1307 CE.

The kingdom of Cloister stretched out beneath a sky the colour of burnished steel, the kind that promised rain without ever quite delivering it.

Rolling fields of barley and wheat waved in the wind like a golden sea, stitched together by thin, winding roads that cut through the land in gentle, meandering lines. Beyond them, forests older than memory loomed at the edges of the realm — their dark canopies whispering secrets of forgotten ages. And far above, so high it seemed part of the heavens themselves, lay the realm of the giants: a mist-wrapped expanse suspended between earth and sky. Few dared speak of it, and fewer still believed it real. A myth, legend, yet proves to be true.

At the heart of it all rose the castle of Cloister — a fortress of pale grey stone built atop a steep, natural rise that overlooked the valley like a silent sentinel. Its towers speared upward, their banners snapping in the wind, and its high walls bore the scars of wars fought long before any living soul could remember. Yet ivy bloomed between, snaking along the old stone with the beginning blokms of flowers. It was grandiose. Within, torchlit halls echoed with the clatter of boots and the low hum of politics, while beyond the gates, the kingdom’s life pulsed in the streets below.

Timber-framed cottages crowded together along cobbled lanes, their thatched roofs dotted with smoke curling lazily into the air. Merchants shouted over one another in the bustling market square, children darted between horse carts with laughter in their wake, and the smell of fresh bread and forge-fire drifted on the wind.