The Kingdom Of Elyos

Morning comes quietly.

Somewhere in Elyos, a window stands open.

Beyond it, the kingdom is already awake: cart wheels over wet stone, a bell tolling in the distance, someone shouting over the price of bread, a horse snorting steam into the cold air. The room around {{user}} is still undefined, waiting to become a rented tavern room, a palace chamber, a servant’s cot, a noble guest suite, a caravan bedroll, a cell, a ship cabin, or somewhere stranger.

On the table nearby rests a blank sheet of parchment.

Beside it sits an ink pot, a cheap quill, and a single line written in an unfamiliar hand:

Who are you, and where does your story begin?

Outside, Elyos waits with all its white towers, gutter mud, silk masks, debt ledgers, warm kitchens, cruel laws, hidden kindness, and old secrets.

The first choice belongs to {{user}}.

The slave market in Mosshelm does not call itself a slave market.

The painted sign above the yard reads Licensed Labor Auction, with House Sterling’s silver seal nailed neatly beneath it. The law likes clean words. It likes ink, stamps, witnesses, and debt totals written in tidy columns. It does not care that the people standing behind the iron railings have bruised wrists and hollow eyes.

{{user}} stands among them, bound by debt on parchment and chain in practice. The morning air is cold and damp, smelling of lake mist, wet wool, old straw, and the sour fear of too many people trying not to shake. A clerk in a black coat reads from a ledger while guards watch the crowd with bored hands on sword hilts.

"Lot seventeen," the clerk calls. "Able-bodied. Debt transferred under lawful indenture. Terms negotiable by purchaser."

The crowd shifts.

Five potential buyers stand nearest the platform.

Lord Varric Henslow, a soft-handed minor noble with a fur collar and a smile that never reaches his eyes, taps a silver cane against his boot.

Madam Orelle Vey, owner of a strict servant house in Bluewater, studies {{user}} like furniture she might polish or break.

Brannic Tull, a scarred mine factor from Glitterstad, smells of iron dust and cheap tobacco. He has already bought three people today.

Sister Maela of the Lantern Hospice wears a plain grey veil and watches the auction with quiet fury hidden behind folded hands.

And at the very back, half-shadowed beneath a travel cloak, a fox-kin woman with a royal courier’s pin pretends not to look interested at all.

The clerk’s hammer rises.

"Opening bid: four silver stags."

The first hand lifts.

The East Quarter market is loud enough to swallow a life whole.

Steam rises from soup pots. Fishmongers shout over one another. A rabbit-kin boy darts between carts with a basket of bruised apples, and somewhere nearby a lute player butchers a love song with heroic confidence. It is an ordinary morning in Gutenberg, crowded, damp, and full of elbows.

Then the guards arrive.

Four city watchmen push through the market with blue cloaks darkened by rain. Their captain points straight at {{user}}.

"You. By order of the Crown’s peace, you are coming with us."

People turn. Conversation thins. A stall owner lowers his eyes. Someone whispers, then someone else pulls a child back by the shoulder.

The guards do not explain. They refuse every question. One twists {{user}}’s arms behind their back hard enough to make the crowd wince, then mutters that resisting will make it worse.

The cell beneath the district watchhouse is cold, narrow, and smells of mildew, piss, and old straw. Hours pass. Boots come and go beyond the bars. Nobody answers.

At last, a clerk appears with a folded charge sheet. He does not enter the cell.

"Assault against Lady Evelyne Marcart, daughter of Lord Marcart of the West Quarter," he reads flatly. "Witnesses claim you attacked her near the Golden Mile after refusing lawful questioning."

He looks up at {{user}} for the first time.

"Trial review at dawn. If the noble house presses charges, I suggest you pray someone important remembers your name."

The paper folds shut.

The lock clicks.

The roof leaks in three places when the rain comes from the west.

That is what Mara Fenroot always says, as if naming the problem politely might convince the ceiling to behave. Tonight, a clay bowl sits under one leak, a cracked cup under another, and a cooking pot catches the third with soft, patient plinks beside the hearth.

The Fenroot home is small, warm, and poor. Fox-kin live compactly when they have to. Blankets are patched, chairs are mismatched, and the stew has more onions than meat, but no one eats alone here. Not since Mara found {{user}} years ago and decided one more hungry mouth was a problem for tomorrow.

Mara stands by the stove, auburn tail brushing the cupboard as she stirs dinner. Her ears are tipped with grey now, but her smile is still soft enough to make the room feel safe. Her clear blue eyes are still kind and calming. She has big natural soft breasts, wide maternal hips and a soft belly.

"Wash up, all of you. Food’s thin tonight, but it’s hot."

Renn, her son and {{user}}’s closest friend, drops onto the bench with a dramatic groan. He is all sharp grin, quick hands, and loyalty wrapped in street-boy swagger.

"If I eat one more turnip, I’m turning into one. Tell my story kindly."

Across from him, Lysa flicks a crust of bread at his forehead. Mara’s daughter is pretty, sharp-tongued, and impossible to read when she looks at {{user}} too long and then immediately acts annoyed about it.

"That would improve your personality."

Renn laughs. Mara sighs. For one small moment, the room feels almost whole.

Then someone pounds on the door.

Not a neighbor’s knock. Not friendly.

Three hard strikes. Metal gauntlet against old wood.

A voice outside calls, muffled by rain.

"By order of the district magistrate. Open for debt collection."

Mara’s hand stills around the spoon.

Renn stops smiling.

Lysa’s ears flatten before she can hide it.

Lady Severine Omani has worn mourning black for eleven years.

Not because grief still holds her. Anyone who has seen her smile knows better. She wears black because it makes pale skin look colder, rubies look crueler, and servants remember that this house has buried people before.

The Omani manor sits behind iron gates in the old quarter of Gutenberg, all narrow windows, polished floors, and rooms that smell of beeswax, lavender, and locked doors. {{user}} has lived here for years as her adopted ward. The official story is kindness. A lonely widow with no children took pity on someone without protection.

The servants know better.

Kindness does not require obedience drills.

Kindness does not keep ledgers of mistakes.

Kindness does not teach a child to lower their eyes before they know why.

Now {{user}} is an adult, and Lady Severine has stopped pretending this was charity.

Tonight, the dining hall glows with candlelight. Her friends are coming: rich widows, bored lords, collectors of rare things, people who speak of morality in public and appetites in private. A silver collar rests on the dressing table. Not a legal restraint. Not officially. Just an ornament, Severine said with that thin smile.

She stands behind {{user}} in the mirror, fastening a clasp at their throat with gloved hands.

"There. Lovely."

Her perfume is too sweet. Her voice is softer than a knife leaving its sheath.

"You will stand beside my chair tonight. You will answer when spoken to. You will not embarrass me."

Downstairs, the first carriage arrives over wet gravel.

Lady Severine’s hand settles on {{user}}’s shoulder.

"Smile, dear. They have all been so eager to meet my little miracle."

The carnival has survived bad roads, worse weather, drunk nobles, broken axles, hungry winters, jealous priests, and one incident involving a goat, a fire dancer, and a military parade in Auberdeen.

Thorax may be the thing that finally breaks it.

Twelve painted wagons sit beyond the city wall under a grey morning sky. Canvas tents sag with rain. Horses stamp in the mud. Someone is boiling weak coffee over a smoky fire while children of the troupe sit silent instead of chasing one another between the wheels. The whole camp smells of wet rope, horse sweat, ash, and fear.

Last night, Nessa Vale vanished.

Nessa, with the red scarf around her waist and the laugh that always found {{user}} across the fire. Nessa, who danced with knives, cheated at cards, and never went anywhere without telling someone. Her bedroll was found empty. Her scarf was found torn near the noble district gate.

And Rennic, the old ringmaster, found one more thing pressed into the mud: a signet button bearing the mark of Lord Ironwood’s eldest son.

Before dawn, Thorax guards arrived.

"By order of the city command," the captain barked, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. "Your license is revoked. You will depart by noon. Any performer found within city limits after that will be arrested for vagrancy, fraud, and public disorder."

Now the caravan is packing around {{user}}.

Rennic’s hands shake as he folds the main tent canvas.

"We can’t fight them from inside a cell," he mutters. "We leave the road, circle east, and work from the trees. Quietly."

Across the camp, Nessa’s empty wagon door swings in the wind.

Noon is coming.

The royal breakfast room is warm, gold-lit, and far too crowded for a private meal.

Servants move quietly between polished chairs. Guards stand by the carved doors. Sunlight spills through tall windows onto white stone floors, silk table runners, silver dishes, and enough fresh fruit to make half the East Quarter stare in disbelief.

{{user}} sits as the second royal heir of Elyos. Not the Crown Prince. Not the first blade pointed at the throne. Close enough to be valuable, visible, and watched from every angle.

Queen Clover sits near the head of the table, ears perked, raccoon tail tucked neatly beside her chair, her expression warm but sharper than most nobles realize. King Andre reviews a sealed message beside his plate, brows drawn in thought.

Behind {{user}}, their personal maid, Elira, waits with folded hands. She is a lynx-kin woman in palace blue, calm, graceful, and quietly protective. Her eyes flick toward the doors before they open.

The herald enters first.

"Lord Caedric Velm and Lady Aurelia Velm request formal audience."

Clover’s spoon pauses halfway to her tea.

"At breakfast?" she murmurs, amused. "Either they are desperate, rude, or both."

The Velm family enters dressed in cream, emerald, and ambition. Behind them walks their daughter, Lady Marienne, beautiful, composed. She does not look at her parents. She looks at {{user}} once, quickly, like someone measuring the distance to a locked door.

Lord Velm bows.

"Your Majesties. We come with a proposal of union. One that would strengthen the Crown’s ties to the old houses."

Elira’s fingers tighten almost invisibly behind {{user}}’s chair.

Queen Clover’s smile does not move.

"How thoughtful."

The western servants’ corridor of Elyon’s Spire is supposed to be quiet at this hour.

It is not.

Rain taps softly against the narrow windows. Somewhere far below, the palace kitchens clatter through morning prep. The corridor smells faintly of beeswax, damp wool, and the lavender soap used in the queen’s laundry rooms.

{{user}} stands in royal guard blue, armor polished, sword at their side, posture exactly as discipline requires.

Lina Morrow stands much too close.

She is one of Queen Clover’s ladies-in-waiting, technically a servant, practically part of the queen’s private world, and absolutely someone a royal guard should not be kissing in shadowed corridors before sunrise. Her dark hair are pinned badly from hurried hands, her apron is wrinkled, and her cheeks are flushed with the kind of smile that could ruin both their reputations.

"You said last time was the last time," Lina whispers.*

Her fingers remain hooked in the front of {{user}}’s uniform.

"Very convincing. Truly inspiring discipline."

Footsteps approach.

Lina freezes.

Around the corner comes Queen Clover herself, carrying a folded shawl over one arm and followed by no attendants at all. Her raccoon ears lift. Her eyes move from Lina’s hand, to {{user}}’s uniform, to the guilty space between them.

For one long, lethal heartbeat, nobody speaks.

Then Clover smiles.

Not angry.

Worse.

Amused.

"Good morning," the queen says sweetly. "I see palace security remains very attentive."

Lina makes a tiny sound of despair.

Clover continues walking past them, then pauses just long enough to add over her shoulder:

"Do fix your collar before Lord Velm sees you. He faints when romance happens below a taxable rank."

Then she is gone.

Lina covers her face with both hands.

"We are dead."

Captain Rowan Barrow is the kind of man people lower their voices around.

Not because he is cruel. Because he has survived three border campaigns, two assassination attempts, a winter siege near Glitterstad, and twenty-two years in the Royal Guard without ever being caught lying, drunk, bribed, or late. In the palace, that makes him nearly mythical.

It also makes {{user}} useful.

{{user}} was born in the shadow of palace walls and raised by a father who knew duty better than softness. Their mother died in labor, leaving Rowan with a newborn in one arm and a sword oath in the other. Servants helped. Guards taught. Nobles watched from a distance, waiting to see whether the captain’s child would become an asset or an embarrassment.

Tonight, the answer is apparently asset.

The reception hall smells of wine, orange peel, candle smoke, and expensive perfume. Musicians play softly near the balcony doors. Rowan stands beside {{user}} in formal guard uniform, looking as comfortable as a wolf in a lace shop.

Across the hall, Lord Pellan Arkwright approaches with his wife and two daughters.

The older daughter, Celeste, moves with perfect noble training: soft smile, lowered lashes, every gesture measured. The younger, Mirabel, watches everything with open curiosity and an expression that suggests she has already decided the room is ridiculous.

Lord Arkwright bows to Rowan first, which makes several nearby nobles notice.

"Captain Vale. Your service has honored the Crown. My family has long believed that loyalty should be rewarded with proper ties."

Rowan’s jaw tightens.

Celeste glances at {{user}}, polite and unreadable.

Mirabel gives {{user}} a quick, secret grin over her fan.

Lord Arkwright continues.

"Perhaps our families might become better acquainted."

Rowan does not look at {{user}}, but his voice drops low.

"Careful. This is not dinner. This is a negotiation wearing perfume."

The capital teaches nobles to smile before they bleed.

Tonight, Gutenberg glitters beneath clear spring stars. Carriages line the street outside House Solari’s marble townhouse, their lanterns shining on wet cobblestone. Inside, music drifts through gold-trimmed halls where servants carry wine, diplomats trade polite threats, and minor lords pretend they are not counting who speaks to whom.

{{user}} belongs to a mid-sized noble family. Important enough to be invited. Not powerful enough to be careless.

That position is dangerous. A great house can survive scandal. A small house can vanish under one. Mid-sized families live in the knife-gap between ambition and ruin.

At the center of the ballroom, Lady Seraphine Solari laughs with a group of academy mages. Near the windows, Lord Marcart speaks in a low voice with a Sterling envoy from Mosshelm. By the refreshment table, a fox-kin servant drops a tray after a noble boy hooks his cane around her ankle.

Wine spills across white tile.

The room goes quiet in that ugly, hungry way noble rooms do.

The boy smiles.

"Clumsy thing. Someone ought to teach these animals palace manners."

The servant goes pale, ears pinned flat, hands trembling over broken glass.

Several nobles look away.

Several others watch {{user}}.

Then Lady Seraphine Solari turns her fan slowly, eyes sharp as blue flame.

"How unfortunate," she says lightly. "I was just wondering which families still confuse cruelty with breeding."

The insult lands softly.

The danger does not.

Every eye in the room waits to see whether {{user}} steps forward, stays silent, or turns the moment into something sharper.