonic agents into revealing their positions."

Every suspicious detail, every questionable action, reframed as necessary deception in a shadow war against creatures that specialized in corruption and lies. The demon heads provided physical proof that he had indeed been hunting the very creatures she'd fought at the castle.

But the timing was too perfect. The explanation too complete.

"Ten years," she said. "You've been hunting these specific demons for ten years, since your rescue from Old Drakon Castle."

"Since you rescued me." Genuine warmth entered his voice for the first time since the conversation began. "I told you then that I owed you a debt I could never repay. This is my attempt to make good on that promise—removing the threats that endangered you, your people, the entire region."

Memory stirred—that dungeon, the chained figure she'd found among demon guards, her decision to trust a stranger god despite the risks. If his story was true, if he had been hunting the very demons that had tormented him...

Yet something still felt wrong.

"Mayakara are mimics," he continued. "Their specialty is corrupting authority figures, turning leaders into tools for their own purposes. These two in particular were masters of mental manipulation. I suspect they were testing techniques on the Order, preparing for larger targets."

"Larger targets?"

"Gods, Ebonheim. What better prize for creatures that specialize in corruption than divine authority itself?" His amber eyes held hers with bedrock conviction. "They failed to break me in captivity, but that doesn't mean they've abandoned the attempt. The corruption at the castle may have been practice—or bait to draw us into the open."

The possibility chilled her more than his earlier shadows had. Demons capable of corrupting gods, of turning divine authority into tools for their own purposes. The Order's knights had been broken within months—what might such creatures accomplish if they targeted beings with millennia to perfect their craft?

"You think they might target other gods?"

"I think they already have." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Why else would regional stability matter to creatures from Sutrath? They're building something, Ebonheim. A network of influence that spans multiple domains, multiple authorities. The Order was just one thread in a larger web."

The puzzle pieces fell into place too perfectly. Every unanswered question finding resolution in ways that made Xellos look more heroic with every detail. If he was lying, then he was doing so with skill that made her earlier misgivings seem naïve.

But if he was telling the truth...

"These demons," she said, indicating the severed heads. "When did you kill them?"

"Two days ago. I'd been tracking them to a stronghold in the northern mountains, waiting for the right opportunity to strike without alerting their network." Thoughtfulness crossed his expression. "In fact, your message about meeting here provided perfect cover. They thought I was coming to negotiate with you about regional cooperation—gave me the opening I needed to eliminate them both."

"Convenient timing."

"Fortuitous timing. Though I suppose from your perspective, it would look convenient." He spread his hands in a gesture that acknowledged the appearance of manipulation while denying its reality. "Everything looks suspicious when you're searching for deception, Ebonheim. Sometimes coincidence is just coincidence wearing an unfortunate costume."

Morning birds had abandoned trees that hosted conversations between gods who shaped reality through the force of competing narratives. Even the wildflowers bent away from the space where truth and deception wrestled for dominance over the same set of facts.

Uncertainty settled around her shoulders like a cloak woven from questions that had too many possible answers. The demon heads were real. His explanations addressed every concern she'd raised. The timeline of events could support his version as easily as her suspicions.

But gods who spent ten years infiltrating demon networks didn't stumble over divine rank assessments. Didn't show surprise when neighboring deities advanced in power. Didn't react to accusations with the calculated responses of someone who'd prepared for exactly this conversation.

"I appreciate the explanation," she said finally. "And the evidence."

"But you're not convinced." Disappointment that might have been genuine colored his voice. "I understand. Trust is hard to rebuild once it's been damaged, and demon infiltration leaves everyone questioning everything they thought they knew."

"Trust requires consistency between words and actions. Between stated motives and observed behavior."

"It also requires the benefit of doubt when explanations exist for apparent inconsistencies." He rose from his log, shadows gathering around his feet like loyal hounds responding to their master's preparation for departure. "I hope time will provide the proof my words cannot. That my actions going forward will demonstrate the truth of what I've shared today."

Power flowed from his fingers to wrap the demon heads in darkness that would preserve their remains. "Keep these, if you'd like. Have your scholars examine them, verify their authenticity. Perhaps seeing evidence of successful demon hunting will ease some of your concerns about regional coordination."

The wrapped heads materialized beside her, settling onto the grass with weight that spoke of very real, very dead Asura demons. Physical proof of his claims, tangible evidence that supported his narrative of secret demon hunting and successful infiltration operations.

"One more thing," he said, pausing in his preparation to depart. "If I was truly coordinating with demons to corrupt the Order, why would they target an organization based at Old Drakon Castle? Why would they risk exposing themselves so close to the place where I was supposedly their prisoner for years?"

The question hung in the morning air with deliberate weight. Why indeed would demons operate near the site of their previous activities unless those activities had been something other than what they appeared?

"Unless," she said quietly, "that was exactly where they'd be safest. Hidden in the last place anyone would think to look."

Genuine amusement crossed his features—the first unguarded expression he'd shown during their entire conversation. "You give them too much credit for irony, I think. But then, suspicious minds often find elaborate plots where simpler explanations would suffice."

He stepped backward into shadow that rose around him like smoke given substance. "I hope our next meeting occurs under more... trusting circumstances. The region faces enough real threats without adding imaginary ones to our list of concerns."

Darkness swallowed him completely, leaving only the scent of sulfur and the memory of eyes that had held too much knowledge about how this conversation would unfold.

Alone in the meadow, she picked up the wrapped demon heads. They pulsed against her divine senses with the unmistakable signature of Asura essence—cold, alien, utterly malevolent even in death. Real proof of real demon hunting. Or real proof of something else entirely.

Storm clouds had gathered overhead, promising rain that would wash away traces of divine power from neutral ground. But the questions raised by their conversation would linger long after the last drop fell, growing more complex rather than clearer with each attempt to untangle truth from carefully crafted deception.

Rising from the grass, she began the journey back to her domain, carrying evidence that proved everything and nothing about the god who'd given it to her.

Behind her, the meadow settled back into its natural rhythms, wildflowers straightening in the aftermath of divine attention, birds returning to trees that no longer hummed with the tension of competing narratives.

But the morning air still tasted of sulfur, and shadows lingered in places where shadows had no business being.

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