Even as Ronigren’s company prepared for their eastward trek from the battered fortress of Woodhall, King Elric IV’s desperate plea for aid took wing, carried south by the swiftest royal ravens. Three ravens, each bearing a carefully worded scroll sealed with the King’s own signet, flew south, towards the three jewels of the southern plains: the Free Cities of Verranza, Solyma, and Meridia.
The raven bearing the King’s message to Argren’s envoy in Verranza circled above a city that glittered like a spilled treasure chest. Verranza, the ‘Golden Emporium,’ sprawled majestically at a wide bend of the Great River Argorn, the same mighty waterway that flowed past Alkaer before turning east towards the distant sea. Here the river was a bustling highway of commerce, its waters teeming with laden barges, sleek trading cogs, and the colorful fishing skiffs of a dozen different nations. Roads, like the spokes of a vast wheel, radiated outwards from Verranza’s gilded gates, leading west through treacherous mountain passes to the reclusive Stone-Halls of the dwarves and the even more secluded Sylvan Glades of the elves, and south towards the other Free Cities and the borders of the belligerent Kingdom of Alsair.
Every conceivable good flowed through Verranza: dwarven steel and gemstones, elven silks and rare woods, southern spices and wines, northern furs and timber, and exotic wares from lands even further afield. Its markets were a riot of color, sound, and scent, its counting houses filled with the ceaseless clatter of abacuses and the murmur of a dozen languages. Power in Verranza was measured not in standing armies, but in gold and webs of influence that stretched across the continent.
Argren’s envoy, Lord Tiberius Axian, a man whose patrician features were beginning to show the strain of Verranza’s relentless pace and political maneuvering, received the King’s raven on the balcony of his villa overlooking the Grand Canal. He was in the midst of a delicate negotiation with a consortium of Verranzan merchant-princes, a conversation that had already been interrupted twice by disputes over docking fees and rumor about a new tariff on elven moonwood.
He unrolled the scroll. His brow furrowed as he read of Alderholt’s fall, the siege of Woodhall, the rise of monstrous armies, and King Elric’s desperate plea for aid – for supplies, for loans, for any mercenaries their gold might buy. Lord Axian sighed, gazing at the glittering, indifferent opulence spread out before him. Convincing the profit-driven Council of Verranza that Argren’s distant war was a direct threat to their overflowing coffers would be a task requiring all his diplomatic skill, and perhaps a considerable portion of Argren’s already strained treasury. The Golden Emporium prized stability, but its charity rarely extended beyond its own formidable walls unless a clear profit was at stake.
A second raven descended through the thick canopy of the Graywood towards the secretive city of Solyma. Smallest of the three Free Cities, Solyma was a place of shadows, secrets, and forgotten lore. Nestled deep within the forest, its southeastern borders brushed against the jagged foothills that marked the lawless eastern marches straddling the Ssylarrs’ lands. Vine-choked stone mingled with dark, gnarled wood in its narrow winding streets shrouded in mist. Solyma was a haven for scholars of the esoteric, practitioners of forbidden arts, decadent nobles seeking refuge from more puritanical lands, and hardy insular locals who had long learned to live in proximity of the reptilian deserts and the surrounding Graywood.
Lady Aris Vasi, Argren’s envoy to Solyma – a woman of sharp intellect and a discreet personal interest in arcane texts – was in the city’s renowned and notoriously dangerous Nocturne Bazaar when the King’s raven found her. The Bazaar was a labyrinth of dimly lit stalls offering everything from rare spell components and cursed artifacts to exotic poisons and the services of individuals with unique talents. Lady Aris was examining a "dragon-scale" amulet—nothing more than cleverly treated basilisk hide, when the messenger bird landed on a nearby stall laden with shrunken heads.
She read King Elric’s desperate missive with a gloomy expression. Solyma possessed little in the way of conventional armies, but its archives held knowledge that might be invaluable, and its most shadowy denizens commanded skills that could be potent if unpredictable assets. The city’s ruling council, a shadowy cabal of ancient families and powerful mages, was insular and concerned primarily with Solyma’s own balance and precarious neutrality. Persuading them to involve themselves in Argren’s war, even with the threat of a resurgent magic-wielding enemy, would be like trying to coax a spider to leave its web. Yet, Lady Aris knew that the ‘Entity of Solitude’ would find fertile ground in Solyma’s undercurrents if left unchecked.
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The third raven flew towards Meridia, a city that announced its presence with a perpetual haze of alchemical smoke and the distant clang of a thousand forges. Meridia was the industrial and martial heart of the Free Cities, its foundries producing some of the finest steel in the southern lands, its alchemical workshops constantly experimenting with new, often volatile, concoctions, and its barracks housing some of the most renowned and expensive mercenary companies on the continent.
Sir Grellen Vance, Argren’s envoy, a bluff, no-nonsense soldier more comfortable on a battlefield than in a diplomatic salon, was observing a demonstration of a new type of repeating crossbow in Meridia’s vast training grounds when the King’s raven arrived. The air thrummed with the shouts of drill sergeants, the clang of steel on steel, and the acrid smell of gunpowder from experimental firearms.
Sir Grellen’s weathered face hardened. He understood the language of war, and King Elric’s message spoke of a conflict that would require every sword, every spear, every ounce of alchemical fire Argren and its allies could muster. Meridia’s strength was its martial prowess and its industrial capacity. Its mercenary captains were loyal only to coin, but their skill was renowned. The city’s Iron Council would understand the strategic implications of Argren’s plight. They might drive a hard bargain, but if the price was right, Meridia’s steel and fire could be a formidable addition to Argren’s desperate defense.
Three ravens, three cities, three different challenges for Argren’s envoys. To the south of them lay the larger Kingdom of Alsair. But Alsair and Argren shared a long, bitter history. King Elric knew that appealing to them for aid would be futile. For now, his hopes rested on the uncertain allegiances and pragmatic self-interest of the Free Cities.
* * *
Navir Lanza stood in the shadowed opulence of his Alkaer townhouse, a goblet of the very finest Arbor Gold untouched in his hand. The King’s decree, stripping him of his office, freezing his considerable assets, and effectively branding him an enemy to the realm, still echoed in his ears. Tyranny, he seethed. Unprecedented overreach.
The King’s draconian actions had changed everything. Shorn of his title, his assets threatened, his reputation besmirched: Elric had forced his hand. If the King was to play the tyrant, he would be forced to seek alternative avenues to protect his interests, to restore the proper order.
Now, in the flickering candlelight of his study, he met with men who shared his perspective. Lord Emmon of Southwood, whose vast timber estates were threatened by the King’s emergency levies. Master Sigebert, head of the powerful River Merchants’ Guild, whose trade routes were suffering due to the northern unrest and feared further royal interference. And a discreet, heavily cloaked envoy from one of the more… independent-minded lords of the southern Free Cities.
"The King has overstepped," Lord Emmon declared, his vulpine face flushed with anger. "This 'war effort' is a pretext for a power grab! Falazar whispers nonsense in Elric’s ear, and the kingdom is plunged into chaos!"
"Our trade is crippled," Sigebert spat. "The northern routes are all but closed. And now, talk of seizing assets? It’s madness! We must appeal to reason, to the other nobles who see the folly of this path."
Navir Lanza listened, his expression carefully neutral, though a cold fury burned within him. Appeal to reason? Elric was beyond reason, lost in Falazar’s fantastical narratives. No, a different approach was needed.
"Reason has fled the Citadel, my lords," Lanza said, his voice a low purr. "What we face is a crown swayed by fear and arcane fancy, a crown that now threatens the very foundations of our prosperity and our ancestral rights." He took a slow sip of his wine. "If the King will not listen to the counsel of his most loyal and pragmatic servants, then perhaps he must be made to understand that his power is not absolute. That other powers within Argren, and indeed, beyond it, also have a voice. A will."
