The grey morning sky over Carravin hangs low and heavy, bleeding a fine, steady drizzle that coats the cobblestones in a sleek, reflective sheen. It is July 17th, 1300. Across the wide expanses of Carravin Square and along the arterial market streets, heavy hemp tarpaulins stretch from timber eaves to iron posts, popping under the steady impact of the rain. Under these canvas awnings, life moves with a quiet, structured rhythm.
Guards pace their rounds in disciplined pairs. They wear clean leather jerkins over chainmail, their posture straight, their eyes scanning the moving crowds with sharp, practiced precision. These are the very men Aldo recruited and trained from the city's idle hands just two weeks ago. Today, the streets are silent of outrage. There is no rioting, no hushed plotting in the alleyways, no smell of smoke. The silence feels almost unnatural—too peaceful for a city that, barely thirteen days prior, choked on the ash of a violent rebel assault.
Aldo stands beneath the overhang of a high stone balcony, his dark eyes fixed on the sweeping urban landscape. A pale mist clings to the high spires, but beneath it, the city breathes like a massive, well-oiled machine. Carts laden with grain roll smoothly across paved junctions; boatmen haul heavy ropes along the timber wharves; the steady, rhythmic thrum of iron hammers echoes from the forge quarters.
He holds a heavy, leather-bound volume in his hands, its thick vellum pages smelling faintly of dry rot and old oak-gall ink. His thumb traces the faded red lettering at the top of a chapter detailing the origins of the metropolis. Two hundred years. Nearly two centuries have passed since six isolated hamlets decided to cluster along a five-kilometer stretch of the Syr River, unaware that their simple survival strategies would one day merge into the greatest economic engine in northern Heilop.
As Aldo turns the rough vellum, the narrative of the chronicle shifts back nearly two centuries, painting a vivid picture of a wild, unmastered riverbank where six men carved out their solitary destinies.
The chronicle tells of Edmundia, founded in 1115 high above the valley floor. Where the wind rustles through tall, white-flowered mountain meadows, Brother Edmund sought a sanctuary away from the bloody, endless feuds of secular lords. He built a modest timber clinic and scriptorium on a high ridge overlooking the winding blue ribbon of the Syr. He chose this specific high meadow not for its view, but for its marshland hollows. There, a unique species of thick-stemmed reed grew in abundance—reeds with hollow, firm shafts perfectly suited for cutting writing quills. Beneath the limestone cliffs, crystal-clear mineral springs bubbled from the earth, providing water so devoid of iron impurities that ink mixed with it retained its jet-black brilliance for decades without fading or eating through parchment.
Miles downriver lies Leofrician, founded in 1122 where the Syr roared through a narrow gorge. Leofric stood upon an exposed shelf of black granite bedrock. The water churned violently around the jagged stone, but Leofric saw strength rather than danger. He built a massive timber yard and brickworks along the bank. He chose this narrow gap specifically because the granite shelf beneath the current provided an indestructible foundation—a bed of solid stone capable of supporting the massive masonry piers of a bridge. For decades, Leofric nurtured the dream of spanning the wild river, laying down structural foundations long before the rest of the world realized its necessity.
Further along the southern banks sits Percivalis, founded in 1110, where the air turned thick with the pungent, sharp tang of natural minerals. A series of highly acidic, mineral-rich springs discharged directly into the river's flow. Percival, a craftsman obsessed with textiles, discovered that the strange chemical makeup of these tributary streams acted as a natural mordant. When raw wool was boiled in dye vats fed by these acidic waters, the pigments bound so deeply to the fibers that the resulting blues and purples refused to fade, even after years of harsh sunlight and heavy rains. He constructed his first timber dye houses directly over the steaming, mineral-rich runoffs.
Where the river widened and smoothed into a fast, steady current across a shallow shelf, Crispin founded Crispinan in 1128. The natural drop in the riverbed created a swift, reliable flow perfectly engineered to drive heavy undershot waterwheels without drowning the axle hubs. He built his first timber grain mill on the muddy bank. Stretching outward from this bend lay miles of flat, remarkably fertile river silt. Farmers, desperate to escape the soul-crushing tithes and arbitrary taxes of regional feudal lords, migrated to Crispin's basin, clearing the land to plant wheat and rye where no lord could easily enforce a levy.
The oldest of them all, Reginaldshire, was founded in 1102 on a dark, rocky outcrop spitting fire into the night sky. Reginald was the first pioneer to hammer a stake into the riverbank. He discovered vast surface deposits of high-grade bog iron nestled in the mud flats, backed by a dense forest of ancient hardwood ideal for charcoal burning. On this fortified rock, he erected a massive timber-and-stone forge. The river served a double purpose: its cold waters quenched his glowing blades, and its current carried heavy wooden barges laden with raw mountain ore right to his doorstep.
Finally, the youngest settlement, Aldoria, was founded in 1135, nestling into a deep, naturally carved crescent bend of the Syr. Here, the river slowed its frantic pace, swirling into a wide, sheltered pool of calm, deep water. Aldo the Shipwright recognized the value of this natural sanctuary instantly. In these protected waters, heavy wooden hulls could float safely during construction and fitting without being ripped away by spring floods or battered against jagged rocks.
Aldo's thumb stops on the parchment page detailing the youngest settlement.
Aldoria... he muses silently, his eyes scanning the archaic script. Aldo the Shipwright. Same name. Though for him, it was a given name carved into ship timber. For me, it's just an alias assigned to a slave-soldier whose real name is Minh Co.
He turns the thick page, the sound of the paper blending with the steady patter of rain against the windowpane.
The chronicle continues, detailing how those six isolated hamlets slowly transformed into an interconnected urban web between 1102 and 1224. In the early years, the six hamlets operated as self-contained trade nodes along the five-kilometer stretch of wilderness. They bartered directly out of sheer necessity: Reginald exchanged iron axes and sickles for Crispin's coarse flour, while Edmund treated the chemical burns of Percival's dye workers in exchange for warm, dyed wool cloaks.
By 1121, as the original founders passed away, highly organized trade guilds seized control of the settlements, formalizing production lines and expanding their territories. In 1142, Leofrician's long-held dream was realized with the completion of the Grand Stone Bridge. The massive masonry structure physically bound the northern and southern banks of the Syr River for the first time, acting as an economic magnet that tripled cross-river trade within five years.
Progress was not without friction. In 1149, Percivalis shook during the "Great Indigo Strike." Exhausted dye workers, choking on toxic mineral fumes in unventilated vat houses, walked off the job and blocked the supply roads. The crisis forced the master dyers to draft the city's first formal labor charters, setting strict rules for work shifts and air ventilation.
Between 1151 and 1190, the gaps of wild forest and marshland between the six hamlets rapidly disappeared. Crispin's automated mills ground the grain that sustained Edmund's expanding scriptoriums; Aldoria's heavy river barges exported Percivalis's vibrant wool textiles and Reginaldshire's steel weapons to foreign markets across the continent. Densely packed, multi-story timber and stone buildings rose to fill every square meter of empty land between the settlements.
Yet, this massive urban expansion created severe administrative chaos between 1191 and 1224. Though physically operating as a single, sprawling metropolis, the six districts remained legally distinct entities. Merchants were forced to pay separate district tolls every few hundred yards; criminals evaded justice simply by stepping across an arbitrary street line into another town's jurisdiction; and the total absence of a unified defensive wall left the collective population completely vulnerable to foreign armies.
Aldo turns another page, the ink on the next section growing darker, bolder, and more formal.
By the year 1225, regional conflicts threatened to consume the unfortified sprawl. Duke Ferris Asura Wintersong—Ferris I—ruler of the Duchy of Thromium, looked upon the chaotic, unnamed urban mass, seeing both a terrifying defensive vulnerability on his border and an untapped goldmine of tax revenue. On August 14, 1225, Duke Ferris I arrived with two thousand heavy Thromium cavalry, their polished armor gleaming under the late summer sun. He did not breach the gates or sack the markets. Instead, he pitched a massive, crimson silk pavilion directly over the midpoint of Leofrician's Grand Stone Bridge, straddling the river, and summoned the Grand Guildmasters of all six districts to face him.
For three tense days, arguments raged inside the pavilion. The Guildmasters fiercely defended their independence, terrified of being crushed under ducal taxation. Duke Ferris I, a strategist of extraordinary patience, laid out a compromise: the districts would retain their internal guild hierarchies, local laws, and specialized tax exemptions; the Duchy of Thromium would fund and erect a colossal twenty-four-square-kilometer ring wall enclosing all six towns under a single central marshal; and the six distinct settlements would legally merge into a single imperial city named Carravin.
On August 17, 1225, Duke Ferris I signed the unification charter, executed using jet-black ink brewed in Edmundia, written on calfskin parchment dried in Percivalis, and sealed with pure gold mined and minted in Reginaldshire. His declaration echoes across the centuries: "From this day forth, let no man speak of Edmundia, Aldoria, or Crispinan as separate kingdoms of craft. You are the limbs of one great beast. I give you the name Carravin—from the old tongue, meaning 'The Great Convergence.' Six hearts, one chest; six towns, one crown."
Aldo pauses, his eyes lingering on the signature at the bottom of the transcribed decree.
Ferris I... Aldo thinks, his fingers running over the indented lettering. So the current Duke running this place is Ferris II, the grandson of the man who bound these six towns together.
Beside him, Comtois, who leans over Aldo's shoulder while chewing on a cold piece of dried beef, lets out a noisy, derisive snort.
"Ferris the First, Ferris the Second..." Comtois mutters, shaking his head with a smirk. "These nobles have zero imagination when it comes to naming their kids. It's always 'the Second' or 'the Third,' as if they're just re-issuing the same old copper coin over and over again."
Aldo doesn't answer. He simply flips the page to the final historical section, detailing the ruthless administrative restructuring undertaken by the current ruler, Duke Ferris II.
The text outlines his reign: In 1280, breaking with centuries of tradition where every Duke was crowned in the ancient stronghold of Basbourg, Ferris II moved his coronation directly to the heart of Carravin inside the scholar-district of Edmundia. Surrounded by clerks, guildmasters, and university scholars rather than landed barons, he sent a cold message to the nobility that power now lay in ledger books and trade rather than ancestral bloodlines. To appease furious conservative lords, he staged the lavish First Ducal Festival in 1281, draping Percivalis in miles of indigo silk and minting solid silver commemorative coins in Reginaldshire. By 1282, he declared Carravin the permanent capital of Thromium, seizing land between Edmundia and Leofrician to build a heavily fortified Ducal Palace.
In 1285, he announced the Cathedral Quarter in Edmundia to centralize and monitor church authorities. A year later, in 1286, he ordered the complete demolition of all internal district walls under the guise of "urban brotherhood," effectively eliminating local toll bottlenecks while ensuring his Ducal Guard could march anywhere unhindered. In 1287, he constructed the heavily guarded Ducal Domesday Archive in Edmundia—a master census tracking every workshop, loom, anvil, and vessel, making tax evasion impossible.
By 1288, he erected the Spire of the Sower in Aldoria, wrapping a high-volume grain commodities exchange in the holy immunity of a cathedral. Between 1291 and 1296, Leofrician stonemasons built The Triad Road, a massive paved highway funneling continental trade straight into Carravin. In 1298, he built the colossal Cathedral of the Harvest in Crispinan, leveraging the memory of his late wife to dominate the skyline and subtly remind everyone who controls the food supply. Finally, in 1299, he completed Ferris Square in Aldoria, a paved hub centered around a massive bronze statue of himself to process the influx of trade.
"WHAT?!"
Comtois's sudden roar shatters the quiet of the balcony. Aldo instinctively covers his ears as Comtois points a thick, greasy finger down at the cobblestone plaza right below them.
"THIS SQUARE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US WAS JUST BUILT LAST YEAR?!" Comtois yells, his broad face twisted in disbelief. "They paved this whole damn thing in twelve months?!"
"Shut up, Comtois," Aldo says flatly, rubbing his temple. "Be quiet."
"Ah, we meet again, my young captains!"
A rich, booming baritone voice cuts through the morning drizzle. Duke Ferris II himself steps onto the balcony from the adjacent corridor, flanked by two towering guards in silver-plated armor. The Duke wears a high-collared velvet doublet of deep burgundy, his broad frame carrying an air of absolute authority.
Aldo immediately snaps the book shut and bows with precise protocol. Comtois hastily mimics the gesture, nearly dropping his piece of dried meat.
"What wind brings you to this quiet corner of the watch station, Your Grace?" Aldo asks, his voice smooth and neutral.
Ferris II rests his hands on the stone balustrade, looking out over the rain-slicked plaza with a proud, subtle smile. "I observed you from the lower gallery, Aldo," he says, nodding toward the heavy volume. "It pleases me greatly to see a soldier so curious about the history of Carravin. In fact, since your official duties are concluded ahead of schedule, I strongly suggest you take the next few days to explore every one of our six districts."
Comtois wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Does Thromium have other cities worth looking at, or is this monster of a town the whole show?"
Ferris II chuckles faintly. "Carravin is indeed the crown jewel, certainly, but Thromium is vast. There are four other major cities within my domain: Basbourg, Blumenau, Flora, and Rosengarth."
Aldo leans in slightly. "Basbourg?"
Ferris II's smile turns cooler, a sharp political glint appearing in his eyes. He explains how Basbourg, located in central Thromium along ancient overland routes, stands as the anti-Ferris coalition's ideological stronghold. Its population sits at forty-eight thousand souls across sixteen square kilometers, having doubled since 1280 when Ferris II abandoned it as the traditional capital. Disgruntled nobles funneled immense wealth into scaling high-end luxury crafts—elite tailoring, fine furniture, and rare pigments—to restore its prestige, leading to its re-chartering in 1290.
"Though," Ferris II adds, waving a ring-adorned hand, "Basbourg can never match the vibrant energy of my beloved Carravin. Carravin houses one hundred and forty-four thousand living souls within its walls."
Comtois lets out a loud gasp. "One hundred and forty-four thousand?! That's... that's the only city in all of northern Heilop whose population breaks fifty thousand, let alone a hundred thousand!"
Ferris II nods, clearly enjoying the impression.
"And what about Blumenau, Your Grace?" Comtois asks, leaning forward against the railing.
Ferris II's expression softens, a quiet tone entering his voice as he describes the southern gateway city. Blumenau sits on the southern border near the central grasslands, spanning ten square kilometers with a population of forty thousand. It controls the vast agricultural trade flowing northward. Before 1260, it was merely an unremarkable market town, but when Duke Alan IV fell deeply in love with a local commoner woman, he funneled massive ducal funds into expanding its infrastructure within a single year to elevate her social standing.
Ferris II pauses, his gaze shifting toward the grey horizon. "Alan the Fourth... my father," he says quietly, his voice dropping an octave with heavy memory before he quickly shakes off the brief shadow.
Aldo keeps his focus sharp. "And what of Rosengarth and Flora, sir?"
Ferris II turns back, his diplomatic composure returning as he describes Rosengarth. Nestled deep in the rugged Rosenga Mountains, it spans fifty square kilometers with a sparse density of twenty thousand people spread across alpine valleys. Founded in 938 as a cathedral sanctuary and established in 1066 by Asura Wintersong as the bloodline's birthplace, it serves as the duchy's spiritual and intellectual seat, housing ancient theological archives where Ferris II himself spent his childhood running through high mountain passes.
Ferris II stops speaking, stepping back from the ledge. Aldo watches him carefully, noticing that while the Duke described Rosengarth with genuine nostalgia, he completely omitted any mention of Flora.
"Your Grace," Aldo says calmly, fixing his eyes on the Duke's face, "you did not mention Flora. What manner of city is it?"
The question causes Ferris II to stop dead in his tracks. Silence settles over the balcony, broken only by the steady dripping of rain from the roof. The Duke turns slowly, a distinctly strange, enigmatic smirk touching the corners of his mouth. He looks at Aldo and Comtois with a long, slow assessment.
"Flora..." Ferris II says smoothly, emphasizing the name with a low cadence. "If you are truly curious, Captain, you may visit it yourself. It possesses... exceptional hot baths, the finest imported perfumes, and an endless supply of... 'happiness'."
He stresses the word happiness with a subtle, knowing tilt of his head that leaves both Aldo and Comtois standing in puzzled silence.
Aldo breaks the quiet with a sharp nod. "Then I think I shall visit Flora today."
Ferris II bows his head politely, his smirk widening slightly. "As you wish, Captain. May your journey prove... enlightening." With a smooth turn of his velvet cloak, the Duke glides down the stone corridor, his two armored guards falling into step behind him.
Comtois stares after the departing Duke, then rubs his hands together with a broad grin. "Well, you heard the man, chief!" Comtois chuckles, clapping Aldo hard on the shoulder. "We ought to rest up and have ourselves some real fun before August the first rolls around! Because once that deadline hits, we—the proud slave-soldiers of the Professional Central Army of the Palantine of Heilop—you, the commander of the 204th Company, and me, the commander of the 205th—are gonna be thrown right back into the meat grinder for another batch of impossible missions. Let's enjoy this moment while we still have breath in our lungs!"
Aldo offers a single, silent nod. Without another word, the two captains turn and sprint down the watchtower steps, heading out into the open, rain-washed streets of Carravin.