The Kingdom of Alamandria was a place where the ordinary danced on the edge of the extraordinary, as if the entire realm had been brushed with the mischievous fingertips of a dreaming god. Here, the air was forever scented with a medley of lavender and rose, mingling with the earthy tang of burning wood and coal—an oddly comforting contradiction, much like Alamandria itself.

In Camnesse merchants hawked their wares in voices loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the sleepy pigeons perched atop the spindly bell tower of St. Caelene’s Abbey.

In the markets, pomanders swung from belts like fragrant pendulums, each crafted to outdo its neighbor in artistry and aroma. A particularly plump one, shaped like a gilded pear and stuffed with saffron, was the proud possession of Madame Berindelle, the town’s butcher. Her sharp tongue could slice through an overripe quince faster than her cleaver could handle a side of pork, but her laugh—booming and unapologetic—was oddly endearing.

The Lianel River meandered lazily through the countryside, its waters sparkling as though the sun had spilled its coin purse into the current. Fishermen swore that the river’s guardian, a sleek, otter-like spirit named Calisette, occasionally surfaced to complain about the poor quality of poetry scrawled on bridges. “Rhymes should flow like water,” she once scolded a flustered bard, “not stumble like a drunk donkey.”

Even Alamandria’s flora seemed alive with intent. Artemisia sprouted from cracks in walls as if to offer herbal remedies to passerby, while violets peeked shyly from beneath mayweed, gossiping about the seasons. And the people? Well, they were no less enchanting—or exasperating. From Sir Honoré of Aubertou, whose polished armor reflected his vanity as much as it did the sun, to Marquise Elisandre of Pérignane, who could charm a minotaur into buying silk stockings, the citizens of Alamandria were as vibrant and varied as the lands they called home.