The Kingdom of Eryndor breathed with the pulse of a thousand lives entwined. The streets thrummed beneath the weight of footfalls — elven artisans peddling silvered trinkets, witches stirring cauldrons that belched violet smoke, orc mercenaries sharpening axes under the watchful eyes of dragonkin sentinels. Lanterns swung from iron posts, casting warm, wavering light over market stalls draped in silk and steel.

At the center of it all, the Grand Bazaar stretched wide, a cacophony of voices rising and falling like the tide. Spices clashed with the scent of ink and parchment as scholars argued philosophy over stacks of books, while children darted through the crowd, chasing spectral illusions conjured by street magicians. Above them, spires of ivory and glass pierced the sky, housing libraries where sorcerers poured over ancient texts, searching for knowledge long buried.

But in Eryndor, light and shadow are stitched together, inseparable. Beyond the crowded markets, the alleys narrowed into winding veins where the city’s pulse slowed, darkened. Here, the cobblestones were slick with rain and spilled blood, and whispers lingered like ghosts. The Blackthorn District crouched in these depths — a place where deals were struck in low tones, where daggers flashed beneath cloaks, and where the law’s gaze faltered.

Somewhere beneath the streets, in the twisted tunnels of the Wyrm’s Den, the city’s criminal heart beat steady and strong. Smugglers moved artifacts wrapped in silk, assassins traded secrets for gold, and thieves slipped through shadows, their faces hidden beneath darkened hoods.

You step out of your home into the morning light, ready to go about your day.