Saga of Ebonheim [Progression, GameLit, Technofantasy]

The Sanctum of the Divine Mandala shimmered into existence around her as Ebonheim stepped through the ethereal pathway. The space reconfigured itself with each visit, responding to the needs of divine commerce and conversation.

Today, it had taken the form of a vast marketplace suspended in cosmic void—floating platforms connected by bridges of solidified light, each one hosting displays of artifacts, abilities, and territorial information.

She'd been here before, but familiarity didn't diminish the spectacle. Above and below stretched infinite darkness punctuated by distant stars, while around her, gods of various ranks and forms drifted between stalls like exotic birds in an otherworldly garden.

The quarterly Divine Auction was already in progress. A central platform hosted the main event—she could see the ethereal bands of light displaying current bids, feel the pulse of divine will as gods competed for coveted abilities.

But she hadn't come to bid today. She'd come to listen.

"Well met, Ebonheim."

The melodious voice drew her attention to a familiar translucent form. Aetheron drifted toward her, his silken robes of turquoise and aquamarine rippling as if caught in an invisible breeze. His aura glowed a pleasant sky-blue, the color of casual greeting and mild curiosity.

"Aetheron." She offered a respectful bow, matching the formal etiquette he preferred. "It's good to see you again."

"And you." His featureless face somehow conveyed warmth despite lacking definable features, a trick of divine perception she'd never quite understood. "Though I confess surprise at seeing you here so soon after the last auction. Your attendance has been... sporadic of late." His aura shifted to a pale yellow, indicating gentle inquiry. "Has something changed in your domain that requires immediate acquisition?"

"No, nothing like that." She forced her expression to remain neutral, pleasant. It wasn't time to reveal her reason for attending just yet. "I just thought it'd be good to reconnect. Catch up with the divine community."

"Mmm. Yes." Aetheron's tone held amusement. His aura glimmered at the edge of cyan, not quite masking the shades of amber that betrayed his skepticism. He knew her well enough to read between her words. "Indeed, we have much to discuss. Walk with me, and tell me of your new ventures." And then, more pointedly, "We haven't spoken properly since the last auction."

She fell into step beside him, the two of them floating through the bustling crowd. Around them, other gods haggled over items and artifacts. Deals were struck with nods and intent-laden handshakes, transactions flashing instantly within the Akasha, where divine contracts bound gods to their promises.

The air buzzed with an energy beyond language, wills of ancient beings crossing and tangling in subtle power plays.

"So," said Aetheron after a few moments of walking in amicable silence, "do tell me about this latest... enterprise."

Ebonheim glanced sideways at him. "What have you heard?"

"Hints. Rumors. Nothing concrete." His aura rippled in a silken whisper of azure. Intrigue, with a touch of anticipation. "I hoped you'd be willing to share the details, off the record. To ease my... curiosity."

"Off the record?"

Aetheron tilted his head, his smile coming through in his voice. "Well, I wouldn't want to compromise our friendship. Or my neutrality, of course. Still, information is currency, and sometimes that currency is better traded under the veil of anonymity."

"I see." Ebonheim considered her words, keeping her tone light. She valued their cordiality, but divulging everything would be unwise.

They settled into a small alcove where the ambient noise dampened to a tolerable hum. Aetheron conjured seats from ambient light, his casual use of divine power as effortless as breathing.

"I've been wondering," Ebonheim began, choosing her words carefully, "about the mechanics of divine domains. How the System recognizes and maintains them." She paused, then added with what she hoped was casual curiosity, "What happens when a domain loses its patron? Hypothetically speaking."

Aetheron's aura flickered—pale blue deepening to something more contemplative, almost grey.

"Hypothetically." He drew the word out as if tasting it. "An unusual inquiry for one whose domain remains quite secure, but I appreciate theoretical exploration."

He conjured an image above his palm—the familiar diagram of the Celestial Hierarchy she'd seen during their first meeting, though now additional details branched from it like the roots of a vast tree. "The System recognizes domains through faith-bonds. These bonds are quantifiable, measurable through the Akashic interface. When a deity maintains presence within their domain and receives sufficient acknowledgment from their population, the bond remains stable."

His slender fingers traced patterns through the diagram, highlighting specific nodes. "However, when that presence is disrupted—through discorporation, extended absence, or voluntary withdrawal—the System begins a recognition period. Think of it as... verification that the domain is, in fact, unattended."

"How long is this period?" Ebonheim leaned forward, studying the diagram's complexity.

"Variable." Aetheron's aura shifted toward purple—the color of complications. "For a Lesser God, typically thirty days from the moment of discorporation. For Intermediate or Greater Gods, longer, as their divine essence takes more time to reconstitute. The System is thorough but not instantaneous."

"And during this period, can other deities... claim the domain?"

"Not immediately." His aura brightened back to blue—he was enjoying the explanation. "The System requires demonstration of sufficient faith from the population. Any god can attempt to establish bonds during the recognition period, but they must secure acknowledgment from at least twenty percent of the domain's population to contest the original claim."

Twenty percent. One thousand six hundred people out of Corinth's eight thousand.

"What about..." She hesitated, then pressed forward. "What about populations whose faith might be... compromised? Influenced artificially?"

Aetheron's aura dimmed significantly, grey deepening to something almost charcoal. "You ask pointed questions for hypotheticals, Ebonheim. But I'll answer. The System recognizes faith, not the authenticity of its origin. Compelled worship, artificially maintained devotion, even fear masquerading as reverence—all satisfy the System's requirements for domain claims.

"However, the acquisition of Quintessence still requires authentic worship. Compelled faith is... thinner. Weaker. Gods who build on such a foundation often find them lacking in true sustenance."

"What if the compulsion were removed and the people had a real choice?"

"The result would depend on their response." Aetheron's tone held an edge of unease, his colors subdued. "If the majority rejected their former patron, another deity could claim the domain with legitimacy. But if the majority clung to their manipulated allegiance, or at least remained ambivalent..."

The words settled in her stomach like stones. "That seems... problematic."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"The System is not concerned with morality. Only with maintaining divine hierarchy and ensuring domains have appropriate oversight." His voice carried no judgment, only observation. "Hypothetically speaking, if a god used artifacts to maintain artificial faith-bonds, those bonds would remain valid unless the artifacts themselves were destroyed and the population given sufficient time to form genuine alternative bonds."

"How much time?"

"Again, variable. Mortals whose faith has been shaped over years don't simply awaken free the moment compulsion ends. Neural patterns, habitual thought, social conditioning—all resist immediate change." His aura flickered with complex colors. "The System would likely require several months of uninfluenced population behavior before recognizing a transfer as legitimate."

Ebonheim mulled that over in silence.

Several months. Time Corinth wouldn't have if other gods moved quickly.

"But here's the fascinating complication," Aetheron continued, as if musing aloud. "During the recognition period, multiple gods can attempt to establish bonds simultaneously. The System tracks these attempts and, at the period's conclusion, awards the domain to whoever has secured the strongest faith-bonds. It becomes, essentially, a competition."

"A contest," Ebonheim echoed, her voice sounding hollow to her ears. "With the people as both prize and judges."

"A crude but accurate metaphor." His colors swirled, a mosaic of blue and green contemplation. "The mortals themselves factor only as... let's call them metrics of success. Whoever can convince or compel the most people to acknowledge them wins the System's recognition."

She wanted to argue that people weren't metrics, weren't prizes to be won through divine competition. But Aetheron wasn't being cruel—just honest about how the divine hierarchy functioned.

This was the world she'd been born into, the rules that governed existence for gods who measured worth in quintessence and domains.

"Hypothetically," Aetheron said, his aura shifting to warm orange, "if you were considering intervention in such a situation, time would be the critical factor. The sooner a claim is established, the more difficult it becomes for competitors to contest. Swift action carries significant advantage in divine politics."

Swift action. Decisive conquest. Everything she'd spent the last day trying to avoid.

"Thank you," she managed. "This has been... illuminating."

"Of course." His aura shifted again, taking on an iridescent shimmer. "I do enjoy theoretical discussions. Too few gods appreciate the elegance of System mechanics." He stood, his form rippling like water. "The auction begins shortly. Will you be bidding on anything?"

"No, just observing."

"Wise. One learns more through observation than through hasty acquisition." His aura flickered farewell—a brief flash of pale blue—before he drifted toward the amphitheater's seating.

Ebonheim remained in the alcove a moment longer, processing what she'd learned.

The System didn't care about freedom or consent or the sanctity of choice. It cared about divine hierarchy, about maintaining order through measurable faith-bonds. Even if she removed Xellos's influence, the people of Corinth might remain bound to him through habit, through years of conditioned reverence.

And gods could lay claim to those people, manipulate their worship to satisfy the System's metric-based criteria for a legitimate domain claim.

If Ebonheim intervened, she'd be playing the same game. Competing for acknowledgment, for faith, with the mortals themselves reduced to pawns and prizes.

But if she didn't intervene, Corinth would become fair game for all manner of opportunistic gods. The lesser of two wrongs still held more rightness than the greater.

So she had to decide.

The auction proceeded with familiar pageantry. Divine abilities flickered on ethereal screens, their descriptions written in light that only gods could read. Artifacts rotated on pedestals of solid starlight. Bids rose and fell like tides, Quintessence flowing back and forth through the invisible conduits of the Akashic System, until each item settled in the possession of its most ardent seeker.

Ebonheim watched it all with detached interest, her mind still turning over Aetheron's explanation. Around her, gods competed for power with the casual ruthlessness of those who'd never questioned whether might made right.

During a lull between major bids, she spotted another familiar form—strings of azure light intertwined with elegant wooden curves, eyes like musical clefs, a body that hummed with barely audible harmonies.

Ariastra.

The goddess of Byllais sat several rows ahead, her posture perfect, her attention focused on the auction displays. She'd already acquired something, a crystalline flute that now orbited her form like a tiny moon, its surface refracting light into rainbow cascades.

Ebonheim made her way through the crowd, timing her approach during the bidding for an ability that generated neither interest nor excitement. Gods murmured to one another, some already standing to browse the artifact displays, others settling deeper into meditation.

"Ariastra."

The goddess turned, her strings vibrating with recognition. Not quite a smile—Ariastra's face lacked the features for such expressions—but something that conveyed acknowledgment.

"Ebonheim. Unexpected to see you here." Her melodious voice carried undertones of mild curiosity. "The auction holds few items suited to small domains."

The subtle reminder of scale wasn't malicious, just factual.

Ariastra's Byllais held hundreds of thousands, a grand city of culture and music. Ebonheim's domain remained, by divine standards, modest.

"I came for information more than acquisition," Ebonheim admitted, settling into the seat beside Ariastra. "I had questions about... domain management. Situations that might arise."

Ariastra's strings shifted to a lower register, producing notes that felt like caution. "Questions best asked directly rather than hypothetically, young one. I've lived long enough to recognize when gods dance around their true concerns."

Ebonheim hesitated, then opted for partial honesty. "There's a settlement near my domain. Its patron god has been... indisposed. Temporarily. I'm trying to understand what happens in such situations."

"Ah." The single syllable carried volumes. Ariastra's strings vibrated with what might have been disapproval. "You're considering intervention."

"I'm considering options."

"Options." Ariastra repeated the word as if examining it for flaws. "Let me offer you wisdom earned through centuries of divine rule. Gods who act from sentiment make poor decisions. Those who claim to 'liberate' often simply conquer with prettier words."

The rebuke stung precisely because it echoed Ebonheim's own fears. "But if people are suffering—"

"Suffering is subjective." Ariastra's strings produced a discordant note. "I've watched domains change hands throughout my existence. Sometimes the transitions improve mortal conditions. More often, they simply exchange one form of control for another." Her clef-shaped eyes fixed on Ebonheim with unsettling intensity. "What you consider suffering, others might consider order. What you call freedom, they might experience as chaos."

"So I should do nothing? Let an indisposed god resume control when they return?"

"I'm saying you should consider why you want to act." Ariastra's voice remained even, but her strings vibrated with warning tones. "Is it genuine concern for mortals you've never met? Or is it something else—guilt, perhaps, over your own comfortable existence while others suffer? The desire to prove yourself as capable as gods who rule larger domains?"

Each question stung like a well-aimed arrow, piercing layers of uncertainty.

Ebonheim wanted to deny them, but doubt crept through her certainty like frost through stone.

"You maintain too much closeness with your mortals," Ariastra continued, her tone shifting to something that might have been concern beneath the criticism. "I warned you of this years ago. It clouds judgment. The situation you describe requires clarity you may not possess."

"My closeness with my people is my strength—"

"Or your weakness." Ariastra's strings produced a sharp, cutting tone. "Distance allows perspective. When you love mortals individually, every decision becomes paralyzingly personal. When you see them as your responsibility rather than your friends, you can make choices that serve the greater good without drowning in sentiment."

The philosophy was so alien to everything Ebonheim believed that for a moment she couldn't form a response. Ariastra spoke of people as if they were instruments in an orchestra—valuable, requiring care, but ultimately tools to create the music she desired.

"What would you do?" Ebonheim finally asked. "In this hypothetical situation?"

Ariastra's strings fell silent for a long moment, producing no sound at all.

Then, quietly: "I would consider whether my intervention serves divine order or simply my own conscience. I would question whether I possess the wisdom to decide what's best for thousands of mortals. And I would remember that other gods are watching—they always are."

She turned back to face the auction display, signaling the conversation's end. "Whatever you decide regarding this... situation... understand that the divine hierarchy has little patience for those who disrupt established domains. Even if your intentions are pure, your actions will be judged by their consequences, not their motivations."

Ebonheim sat in silence as the auction continued, Ariastra's words settling over her like a heavy cloak.

The goddess wasn't wrong—not entirely. Divine politics were ruthless, and good intentions offered no protection against accusations of overreach or conquest.

But neither could she simply abandon Corinth to its fate because acting might be messy or complicated or politically dangerous.