Saga of Ebonheim [Progression, GameLit, Technofantasy]

Ebonheim drifted through the amphitheater as the auction continued, her mind a storm of conflicting information. Aetheron had provided mechanics—the cold logic of how domains transferred, the System's impartial rules. Ariastra had offered warnings—the dangers of sentiment, the importance of divine distance, the weight of precedent.

Neither had told her what she needed to know. Or perhaps they had, and she simply couldn't accept their answers.

She found herself near one of the amphitheater's quiet alcoves, a space where gods could observe the auction without participating directly.

The crystalline walls here were translucent, offering views of the Sanctum's impossible vistas—floating islands suspended in nebulous expanse, spires that bent light around their surfaces, the vast inscribed mandala far below that recorded every divine story that had ever been.

"Thou seemest troubled, young goddess."

Ebonheim turned to find a serpentine form coiled in the alcove's shadows.

Nephri had appeared beside her with the silent grace of deep-water predators, her serpentine form coiling in elegant loops. The aquatic goddess's scales shimmered with bioluminescent patterns that pulsed in rhythm with some internal current, and her eyes, positioned at odd angles along her elongated head, fixed on Ebonheim like a multitude of jeweled stars.

"I'm fine," Ebonheim said automatically.

"Verily?" Nephri's tongue flickered, tasting Ebonheim's dissembling. "For one who claims fineness, thou dost bear the mien of one beset by direst quandary. Prithee, what burden weighs upon thy divine shoulders?"

The cadence of Nephri's speech had always seemed odd to Ebonheim—an affectation from some ancient human culture the goddess had taken fancy to. But there was something strangely comforting about it now—a formality that created distance, even in conversation.

"I'm considering a difficult decision." Not quite an admission, but not quite a deflection either.

"We speak of Corinth, do we not?" Nephri's head tilted, scales shifting to deeper blue. "Come now, dispense with hypotheticals. Thy questions to Aetheron were overheard, thy discourse with Ariastra observed. In this place of divine gathering, few secrets keep their shape for long."

"You know about Corinth?"

"All know of Corinth, child. Xellos's defeat hath become the gossip of divine courts, his discorporation a matter of much interest among those who measure opportunity in mortal territories." She uncoiled slightly, bringing her massive head closer to Ebonheim's level. "Several gods do calculate whether yon settlement be worth the effort to claim. Eight thousand souls, infrastructure established, location strategic—'tis no small prize."

"Who?" The question came sharp, urgent. "Which gods?"

"Ah, now we reach the heart of the matter, do we not?" Nephri's tongue flickered again. "Thou seekest not to understand divine protocol but to anticipate divine competition. Very well. I have observed at least three expressing interest. Talmaris of the northern reaches speaks most openly of his intentions. Others whisper more quietly, but whisper they do."

Talmaris. The name meant nothing to Ebonheim, but the knowledge that he existed—that multiple gods saw Corinth as opportunity—sent cold certainty through her chest.

"What manner of god is Talmaris?"

"The manner that measures worth in production quotas and sees mortals as resources to be optimized." Nephri's scales shifted to a troubled grey-blue. "He is not cruel by nature, merely... efficient. He would break Xellos's hold and install his own, trading one master for another. The mortals would find their chains merely reforged, not removed."

Worse than Xellos, then. At least Xellos had given his people comfort along with control. This Talmaris sounded like he'd strip even that away in pursuit of efficiency.

"I've watched domains change hands," Nephri continued, her voice taking on the rhythmic quality of someone reciting observed patterns. "The mortals always suffer during transitions, regardless of the new god's intentions. The old faith must be uprooted, the new established. 'Tis a violent process, though it oft wears the guise of gentle reformation."

"Then what should I do?" The question escaped before Ebonheim could stop it, revealing more vulnerability than she'd intended. "If I act, I betray my principles. If I don't, worse things happen. There's no good choice."

Nephri's great eyes blinked slowly, nictitating membranes sliding across alien pupils. "Thou hast recognized that other options are worse than thine own intervention. That is progress in divine thinking, at least. Many gods never reach such wisdom, preferring the comfort of inaction to the burden of choice."

"That's not wisdom. That's just... accepting the least terrible option."

"And what, prithee, dost thou suppose wisdom to be, if not that very thing?" Nephri's head swayed in what might have been amusement. "The great choices of existence are rarely between good and evil, young one. They are between degrees of wrong, shades of compromise, the weight of one harm balanced against another."

She coiled more tightly, preparing to depart. But before she moved, she added, "I note thou hast not yet decided how to intervene. That remaineth the interesting question. Wilt thou claim what thou seekest to protect? Or findest thou some middle path—some protective ambiguity that shields without conquering?"

"I don't know."

"Then discover it swiftly. Time, as Aetheron surely told thee, favoreth the bold." Her scales shifted back to deep azure. "Though I confess myself curious why thou wouldst complicate thine existence for eight thousand strangers. 'Tis beyond my understanding, this attachment to mortals not thine own."

Nephri slithered from the alcove, leaving Ebonheim alone with her thoughts and the distant sounds of the auction continuing in the amphitheater beyond.

She leaned against the crystalline wall, feeling its cool surface against her back. Below, the great mandala sprawled across the Sanctum's floor, countless inscriptions recording the stories of dead gods. Each line a fable ended, a divinity that had once walked the world and now existed only in memory.

How many of them had faced choices like this? How many had chosen principle over pragmatism, or pragmatism over principle? How many had found some third path, or discovered too late that no such path existed?

The mandala offered no answers. Only the weight of accumulated history, divine stories piled upon divine stories until individual choices blurred into meaningless patterns.

She had come seeking wisdom and found only information. Three gods who could tell her the rules, the dangers, the probable outcomes—but none who could tell her what to do. None who shared her values enough to understand why the choice paralyzed her.

Even among friends, she was alone in this.

The auction's closing chime resonated through the Sanctum. Gods began drifting from their seats, some clustering to discuss what they'd won, others moving toward private alcoves for the mingling period that followed each auction. Four days, Aetheron had said, for gods to form alliances and share information before the Sanctum expelled them back to their domains.

Four days of divine politics playing out in whispers and implications.

Ebonheim pushed away from the wall, steeling herself to endure the networking. Perhaps in casual conversations, she'd learn more about Talmaris. Perhaps she'd discover which other gods were calculating their approaches to Corinth. Perhaps—

"—heard it from Valorex, who got it from one of the trading consortium gods. Corinth's wide open, and the mortal who delivered the blow is Ebonheim's avatar."

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The voice drifted from a nearby alcove, not quite whispered but not meant to carry far. Ebonheim froze, divine senses sharpening to catch the conversation.

"Ebonheim?" A second voice, skeptical. "That little goddess who clings to her mortals like a child with a favorite toy? She'd never move against another god's domain."

"Exactly. Which is why Corinth's available. She'll agonize over principles while the rest of us act."

Ebonheim's hands clenched into fists. Her first instinct was to step into the alcove and confront them directly—to announce her presence and demand to know who they were, what they planned.

But she forced herself to remain still, to listen. Engin had taught her that information gathered was more valuable than satisfaction taken.

"Has Talmaris made his move yet?" The first voice again, eager now.

"Not officially. He's waiting to see if anyone else stakes a claim first. Testing the waters." A pause, then lower: "But I heard him talking with Mordaen earlier. Some kind of deal, an alliance of opportunity."

"Mordaen? But his domain's in the far south. What would he want with Corinth?"

"Who knows? Perhaps he's helping Talmaris establish a new domain in exchange for later favors."

"It doesn't make sense. He's the last god I'd expect to be scheming with Talmaris of all people." A pause, contemplative. "Still, I doubt he's interested in Corinth itself. Probably just wants a stake in the action, whatever that action turns out to be. He's always been good at finding ways to profit from chaos."

Ebonheim stepped into the alcove.

Two gods looked up in surprise—one resembling a crystalline humanoid with elongated limbs, eyes of pooled golden light that she remembered from previous auctions. The other was new to her, a being that seemed to shift between states of matter, solid one moment and vapor-like the next, features constantly reforming.

"Ebonheim." The crystalline god recovered first, his tone careful. "We didn't realize you were nearby."

"Clearly." She kept her voice level, refusing to let anger sharpen it into accusation. "You were discussing Corinth."

"Merely idle speculation." The shifting god's voice wavered like heat shimmer. "Divine gossip, nothing more."

"Gossip that includes territorial divisions and alliances of opportunity." She met the crystalline god's eyes—or what passed for eyes in his featureless face. "I'd hardly call that idle."

A pause stretched between them, weighted with the kind of tension that preceded either violence or diplomacy. Ebonheim had no intention of starting a fight here, in the Sanctum itself. But she also refused to be dismissed as the naive child-goddess they clearly thought her.

"Come, now." The shifting god flowed forward, assuming a solid form with an approximation of a smile—a mockery of friendliness. "Surely you understand how these things work. Territories are established, gods move to consolidate their power. It's natural. Expected, even."

"What's your interest in Corinth?" The crystalline god finally asked. "Your avatar defeated Xellos, but you haven't claimed the territory. Most gods would have moved immediately."

"Most gods aren't me." She let that sit for a moment before adding, "And my interest is my own concern. What I want to know is who Talmaris is, and why he thinks the Eldergrove is suddenly open for conquest."

The shifting god laughed, a sound like wind through hollow reeds. "You really don't pay attention to divine politics, do you? Talmaris has been expanding his territory for decades. Three domains claimed in the last twenty years alone, each one acquired through perfectly legal challenges."

"Legal," Ebonheim repeated. "Through what definition?"

"Through the Akashic System's definition." The crystalline god's golden eyes pulsed. "Talmaris challenges rival gods, and wins. The losers discorporate. Then he moves his followers in, and suddenly he's the new patron of a previously contested territory. By the System's reckoning, that's fully legitimate domain acquisition."

"He's powerful then."

"He's strategic." The shifting god's form solidified slightly, taking on more defined features. "Picks his battles carefully. Only challenges domains he knows he can take. And Corinth..." That hollow laugh again. "Corinth is weakened, isolated, and defended by a goddess known for her reluctance to engage in divine conflicts. It's exactly the kind of opportunity he specializes in exploiting."

The assessment stung because it was accurate. She had built her reputation on being peaceful, on maintaining friendly relations, on avoiding the territorial disputes that defined so much of divine existence.

Now that reputation marked her as weak in the eyes of gods like Talmaris.

"The Eldergrove accord still stands," she said firmly. "One violation doesn't invalidate the entire agreement."

"Doesn't it?" The crystalline god tilted his head. "Precedent is precedent. If one part of the accord can be violated, then none of it holds absolute weight. You and Xellos have already demonstrated that, whether you intended to or not. Others will follow. The only question is who moves first and who moves fastest."

"Then I'll be first." The words emerged before she'd fully decided to speak them, but once said, they felt right. "Corinth falls under my protection."

Both gods stared at her.

"You're claiming it?" The shifting god's surprise was evident even through his constantly reforming features.

"I'm protecting it." The distinction mattered, even if they couldn't understand why. "Xellos violated my territory. His domain borders mine. I have every right to ensure stability during his absence."

"That's not how divine sovereignty works—"

"Then perhaps divine sovereignty needs revision." She straightened her shoulders, feeling divine power pulse beneath mortal-seeming skin. "Tell Talmaris that Corinth is under my oversight. Tell Mordaen the same. Tell whoever else is calculating approaches to my valley that they'll find it less undefended than they assume."

She left the alcove before they could respond, before her courage could falter. Her heart hammered in her chest—had she just made a claim? Issued a challenge? Declared something she didn't fully understand?

But the words were spoken now. No taking them back.

She found Aetheron near the central platform, examining one of the unclaimed artifacts with the detached interest of a scholar studying a curiosity. His aura glowed soft blue-grey, the color of idle contemplation.

"Aetheron." She approached without preamble. "I need more information."

He turned, translucent features shifting to face her. "So soon? Your hypothetical situation has become rather urgent, it seems."

"It was never hypothetical." No point pretending now. "I need to know about divine protection versus divine claim. What's the difference in the System's recognition?"

His aura brightened to electric blue—genuine interest. "Ah, now that's a nuanced question."

He dismissed the artifact, giving her his full attention. "A claim establishes full territorial sovereignty. The domain becomes yours, the population your followers, all rights and responsibilities transferred. Protection, however..."

He paused, clearly considering how to explain. "Protection is more ambiguous. You're asserting interest without assuming ownership. Preventing other gods from acting without claiming authority yourself."

"Can I do that?"

"Technically? Yes. The System recognizes protective oversight as valid, particularly in cases of territorial proximity. If Corinth borders your domain, you have grounds to argue defensive interest." His aura shifted to pale purple—concern creeping in. "Practically? It's complicated. You'd need to maintain presence without establishing worship bonds. Prevent other gods from claiming without claiming yourself. It's a precarious balance."

"But possible."

"Possible, yes. Sustainable?" His aura dimmed to doubtful grey. "That depends on how long Xellos remains discorporated and how aggressively other gods push. Talmaris won't back down from verbal warnings. He'll test your resolve, probably through proxies initially. If you don't follow through with force..."

"Then I'm bluffing." She understood. "And bluffs only work once."

"Exactly." Aetheron's gaze intensified, golden light seeming to peer through her. "Ebonheim, if you're seriously considering this, you need to understand what you're stepping into. Divine territorial disputes can escalate quickly. Other gods will see protective oversight as weakness—a compromise position that reveals your unwillingness to commit fully. They'll push until you either claim properly or withdraw."

"Or until Xellos returns and the question becomes moot."

"Or that." His aura flickered with uncertainty. "Though what happens when he returns is its own complication. If you've established a protective presence, he can challenge that presence. You'd be forced to either fight him for the domain or concede—and conceding after making such public declarations would damage your reputation severely."

Every answer spawned new problems. Every solution created new complications. Ebonheim felt the weight of divine politics pressing down like water at depth, crushing and inescapable.

"Why is it like this?" The question escaped as frustration. "Why must everything be conquest or surrender? Why can't gods just... cooperate?"

Aetheron's laugh was surprisingly gentle. "Because we're gods, Ebonheim. Power is our nature. Territory our purpose. The Akashic System itself is built on these principles—domains defined by faith, strength measured in devoted followers, advancement achieved through expanded influence." His aura softened to sympathetic blue. "You're trying to navigate divine existence while rejecting its fundamental logic. That's admirable, but it's also why you struggle."

"Then maybe divine logic needs to change."

"Perhaps." His tone suggested he thought it unlikely. "But until it does, you're bound by the rules that exist, not the rules you wish existed."

She wanted to argue, to insist that principles mattered more than practicality. But standing here, surrounded by gods who measured worth in quintessence and territory, she recognized how isolated her idealism truly was.

"Thank you," she said finally. "For being honest."

"I'm always honest. It's considerably easier than remembering elaborate fictions." His aura brightened slightly. "Good luck, Ebonheim. Whatever you decide, I hope you'll share the results at next year's auction. I find your approach to divinity... refreshingly unconventional."