Brelith stood at the crossroads of land and sky, its proud silhouette framed by the western mountain range in the distance and the boundless plains that stretched endlessly to the horizon. More than just a bustling metropolis, it was the heart of trade, a vast marketplace that bridged the northern and southern realms. The jagged peaks of the western mountains stood like silent sentinels against the sky, visible only from the tallest towers and ramparts. Closer to the city, the terrain gave way to sprawling fields of grain, their golden stalks rippling like waves beneath a constant breeze. These crops thrived in abundance, not only feeding Brelith but nourishing much of the surrounding region. Winters were gentle here, allowing the hardy grains to flourish and ensuring the granaries remained full throughout the year.
The city itself was a masterpiece of architecture and vibrant life. High stone walls encircled Brelith, their surfaces etched with faint thaumaturgic runes that glowed softly at night—a defensive safeguard against the monstrous creatures that roamed the wilds beyond. Three main gates—North, East, and South—served as the city's entry points, each protected by towering fortifications equipped with formidable ballistae. These massive, crossbow-like siege weapons, mounted on swiveling bases, could unleash heavy bolts with deadly accuracy—effective against both human enemies and the monstrous beasts that dared approach. The gates were always teeming with a constant flow of travelers, merchants, and villagers, their carts laden with goods bound for Brelith's thriving markets.
Within the walls, the city unfolded like a well-crafted tapestry, blending functionality with beauty. Wide cobblestone streets radiated outward from the central square, where the imposing Grand Hall dominated the landscape. A striking fusion of gothic and classical architecture, its towering spires and intricate stained-glass windows seemed to reach for the heavens, a testament to both noble ambition and civic pride. Surrounding it, the city expanded in concentric circles, each layer more refined than the last. As one moved inward, the streets grew tidier, the buildings taller, and the craftsmanship increasingly elaborate.
Magitech innovations were woven throughout the city, subtle yet undeniable reminders of its recent strides in technology. Streetlamps lined the thoroughfares, their glowing cores casting a constant, soft yellow light. In the bustling market square, vendors plied their trade, their hands deftly stirring sizzling pans suspended over glowing thaumic embers, frying spiced meats to a crisp and baking golden loaves in compact ovens. The faint hum of the train echoed from the north gate, where the station acted as a hub of commerce and movement. The train, an engineering marvel powered by thaumaturgy, connected Brelith to the rest of Bellacia, its sleek metal frame a symbol of progress. The rails curved along the eastern city wall, branching from both the north and south gates to Caerlem, the fortress spire to the south, and Aldinia, the noble spire to the northeast.
Brelith was governed by the noble Léveque family, a line with deep roots in the pantheonic church. The Léveques themselves worshipped Ephydra, yet the city was home to temples dedicated to various deities, with worship freely practiced, unimpeded by law.
At the brink of the market square, Rell stood with her freckled face framed by a mass of copper-red hair bound back into a practical knot. Her bright green eyes searched the gathering with the discerning eye of a skilled hunter. She wore a modest but well-worn hunting gear consisting of a lightweight tan tunic, tough trousers, and robust boots that gave both comfort and agility. A bow was slung over her back, the string worn from continuous usage, and an arrow quiver hung at her side. Her life had been formed by the broad plains beyond the city walls, where she had perfected her tracking and hunting abilities. Without the cover of dense forests, she'd honed her skills at stalking smaller game—rabbits, hares, and birds—anything that could offer a meal or be sold for money at the market. Her casual smile and impish demeanor belied the formidable reflexes of someone who had learnt to thrive in a world where the line between prey and predator was always there.
Several animal carcasses hung from her belt—mostly hares, though a few large rodents could be spotted among them. These were fresh catches, already cleaned and ready for sale.
Rell's clothing was muddied from spending the night beyond the city walls. The open plains made hunting during the day a challenge, so it was far more profitable to hunt under the cover of darkness. Unfortunately, Brelith's main market lay near the city center, where the upper class congregated. Her grimy attire, the skinned creatures dangling from her belt, and the faint, metallic scent of fresh kill drew more than a few disgruntled looks and muttered snide remarks from passersby. Though no one dared confront her directly, the whispers that followed her were rarely as hushed as they should have been.
"Where should I head first?" Rell muttered to herself, scanning the market for a place to offload her catches. Her eyes eventually landed on a young man still setting up his stall. A perfect mark for a shrewd woman. She purposefully crossed the market, her mind already working on her approach.
"Mornin'," Rell chirped brightly, leaning over the stall to peer down at the young merchant, who was still bent over arranging his stock for the day.
"Oh… um, good morning," the man responded in a panic, quickly straightening up. "We're still setting up, and my senior won't be back for a bit. If you come back in—"
Rell smiled widely while interrupting the merchant mid-sentence. "No need to worry 'bout your senior. I'm sure you know a good deal when you see one, right?" She leaned in slightly, resting her fingers lightly on the edge of the stall. "How 'bout I let you get first pick of my catches? Fresh as they come."
The merchant blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Uh, well, I don't usually handle—"
"Perfect, then this'll be great practice," she said with a wink, pulling the hares from her belt and laying them on the counter. "Just look at 'em. Plump, fresh, and ready for the stew pot. Your customers'll be lining up for these."
The young man hesitated, his gaze flicking nervously to the hares. "They do look nice, but… uh… what about those?" He gestured toward the smaller bundle of plains rats hanging from her belt.
"Oh, these?" Rell waved her hand casually, though her tone stayed warm. "A little something special. Most folk around here probably haven't had the chance to try 'em, but back home, we call 'em a delicacy. Tender, full of flavor—if you know how to cook 'em right, they're better than you'd think."
The merchant's expression shifted between doubt and mild curiosity. "I'm not sure… I mean, the hares seem fine, but I don't think anyone around here would—"
"That's the thing," Rell cut in smoothly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. "It's not just food you're sellin'; it's an experience. People love tryin' something new now and then. And if you price 'em right, call 'em 'limited supply,' they'll be gone before you know it."
The young man rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure. "I don't know… I'd have to see what my senior says…"
Rell straightened up, folding her arms with an easy confidence. "Tell you what. I'll give you a deal since you're just startin' out. Take the hares and the 'delicacies,' and I'll shave a little off the price. You'll look good when your senior gets back, and they'll see you've got a knack for dealin'. What do you say?"
"I… guess you might be right," the young man said hesitantly after a moment's thought. "How much?"
Rell's eyes sparkled with excitement at the question. An experienced merchant would've started with their own price, something safe and calculated. But this one? He'd left the door wide open, and Rell wasn't about to miss the chance to push her luck.
"Usually, I let the hares go for a bel each," Rell started, pausing just enough to make it seem like she was mulling things over. Truth was, she'd already pieced this together on the walk over. "But since you're takin' these little guys too…" She shifted her weight, sliding the rats onto the stall. "How's about 4 chips a hare, and a chip apiece for these?"
"Really?" the merchant asked, staring at the vermin. "Just a chip each?"
"Of course!" Rell grinned, her tone upbeat. "They're easy to find, 'specially if you know where to look. Plus... I don't get to barter with someone 'round my age too often." She flashed him a bright smile, her lashes fluttering just enough to be playful.
"D-D-deal!" The merchant stammered, his face flushed as he quickly counted the hares and rats. "Do you want all chips, or will you take bel?"
"Bel's fine," Rell nodded, leaning casually on the stall. "Ya work out here often? Maybe I'll see ya 'round." She noticed his flustered state and decided to keep the pressure on, her smile sweet but her eyes sharp.
"Y-yeah, of course!" The man fumbled, while handing over a handful of coins.
Rell quickly snatched the coins, counting them herself to double-check. The young man had accidentally slipped her an extra bel instead of a chip—a costly little mistake. Outwardly, her friendly smile didn't dissipate, but on the inside, she felt like a hunteress that had just bagged her prey. "Thank ya so much!" She called, starting to walk away. "I'll see ya 'round!"
If the man called after Rell, she didn't hear. She had already melded into the throngs of midday shoppers.
The slums of Brelith were a world apart from the gleaming streets of downtown. The narrow, twisting alleys—cracked cobblestone paths barely wide enough for two people—wound around like a secret maze. The air was heavy with a mix of waste, sweat, and the faint smoke from makeshift fires, seeping into everything: the battered walls, the threadbare clothes, even the people themselves.
Here, homes weren't really homes at all. They were cramped, leaning on each other for support. Wooden shutters dangled off broken windows, and walls, streaked with years of grime and neglect, told stories of endless hardship. Ragged sheets hung from sagging roofs, offering little comfort under a sky as gray as the despair that filled the streets.
You could hear low murmurs of arguing and half-heard conversations echoing down the alleys, though it all seemed muted by the overwhelming weight of squalor. Amid the chaos, a few market stalls fought for attention, peddling goods that often seemed worn as the neighborhood itself.
Rell knew every inch of this place—the smells, the crumbling streets, and the unspoken rules that governed life here. It was a stark reminder of the life she once had, before everything fell apart. Deep down, she dreamed of leaving this filth and bitterness behind, but today, escape wasn't an option.
Getting around wasn't easy in these cramped, crumbling streets. Danger lurked in every shadow, and every step felt like a risk. Yet, there were ways to move through the chaos—a quick climb over a wall, a squeeze between buildings, a dash through a narrow gap, or even a leap onto a rooftop. Rell had learned all the tricks. She was quick and clever, perfectly attuned to the pulse of this unruly city.
Before long, she reached the part of the slums the Glaslow refugees called home. Over the years, they'd done their best to create a sense of belonging amid the decay. Potted plants on worn windowsills and faded murals of trees on crumbling walls, defiant nods to the forest they'd lost. At the community's heart, a makeshift temple stood, a humble yet powerful symbol of their faith and shared hope.
A rickety gate creaked open as a watchman slid it aside, welcoming her into this fragile sanctuary. In a place where property was a myth and law was a distant memory, this little enclave was more than just a shelter—it was a haven. Here, children could play without the constant shadow of danger, their laughter mingling with memories of better times. For many, it was home; for others, a bittersweet reminder of what had been and what might still be.
The refugee area spanned just a few narrow streets, enough for a few hundred displaced souls who had managed to make do. In its center lay a modest courtyard, a rare splash of open space in the midst of all that cramped despair. There, a bronze statue of the goddess Ephydra stood—a silent tribute to the land they had lost and the hope they clung to. Time had tarnished the statue, but it still towered above everyone. Ephydra was depicted with a sickle in one hand and a bundle of wheat in the other, her calm, serene expression suggesting gratitude for even the smallest blessings. It was a fitting symbol, ironic in a place where sunlight was scarce and the land seemed forever barren.
Clutching her paltry morning earnings, Rell made her way toward the shrine, her footsteps light but quick. But as she rounded the corner, her pace faltered, and her heart sank into her stomach. There, waiting by the shrine, was not Reverend Kempford—the one figure of real compassion in this fractured place—but Declan.
Declan, Kempford's right-hand man, was the one person Rell couldn't stand. A veteran of the Great War—if you could believe it—he was thin and wiry, his hair a messy tangle that looked like it hadn't seen a comb in ages. His battered leather armor, patched and worn from years past, clung to him like a relic of a bygone era.
But it wasn't just his appearance that irked her. Rell couldn't wrap her head around how someone so untrustworthy could be so trusted by Kempford, a man known for his genuine kindness. Rumors swirled about a long, murky past between them, but Rell had never gotten the full story. What she did know was that Declan always seemed to be scheming—his eyes always calculating, his war stories meant to inspire dreams of glory in a place that was far from a battlefield. Here, they were simply trying to survive as refugees. And Declan? He was the last person Rell wanted to see that day.
"The great hunter returns," Declan sneered, catching sight of Rell. She had half a mind to sneak off and try again later, but it was too late now. His voice carried that same mocking edge as he continued, "So, what'd ya catch today? Buffalo? Deer? Boar? I'm sure a sharp hunter like ya didn't waste yer time on just rabbits and rats."
"Small game's more consistent," Rell replied evenly, refusing to let him get a rise out of her.
"Well then? How much did ya make? Don't keep us waitin'," Declan said, holding out a bony hand with an impatient flick of his fingers.
Rell hesitated, then handed over her hard-earned coin begrudgingly. "Five bel and two chips," she muttered as the coins clinked into his waiting palm.
"Good girl," Declan rasped. Rell's spine stiffened at his words.
Before she could excuse herself, Declan went on. "Ya tired? Ya don't gotta tag along tonight if ya need yer beauty sleep, Girlie."
"I'm goin'," Rell shot back determinedly, "I gotta make sure yer boys don't muck everything up."
"Do whatever ya want," Declan scoffed, turning away from her. It was clear the conversation was over.
As Rell turned away from Declan, she felt the weight of the prior night's labor pressing on her shoulders. Her hand lingered on her now-empty coin pouch, a reminder that her efforts, like everyone else's here, barely kept them afloat. They were all trapped. Trapped in a cycle of debt that stretched beyond what they could ever repay. The refugees were hard workers, but living in the slums made it tough to find employment, as few establishments were willing to hire the so-called riff-raff.
Rell wove her way out of the fetid shantytown, the stench clinging stubbornly to her clothes as she finally emerged into the better part of town. The market street buzzed with life, its energy undiminished even as daylight began to fade. Yet, her thoughts drifted beyond the lively chaos around her, fixed on the task ahead. Tonight's job was more than just hunting.
She'd visited the scribe twice already, her nerves fraying each time she handed over the details. It was dangerous work, dealing with men like that, people who could be bought. But there was no other option.
The creak of the alleyway's wooden door broke her from her thoughts as Rell pushed her way inside. The scribe's compact office was dimly lit by a thaumic lamp, with papers strewn haphazardly across a wooden desk. She couldn't help but wonder how much the lamp had cost, or how much demand there was for a black-market scribe's services. A lot of money changed hands for pieces of parchment, money that could've gone to the people, but instead it lined the pockets of men like this one.
The scribe barely glanced up from his work as she entered. He had a grim sort of efficiency about him, a man who'd seen too much of the world's murkier side. "You're early," he said, his voice low and expectant.
"I got a busy night ahead o' me," Rell responded confidently to mask her anxiousness. "Is it done?"
He slid a fancy-looking document across the table, his eyes never quite meeting hers. "It's done. Just as you requested. It's all there and official. I presume you know what to do with it?"
Rell nodded, carefully picking up the parchment. The paper felt heavier than it should, as though it carried more than just ink and words. It held promises, hopes, and the dangers of everything that had led them to this point. One slip, one mistake, and it could all come crashing down. "I'll make sure it's delivered."
As she looked at the contract, a pang of doubt gnawed at her insides. What if they were caught? What if the nobles found out and decided to retaliate? These refugees, her people—they were all counting on her to pull this off. She could accept punishment if she failed, but she knew how the nobility went about punishment. The memory of her village burning and her father laying on the ground flashed through her mind. Rell exhaled slowly, pushing the thoughts aside. Fear had no place here.
Her thoughts turned to the future, to the possibility of what this would mean for the others. The idea of actually having something to look forward to, instead of just surviving, seemed almost foreign now. They had built something here, a fragile home in the shadow of the city. It wasn't much, but it was theirs. But the thought of rebuilding a new village and living alongside nature again was too great of a dream to give up on.
"You'll be careful?" the scribe asked, his voice cutting through her thoughts.
Rell met his gaze and nodded firmly. "We won't fail."
The scribe's expression was devoid of emotion, "Good, because it's not just your neck on the line. I like this city, the clientele is consistent, and the pay is good. I won't be happy if I have to move again." Rell couldn't tell if the scribe was just commenting or if his words were a veiled threat.
With the contract in hand, Rell turned and left the office, her mind already running through the steps ahead. Tonight was the night. They all had to be careful, and everyone had to play their roles perfectly. The slums had been their home for too long, and if they weren't careful, it could just as easily become their tomb.