5th of Sunwell, 1384

  Ten years.

  The gargoyle perched crookedly atop the new Artificer's Guildhall hadn't been there ten years ago; its chipped grin seemed to mock the very moss thickening on the older Hrafnsteinn longhouse timbers below.

  Yet down in the valley, ten years had been long enough for moss, thick as green velvet, to cushion the raw edges of new-cut timber, blurring the lines between the settlers' sharp ambition and the forest's slow reclaim. Saplings planted in trembling hope now cast their own distinct, wavering shadows, adding layers to the shifting patterns on the ground.

  The very air of Ebonheim had thickened, grown complex, no longer just the clean scent of pine resin and potential.

  Now, it was a stew of smells: the sharp, metallic tang of an after-storm air leaking from Artificer conduits, mingling strangely with the rich, almost cloying spice-smoke drifting from Aslankoyash cooking pits near the riverbank, undercut by the rhythmic, metallic clang and coal-dust bite of the Hrafnsteinn forges.

  Ebonheim, the city, had grown not by plan but by accretion, like a determined vine overwhelming a trellis.

  It sprawled outwards from its original heartwood—the sturdy Feast Hall—its tendrils a bewildering tangle of cobbled streets slick with morning dew, solid Hrafnsteinn longhouses with their carved dragon-prows seeming to sniff the air, improbable Magitech pylons humming with a contained, almost resentful power, and deep stone foundations dug by miners whose hands, even now, might clench involuntarily, remembering the oppressive weight of a different mountain, under the tyranny of a different, greedier god.

  The populace itself had swelled astonishingly, transforming the valley's quiet heart.

  What began as a refuge for a humble seven hundred souls, desperate and disparate, had first surged with Roderick's great caravan bringing nearly five thousand more—the Artificers, the Silverguards, the Hrafnsteinn exiles, the Gorgandale miners.

  But that influx, dramatic as it was, had merely opened the floodgates. The completion of the Verdant Pathways, east and west, acted like arteries suddenly connected to the wider world.

  Over the decade, a steady, unceasing trickle, sometimes swelling to a stream, of newcomers arrived, drawn by whispers carried on merchant winds and travelers' tales. Rumors of the Eldergrove valley having a safe passage, a settlement governed by a benevolent, present goddess, and rich with untapped resources—timber, ore, and perhaps most precious, freedom—proved an irresistible lure.

  Families arrived dusty and travel-worn from the crowded, god-ruled cities of the eastern passes near Kerkenberge, seeking land and autonomy. Merchants with calculating eyes steered wagons heavy with goods, establishing tentative trade from Dulgaan and the western settlements, some deciding the opportunity here outweighed the risks back home.

  Solitary figures, refugees from failed harvests, petty tyrants, or lands where gods demanded more than simple faith—blood tithes, impossible labors, unquestioning sacrifice—sought sanctuary within Ebonheim's growing embrace.

  From seven hundred to six thousand, and now, a bustling, sometimes overwhelming, thirty thousand souls called this valley home, swelling the city's numbers, adding their own scents, sounds, hopes, and inevitable frictions to the burgeoning mix.

  From her shrine, perched now with a certain earned authority overlooking a plaza that pulsed with a life far more intricate than the village's early routines, Ebonheim watched the morning bleed color into the sky. The shrine itself bore the marks of time and event.

  Rebuilt it was, after the... incident... a messy affair involving Kelzryn's misplaced gratitude and a rather spectacular structural failure. Larger now, yes, crafted from the pale, strangely resilient wood gifted by Elmsworth, its surface alive with carvings.

  These weren't just the valley's flora anymore; the faces of her people were etched there—Hrafnsteinn braids beside Aslankoyash manes, the sharp focus of an Artificer next to the weathered patience of a farmer—a living testament scored into the wood.

  Flowers, tended now by Lira and a gaggle of young apprentices whose fingers were still learning the language of root and bloom, rioted around its base in vibrant, almost defiant profusion, splashes of impossible color against the aged wood.

  Ebonheim herself wore the subtle patina of those ten years, though no lines marked the smooth olive curve of her eternally youthful face. Her divinity, the essence of her being, had settled, deepened, like river water finding its course.

  The Intermediate God - Dawn Stage felt less like a title flashed by the cryptic, often capricious Akashic System and more like a well-worn mantle she had finally grown into. Its weight was familiar now, a constant pressure across her shoulders, its responsibilities understood with a clarity that sometimes resonated like a dull ache behind her eyes, a bruise on the soul.

  The wide-eyed wonder of her first chaotic manifestation, the panicked uncertainty that had dogged her steps in those early days—those were memories viewed through the softening haze of time, sepia-toned tales told of someone else, a girl made of light and fear she barely recognized anymore.

  Her movements possessed a quiet economy now, a grace learned not through practice but through presence—through countless mediations that felt like sinking into the earth, blessings whispered over harvests and newborns, and the simple, constant, necessary act of being Ebonheim for her people.

  She no longer startled at the clang of the forge or the sudden roar from the training grounds. The urge to prove her godhood with flashy displays, with overt miracles, had faded.

  The power still thrummed beneath her skin, of course, a deep, resonant reservoir fed by the steady, complex currents of faith from nearly thirty thousand souls—a number that still felt abstract, vast, difficult to comprehend, a universe away from the few hundred hopefuls who had first whispered her name into existence in a fire-lit hall.

  A minor commotion, sharp and jagged against the morning's hum, snagged her attention.

  Near the fountain—a recent marvel, intricately carved by Gorgandale stonemasons who had somehow blended motifs of deep mountain roots with the proud visages of roaring lions—a Hrafnsteinn fisherman, Finnian, built like a barrel, his face flushed a furious red, gestured with a thick, scarred fist at a younger Aslankoyash warrior.

  The warrior, Reo—she recognized him instantly, though the ten years had stripped away his youthful uncertainty, leaving behind a lean, watchful competence, even if his temper remained as quick as ever—stood taut, his tail lashing the air like a whip, betraying the irritation he held tightly in check.

  "…the nets were set there before the sun even thought of touching the peaks!" Finnian bellowed, his voice, roughened by salt air and strong mead, echoing slightly off the stone buildings. "Your damned spearfishing, crashing through like a panicked elk, spooked the entire morning run of silverfin!"

  Reo hissed softly, a low rumble in his chest, his hand hovering instinctively near the worn leather hilt of the knife at his belt. "The river belongs to all who draw breath beside it, fisherman," he countered, his voice tight, clipped. "Your nets do not lay claim to the water itself, nor the creatures within. The fish swim where the current guides them."

  Ebonheim sighed, a sound softer than the rustle of leaves.

  Ten years.

  The faces changed, the specific grievances shifted like river stones, but the underlying currents remained the same. Pride. Territory. The subtle, constant friction of different ways rubbing raw against each other in the close confines of the valley.

  She rose, her silver-threaded robe making no sound against the polished ebonwood of her throne, and glided down the shrine steps, her bare feet cool on the dew-kissed stone. Her presence, as always, caused an immediate shift, a subtle realignment of the plaza's energy. Heads turned, conversations paused mid-word, a ripple of quiet reverence spreading outwards like rings on water.

  She approached the pair, her expression a careful mask of calm neutrality. "Reo. Master Finnian," her voice was soft, yet it cut through the lingering tension. "A disagreement troubles the morning?"

  The fisherman flushed a deeper shade of crimson, his gaze dropping to her feet, then flicking back up, unable to quite meet her eyes. "Goddess. This… this young cat…" He gestured vaguely, frustration warring with respect.

  Reo bristled visibly at the term, his ears flattening against his skull for a heartbeat, but he held his tongue, silenced by the quiet weight of Ebonheim's gaze.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "My nets were placed fairly," Finnian insisted, though his voice had lost its earlier bellow, roughened now with defensiveness. "Good spot, always has been, for the morning run of silverfin. Deep channel there. He comes splashing through, spears flashing like startled lightning, scares them all downstream towards Corinth, likely!"

  "The fish were moving," Reo countered, his voice tight as a bowstring. "A strong current this morning. I followed. I hunt where the prey leads, not where nets lie waiting."

  Ebonheim considered them both, seeing not just the fisherman and the hunter, but the Hrafnsteinn stubbornness and the Aslankoyash pride. Ten years ago, she might have offered a simple platitude, a gentle command for cooperation, hoping goodwill would suffice.

  Now, she saw the subtle shift in Finnian's weight, the way his hand tightened on the net rope not just in anger, but possessiveness. She saw Reo's tail lash not just with irritation, but with the ingrained territorial instinct of the Aslankoyash hunter.

  Two truths, rubbing raw.

  "The river provides for all, it is true," she began, her voice weaving a thread of calm through the lingering anger. "And the skill of both net and spear are respected arts, vital to Ebonheim's table."

  She looked directly at Finnian, her golden eyes holding his gaze gently. "Perhaps, Master Finnian, the placement, while fair by tradition, was ambitious for a waterway now shared by so many? The morning currents are strong, as Reo notes; fish move quickly, and paths cross easily."

  She then turned her gaze to Reo, her expression softening slightly but losing none of its authority. "And Reo, while the hunt must indeed follow the prey, courtesy dictates awareness of others sharing the bounty. A quiet approach, a moment's observation of the water ahead, might yield better results, for all involved."

  She didn't offer a solution, didn't dictate terms. She offered perspective, reframed the conflict not as right versus wrong, but as overlapping needs requiring adjustment. It was a tactic learned through years of mediating squabbles far more complex, far more deeply rooted, than misplaced fishing nets.

  Finnian grumbled, rubbing his thick neck, but the fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a grudging understanding. He nodded reluctantly. Reo, after a moment's stiff silence, gave a curt dip of his head, the tension easing from his shoulders, his tail relaxing its agitated lashing.

  "Thank you, Goddess," Finnian mumbled, his gaze still fixed somewhere near her feet.

  "Go well," Ebonheim replied, offering a small, impartial smile before turning away, leaving them to sort out the specifics of sharing the riverbank. She trusted they would. Mostly. The friction wouldn't vanish overnight, but perhaps the sharpest edges had been smoothed, for now.

  As she moved through the plaza, a slow, deliberate circuit, she consciously noted the changes, the physical manifestations of the past decade.

  Farrador Keep, the Silverguard headquarters, loomed near the western gate now. It stood solid, imposing, a symbol of the structured defense Lorne Miradan and his company provided—a necessary shield against a world that rarely stayed peaceful for long.

  Near the northern edge, the distinct, almost alien architecture of the Ethervein Enclave's Conduit Chamber hummed with a contained, potent arcane energy, its smooth surfaces and glowing lines a stark, almost jarring contrast to the organic curves and whispered secrets of the Jixishan druids' grove nestled deeper in the woods beyond the river.

  And everywhere, the undeniable signs of growth—new homes built tight against old foundations, their timbers still pale against weathered stone; workshops expanding outwards, spilling tools and apprentices onto the paths; the sheer, unavoidable press of people living, working, arguing, loving, and dreaming together in this valley.

  Her gaze drifted eastward, towards the pass where the Verdant Pathway, the road she herself had carved through forest and mist, began its winding journey towards Kerkenberge.

  Trade flowed steadily now, a vital artery pumping lifeblood into Ebonheim, bringing exotic goods—spices that stung the nose, silks that shimmered with unseen light, metals mined from distant peaks—and new faces, new stories.

  But it also brought whispers, rumors carried on the wind from the neighboring settlement.

  Corinth. Xellos's domain.

  Fifteen thousand souls now, nestled on the shores of the lake where she and her companions had once camped during that fateful, danger-filled expedition. Built with an astonishing, almost unnatural speed.

  Reports from Roderick, whose network of informants rivaled the spiders in their ubiquity, and from Silverguard patrols venturing near its borders, painted a picture of perfect order and quiet prosperity.

  Too much order, perhaps.

  Travelers spoke of streets unnervingly clean, swept free of even fallen leaves; citizens unnervingly content, their faces placid, their devotion to Xellos fervent, almost zealous, lacking the easy warmth Ebonheim saw in her own people. There were no public squabbles like the one she'd just mediated, no messy, vibrant blend of cultures finding their way through friction and compromise.

  Her own divine senses, when turned eastward, brushed against something... smooth. Too smooth. Like polished glass where there should be the rough texture of life. She recalled a trader returning from Corinth, his eyes holding a placid emptiness that hadn't been there before he left.

  Efficient, yes. Unified, certainly.

  But the air from that direction carried a faint, discordant hum, like a perfectly tuned instrument played slightly, deliberately, off-key.

  A wrong note held indefinitely.

  She hadn't seen Xellos in person since the last Divine Auction, nearly eight months ago. He had been polite, charming even, his dark eyes holding an unreadable depth.

  He'd gifted her another small, exquisitely crafted trinket—a bracelet this time, cool against her skin, its properties stubbornly unanalyzable even by the Akashic System. He had inquired, subtly but persistently, about Ebonheim's resources, particularly the newly discovered Vespera mines and the progress of Th'maine's arcane research.

  She'd deflected, citing the need for caution, for council approval, but his probing questions, wrapped in silken courtesy, left a residue of unease, a faint chill that lingered long after he'd departed the Sanctum.

  Kelzryn, her stoic dragon Exarch, shared her distrust, his ancient senses picking up on dissonances, on wrongness, that Ebonheim herself couldn't quite define but felt deep in her core.

  "Ebonheim!" A familiar, booming voice, welcome as the warmth of the hearth fire, pulled her from her troubled thoughts.

  Thorsten Gustafsson strode towards her, his presence as solid and reassuring as the mountains themselves. His braided beard, once fiery red, was now liberally streaked with distinguished grey, like frost on autumn leaves, though the fierce light in his blue eyes remained undimmed by the passage of years.

  Beside him, matching his long, ground-eating strides, was Serrandyl. Her crimson mane, usually a wild storm around her face, was tied back in a practical warrior's knot, revealing the determined line of her jaw. The Gauntlets of the Storm Giant, won years ago, gleamed dully on her forearms, humming faintly with latent power.

  Ten years had softened some of Serrandyl's impulsive edges, the fires of youthful recklessness banked into a focused intensity, but the playful spark was still there, quick to ignite, especially when directed at her mate.

  "Morning," Thorsten rumbled, the sound deep in his chest. He offered a respectful nod, but the gesture held the comfortable ease of long familiarity, the deference tempered by years of shared battles and quiet understanding. "Just heading down to the training grounds. Thought we saw you looking troubled. Something weighing on that divine mind?"

  Serrandyl grinned, her sharp canines flashing, and nudged Thorsten with a leather-clad elbow. "Troubled? Nah, she's just plotting how to finally win the log-tossing contest at the next festival. You're going down this year, old man. I've been practicing."

  Thorsten scoffed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "In your dreams. The day I lose to you at anything involving arms or axes is the day I give up mead and take up embroidery."

  Ebonheim smiled, the easy banter between the pair a welcome balm against the morning's earlier tensions and her own lingering anxieties. "Just contemplating the complexities of city life," she admitted, her smile turning wry. "And thinking about Corinth."

  Thorsten's smile faded slightly, his expression turning serious. "Aye. Heard the latest reports from Roderick's scouts? Strange movements along the trade route near their border. Corinthian guards turning back Ebonheim merchants without clear reason, citing 'instability'."

  Serrandyl's playful demeanor vanished entirely, replaced by the watchful alertness of a predator scenting danger.

  "They claimed 'unspecified dangers' on the road," she added, her voice low and tight, her hand unconsciously drifting towards the hilt of the knife she still carried. "But our patrols found nothing but clear trails and nervous travelers heading away from Corinth. Sounds like Xellos is tightening his grip, making his own borders."

  Ebonheim nodded slowly, a familiar knot tightening in her stomach. "It seems that way. Roderick is preparing a formal query to their council, requesting clarification, but..."

  "But Xellos will likely charm his way out of it, wrap it all in pretty words about 'mutual security' and 'shared vigilance'," Thorsten finished grimly, spitting the words out as if they tasted foul. "He's slippery as an eel dipped in grease."

  "We need to be cautious," Ebonheim said, her gaze drifting east again, towards the unseen border with Xellos's domain. "Corinth grows strong, quickly, unnaturally so. And Xellos... his ambition is a deep water, difficult to gauge its depth or its currents." She met their eyes, her own golden gaze steady. "Keep the militia drills regular, Thorsten. Ensure the Silverguards are aware of these tensions, Lorne already knows, but spread the word."

  "Already done," Thorsten confirmed, his hand resting on the pommel of his axe. "Bjorn has the Hrafnsteinn lads sharpening more than just their axes. There's a tension in the air they feel too."

  "And the Aslankoyash are always ready," Serrandyl added, tapping her gauntleted fist against her chest, the metal ringing softly. "We remember what it means to be displaced by a god's whim. Just give the word."

  Ebonheim offered a grateful smile, the warmth reaching her eyes this time. "Thank you, both of you. Hopefully, it won't come to that. Diplomacy first, always." She paused, the smile softening. "Enjoy your sparring. Try not to break anything... or each other."

  They nodded, a shared understanding passing between the three of them, and continued on their way, their powerful strides carrying them towards the clang and shouts of the training grounds.

  Ebonheim watched them go, their solid shapes receding into the bustle of the plaza. For a moment, the swirling currents of her thoughts seemed to eddy around them, finding a brief, welcome stillness in their wake, before turning back to face the growing city around her.

  The sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the morning mist, revealing her city in all its vibrant, chaotic, complex, and uncertain glory.

  Ten years had passed, layering memories and growth like rings on a tree, but the saga, she felt with a certainty that chilled her despite the sunlight, was only just beginning its next, perhaps darker, chapter.

  The patina of years covered much, but beneath the surface, new tensions were beginning to show, like hairline cracks snaking through ancient, venerable stone.