Imperis rises from the Royal Sea like a silver-studded crown, its pale stone battlements gleaming beneath the sun's muted rays. A single, mighty bridge of carved granite snakes across the restless waters, binding the island citadel to the northern realms of Brethol and Morenth.
Encircling the city are three concentric walls, each enclosing a distinct stratum of Imperian life:
The First Circle is a riot of color and cacophony. Straw-thatch roofs and timbered stalls crowd its narrow streets, where farmers and artisans trade their wares beneath fluttering pennants. Here, slaves in iron manacles are paraded before buyers, their chains echoing with each weary step. Knights of the lowest "Dā grade," their armor battered and worn, patrol alongside common merchants whose shouts mingle with the clang of hammer and rule of the tanner's knife.
The Second Circle unfolds in measured elegance. Wide avenues of pale cobblestone are flanked by alabaster façades and graceful colonnades. Here dwell the great merchant-princes, their mahogany carriages drawn by coal-black steeds. Highborn knights, their cuirasses etched with ancestral crests, ride under banners of silk and gold. Within lofty halls of cedar and marble, the currents of power flow in hushed counsel and glittering feasts.
The Third Circle is the sacred heart of Imperis, reserved for royalty and the realm's highest offices. At its center stands the Palace of House Falsar, its ivory towers carved with gilded dragons that coil skyward. Around it cluster the consulates of dukes and allied monarchs, their standards snapping in the evening breeze. Here convene:
The Royal Council, in chambers hung with tapestries of past triumphs, where the kingdom's fate is sealed;The High Court, its marble benches presided over by robed magistrates who mete out justice;The Arena of the Silver Lion, a vast amphitheater of polished stone where champions clash and steeds thunder in grand tournaments;The Gilded Lyre Theatre, its gilded balconies and painted proscenium celebrating the arts in homage to the crown.
Within these sanctified walls, the loftiest nobles, esteemed artists, and intimate friends of the throne dwell in lavish mansions, their windows aglow with candlelight and laughter.
Across the narrow strait, the isle of Aria stands sentinel—a venerable academy of sword and sorcery as ancient as Imperis itself. Its ivy-clad towers and silent courtyards hold the whispered lessons of arcane lore and the fierce discipline of knightly training, shaping the heroes and magi who may one day walk Imperis's noble streets.
Thus, Imperis and Aria form twin jewels at the heart of the continent, where power, culture, and magic intertwine beneath the watchful gaze of their storied walls.
Within the western sprawl of the First Ring, deep in the lawless veins of the Black District, where the stench of fish and cheap whiskey clung to the cobblestones like a curse, there slouched a tavern by the name of The Drunken Boot.
It was a place of poor decisions, poorer hygiene, and the kind of laughter that usually ended with a knife between someone's ribs.
Inside, a battered card table creaked under the weight of four individuals who could generously be called "friends."
The first, a scrawny man with a nose like a bent hook and a voice two octaves too high, slapped his cards down and cackled,
"Why do elves never play cards? 'Cause every time they shuffle, they get lost tryin' to find the forest!"
The second, a barrel-chested brute whose forehead had clearly lost several battles with low doorways, snorted so hard he nearly inhaled his pint.
He retorted with a gap-toothed grin,
"Better lost in the woods than born so dumb ya think 'checkmate' is a fancy drink!"
Laughter, rough and unkind, rolled around the table.
At the head of the gathering lounged the third, a man who looked like he'd been carved from old mischief and older debts —
Cade "the dog" Marrow, a notorious smuggler whose smile could charm the gold off a banker and whose dagger could lift it if charm failed.
He leaned back, balancing his chair dangerously on two legs, and tapped the table with a lazy finger.
"Enough jokes, you drunken sheep. We've got a real job this time, boys — and girl," he added, flashing a grin at the fourth member of the group.
Vex, the fourth, lounged against the table's edge with feline grace, idly twirling a dagger between fingers far too delicate for such a vicious tool.
She was beautiful in a way that made sensible men forget their wedding vows — sleek black hair, wicked green eyes, and a smile sharp enough to peel an apple from across the room.
"Finally," she purred, voice dripping with lazy mockery, "I was beginning to think you were just here to tell bad jokes until the city fell into the sea."
Cade smirked, undeterred.
"Big job, Vexie. Real shiny. We're lifting the First Queen's necklace.
The old bat's holed up in Skyrouth — her precious little seaside palace just outside the Kingdom's leash."
Vex arched a brow.
"Skyrouth, huh? Fancy. Didn't she name it after herself when she got bored of bossing around the king?"
Cade laughed and shrugged.
"Aye. Skyrouth's her domain now. Big walls, fat guards, and jewelry worth more than this whole damn district."
The table fell into a greedy silence as each of them pictured the glittering prize — and the trouble that would surely follow.
But then again, trouble was practically a fifth member of their gang