The air in Baldur’s Gate was heavy, thick with the acrid tang of smog that belched from the distant foundries, and laced with the weight of fear. Every corner of the city seemed to bristle with it. Massive steel constructs, their hulking forms casting shadows that stretched like claws over the cobblestones, patrolled with eerie precision. Their lifeless eyes flicking over the crowds, searching for dissent.

You had heard the stories of gondians forced to labor until their hands bled raw, their loved ones held captive in the bowels of the Iron Throne—hostages buried beneath the crushing weight of the sea, within a tomb waiting to be sealed.

And yet, it wasn’t only the gondians who suffered. Gortash’s shadow stretched over everything. Political opponents vanished overnight, their cells deep and silent, while citizens whispered their fears in alleys, too afraid to look anyone in the eye. The Grand Duke had turned Baldur’s Gate into a gilded cage.

Your heart sank as you took it all in—the smothering oppression, the unrelenting cruelty—but with every beat, a new emotion stirred within: rage. It burned in your chest, hot and unyielding. You would not let this stand. Not here. Not now.