In the Year of Our Lord 1512, amidst the shadow of the Great War, the renowned alchemist Lucien Damevar, in his fervent pursuit of a cure for the enigmatic malady afflicting his only child, stumbled upon a substance of unparalleled potency. It was a simple amalgamation of saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal—components humble in their individual nature but volatile beyond reckoning when united. This discovery, unintended and serendipitous, would mark the genesis of what Udorian scholars came to call the Age of Firepowder.

  Lucien, a sage of Ivonnian descent, inscribed his revelation in his Codex of Elements with the awe and dread of one who had glimpsed both salvation and ruin. “Upon the mingling of saltpetre and charcoal, with sulphur added and heated,” he wrote, “there doth arise smoke and flames in abundance, so much so that the vessel did shatter with a resounding cacophony, causing the learned men of the Sanctuary to flee in terror.”

  In those early days, firepowder found its footing not as a weapon of war but as a medium for spectacle. Pyrotechnic displays lit the skies of Verum’s courts, their grandeur celebrated in song and lore. Yet it was not long before the minds of the Sanctuary of Scrolls turned the substance to darker purposes. These erudite scholars and skilled artisans began to refine its application, expanding its use from the ephemeral artistry of fireworks to the enduring violence of war.

  The first implements of destruction were crude: earthenware vessels packed with firepowder, hurled from catapults to shatter upon impact. But the ingenuity of Udorian craftsmen soon gave rise to cannons—great, roaring behemoths of wrought iron, bound tightly with bands of molten metal. These early weapons, primitive yet terrifyingly effective, fired iron shot with a force and range that rendered ancient siege engines obsolete. Castle walls, once unassailable, crumbled beneath their onslaught. Armies, once reliant on swords and bows, adapted to this new paradigm of warfare.

  The advent of black powder wrought changes so profound that they reshaped the fabric of Udorian governance, military stratagems, and society itself. Lords fortified their holdings not with thicker walls but with cannon ports and reinforced bastions. Armies swelled in size, their ranks bolstered by gunners trained to wield these destructive devices. Battles, once determined by valour and skill, now hinged on the mastery of fire and powder.

  As firepowder spread across the dominions of Udoris, so too did the age of chivalry wane, eclipsed by the grim pragmatism of modern war. The clash of swords and the thunder of cavalry gave way to the deafening roar of cannons and the choking smoke of gunpowder. Conflict became impersonal, distant, and devastatingly efficient.

  From these origins emerged a new world—one forged in fire, shaped by iron, and forever marked by the alchemical discovery of a grieving father.

  …

  Excerpt from Jintao Downey's book on Alchemy - The Greatest Elixirs.?

  ???

  Khule, 13th Moon, 27th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  What many seem to overlook is that for as many futures you put up in flames, countless others are waiting to be discovered; an eternity of possibilities.

  Such were the thoughts that swirled in Sean’s mind as his mount slowed to a leisurely trot. The beast, a stalwart destrier of dappled grey, had borne him faithfully over leagues of rough terrain and now found relief in the packed dirt paths of Khule’s outer settlement. Its breath came steady and strong, a testament to its endurance. True, it lacked the shadow-black majesty of Aden’s famed Black Betty, but a noble creature it remained, every inch a warrior’s companion.

  Sean’s retinue followed in his wake, their cloaks stirring in the wind. The settlers of Khule, common folk who toiled under the shadow of its great walls, turned wary eyes upon the newcomers. Whispers trailed the procession, speculation and suspicion interwoven. Word of their arrival would have flown ahead like a raven’s wings, Sean knew. Such was the way of things.

  Ahead, the walls of the town loomed vast and unyielding, rising like an earthen god from the rolling plains. Broader even than the venerable Faywyn Keep, the fortifications bristled with arrow slits, and murder holes like watchful eyes, ever prepared to vomit death upon an intruder. Along the shoreline where Gema’s Gulf glinted beneath the sun, squat cannon towers glowered out to sea, wardens against threats borne by the waves.

  Khule was not merely a fortress—it was a citadel fit for a warrior-prince, Sean mused. Or a knight of legend. Or perhaps, in this case, a Lord whose coffers overflowed. Unlike my honourable father, he thought with a sardonic twist of his lips. The Lormats, for all their wealth, could claim a heritage nearly as old as the kingdom itself—another mark against House von Grifenburg.

  Before the stout iron portcullis, Sean reined in his steed and dismounted. Dust clung to his boots as he stepped forward, hands raised, the universal sign of peace.

  A voice rang out from atop the walls, sharp and clear, edged with challenge. “State your business, stranger!”

  “I am Sean of House von Grifenburg,” Sean called back, his voice steady, the cadence of a man accustomed to addressing his betters. “I come seeking an audience with Lord Tristan of House Lormat, third Lion of Khule.”

  A pause followed, pregnant with murmurs from unseen figures above. Then came the reply, curt and unyielding. “You will enter alone.”

  “So be it,” Sean said, turning to his men. “Hold your positions here. Drake, see that the company does not embarrass us. I shall return when I have finished.”

  His companions nodded, their expressions grim. With a flick of his cloak, Sean stepped forward as the portcullis groaned upward. Beyond the gate lay a drawbridge spanning a moat, its waters glimmering green and treacherous under the afternoon sun. On the far side waited armed guards, their faces hidden beneath steel helms.

  Inside, Khule revealed its true heart. Narrow streets thrummed with life, merchants hawking wares, children darting between stalls, and the scents of roasted meats and rare spices mingling in the air. Yet opulence was everywhere—high walls adorned with intricate carvings, banners bearing the Lormat sigil, and a keep that soared above it all, its towers piercing the heavens.

  Sean moved with purpose, though unease gnawed at his gut. He was deep in the lion’s den now, and any misstep could see him devoured.

  Soon, he found himself ushered into a grand hall, where he awaited the arrival of Lord Tristan under the vigilant gaze of armed sentinels. Silence reigned save for the soft tread of boots on polished stone. Lord Tristan entered then, his bearing regal yet predatory. He was a mountain of a man, broader even than Lord Aden, his face lined with the scars of time. He took his seat upon a throne of blackened oak, his gaze fixed upon Sean with an unsettling mix of disdain and curiosity.

  “So, this is the orphan Aden deemed fit to raise above his true-born,” Tristan said, his voice a low growl. “You’ve boldness enough to come here, I’ll grant you that. Perhaps not entirely a fool considering your lowly birth, though I suspect you’ll prove me wrong.”

  Sean bowed low, a strained smile tugging at his lips. “Your words are as gracious as I was led to expect, my lord.”

  Tristan’s lips curled in what might have been amusement, or merely contempt. “Speak your purpose, boy. My patience is not without limits.”

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  Sean straightened, meeting the Lord’s gaze, though it felt like staring into the maw of a lion. “I come as the last scion of House von Grifenburg, dispossessed and betrayed. I seek your protection and offer my lands and fealty in return.”

  Tristan leaned back, steepling his fingers. His silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. “You ask much,” he said at last. “And what would you offer beyond a scrap of earth and a title sullied by failure?”

  “My lands, my loyalty, and my tribute,” Sean said, his voice firm. “More than that, my lord, I seek vengeance. House Hera has stolen what is mine. With your strength, I would see them brought to ruin.”

  A pregnant pause hung in the air as the lord contemplated Sean's plea. Finally, Tristan rose, drawing his sword. The blade gleamed coldly in the firelight as he gestured for Sean to kneel.

  “By my authority as Lord of Khule,” the grizzled lord intoned, his voice ringing through the hall, “I name you Lord Sean von Grifenburg, vassal of House Lormat. Rise, and remember the debt you owe.”

  Sean rose, his smile brittle. “Thank you, my liege.”

  "My people will settle you and your men in. Come this week's end, we will begin preparation. After the winter ends, I shall retrieve Heras's heads for you and issue an audit affirming your new title. That ought to satisfy you. Now, get out of my sight, you deplorable beast."

  "...Thank you, my lord," Sean replied, his smile fragile as he rose to be escorted out of the hall, leaving the lord and his stoic guards behind.

  ???

  Faywyn

  Within the chamber's dim confines, a tense stillness hung, thick and clinging like the damp of a storm-tossed sea. Around the table, grim faces turned inward, their expressions grave as if carved from the same weathered stone. At the head, the young lord, Levi von Grifenburg, sat in serene detachment, the low murmur of his voice blending with the rustle of a leather-bound tome. His long fingers tapped idly against the spine, a soft rhythm that seemed to punctuate his thoughts.

  Across the table, Ser Lancelot observed the room. His eyes lingered on the gathered knights: Carter, stern and brooding, his gaze fixed upward as though searching for resolve in the timbers above; Drevos and Mannon, both inscrutable as statues; and Turiel, whose weathered features betrayed nothing but patience. Beside the earl, Steward Robert sat with a deferential air, the quiet shadow of a man whose influence was ever underestimated. Yet Lancelot knew better—Robert’s hands held the fief’s purse strings as the lord’s steward, a power both subtle and immense.

  A soft knock at the door broke the silence. Levi did not glance up but closed his book with deliberate care, his voice calm and measured. “Enter.”

  The door creaked open, revealing Ser Justin, his cloak damp with sweat, armour faintly tarnished from recent exertions. “You summoned me, my lord?” he inquired, his tone edged with exhaustion but unwavering in deference.

  “Indeed,” Levi said, gesturing to an empty chair beside Ser Drevos. “Be seated. There’s little time, and much to discuss.”

  As Justin took his place, the earl leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand while his eyes swept across the room. “Bycrest is lost,” he began bluntly, his words cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Hertalean banners fly over its walls. The king is their captive—or worse—and my father’s fate remains a grim mystery. We cannot afford illusions of hope. What matters now is preparation for the worst, not prayer.”

  The room stirred uneasily. Lancelot’s brow furrowed, but he held his tongue.

  Levi continued, his voice sharpening. “I hear whispers among the knightage—rumours, grievances, doubts. If you have questions or quarrels with my decisions, speak now and spare me the dishonour of finding them voiced behind closed doors.”

  Ser Carter was the first to respond, his words hasty and placating. “Nothing serious, my lord. Mere mutterings among restless men.”

  The young lord’s lips curled faintly, a ghost of amusement. “Relax, Ser Carter. I do not punish honesty. In fact, I encourage it.” He gestured broadly to the assembled knights. “This is your chance to air any concerns. Speak freely.”

  For a moment, silence reigned. Then Ser Mannon cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “If I may, my lord... While I understand the need to bolster our ranks, is it wise to entrust the militia’s training to knights formerly sworn to the Heras? Many of us harbour reservations about arming even a portion of them.”

  Levi inclined his head, acknowledging the question with measured patience. “An understandable concern,” he said. “The defecting men of House Hera are not wholly trusted, nor should they be. Those selected for this task were vetted thoroughly by Sers Lancelot and Carter. Their duties are limited to instruction under close supervision. As for the militia, literacy and discipline are as vital as swordsmanship. Without educated leaders, they’re a rabble, not an army.”

  Ser Justin interjected hesitantly. “There’s talk among the men about the “pensions” and “salaries” offered to the militia. Many view it as wasteful—feeding and arming them is one thing, but granting coin to men who might desert or die seems... optimistic.”

  Levi’s eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a quiet, icy edge. “Optimism? No. It is pragmatism. A soldier who sees a future beyond the battlefield fights harder, and a man who knows his family will not starve if he falls will fight without fear. It is not charity; it is loyalty bought with foresight.”

  A heavy silence fell, and Levi’s gaze swept the room once more. “Do you not understand? We are not building a temporary force to weather this storm. We are laying the foundation of an army—one that ought to outlast us all. We've discussed this before. Forming a knightage of loyal men takes years. Years we do not possess. The militiamen would be our only source of manpower for a long while unless we resort to hiring expensive, unreliable, and utterly unruly mercenaries. I truly don't care how inferior you think the militiamen are in comparison to proper men-at-arms; in a batch of four hundred and fifty men, I want to believe at least forty would prove competent enough to somewhat fill in a knight's role in battle. In light of this, whatever expenditure made is worth the cost.”

  Ser Mannon nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in his eyes. Levi’s tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “If there are no further objections, let us turn to the crux of today’s discussion. Count Josh’s forces at Norcastle will return next spring. We must act decisively before then.”

  He slid a parchment across the table toward Ser Justin. “This letter,” Levi explained, “will be sent to Count Josh by pigeon. It details a fabricated account of Faywyn’s supposed conquest, exaggerated losses, and fears of revolt. All fictitious, of course, but Count Josh should be none the wiser and upon receiving this missive, he'll hasten back to Mallowston the moment the Strega thaws, fearing an imminent threat to his family and newly acquired lands. This would ensure our element of surprise and minimize the risk of word reaching him about Mallowston's fall and prompting an undesirable reaction.”

  “...And when he arrives?” Ser Mannon ventured cautiously after a momentary pause. “We cannot hold Mallowston if he brings his full strength.”

  Levi smiled—a thin, predatory smile. “We won’t need to. If he is to make good time on his return as I expect him to desire to upon receiving our letter, he’ll have to take sail up the Strega. There we’ll greet him with fire and steel. Our cannons will dominate the harbour, and should he be foolish enough to attempt to contest us in an artillery duel, his fleet will burn before it ever makes landfall.”

  "...That all good and fine, My Lord, but what if Josh opts to retreat down the Strega at the first sign of trouble?" Lancelot asked.

  "Fear not," Levi reassured. "Gilbert's presence on the battlefield would ensure Lord Josh remains committed. With his family's fate hanging in the balance, the lord won't abandon the battlefield lightly. Any other inquiries?"

  The knights exchanged uncertain glances, but none spoke against him. Levi’s voice carried on, confident and unyielding. "Excellent," he chimed, his tone lifting. "Now, onto our next concern: Towleigh."

  "Towleigh, My Lord?" Ser Carter's brow furrowed. "What's the issue there?"

  "The problem is trust, Ser Carter. Trust. Can we trust them not to attempt to repeat what the Heras attempted? Can we trust them not to enter alliances with external powers to scheme against us just as the Old Houses did against the king at Bycrest? Across the border, we guard the border with Quilton, a kingdom with glaring ambitions to expand given their extensive influence in the mountain tribes' politics. Within the borders of this province, rebellion festers.

  "Ricos and Towleigh are the two closest territories from which any sizable enemy force can be garrisoned. Given its status as a Quiltonian burg, Ricos would remain off-limits until we are forced to consider otherwise, but Towleigh must be brought to heel, either through dialogue or force."

  "Attacking a vassal without justifiable reason would tarnish the von Grifenburg name irreparably, my lord," Lancelot cautioned. "I would advise against that."

  Levi laughed. "Why would I attack a loyal vassal when I can just charge a disloyal one for treasonous behaviour," he chuckled, waving his hands dismissively. "Gilbert would testify against them for aiding in his attempted insurrection during the public trials this coming week; The Timels would be found guilty with the entirety of Faywyn as witnesses. Once the issue with Count Josh is resolved, we would march our then-blooded army to their gates to force a negotiation regarding the matter. Hopefully, news that we subjugated the Heras over the winter would make them more pliant to persuasion. If not we would proceed from there to initiate plans to seize the town. Any questions?"

  Silence.

  "If there are none," the earl declared, rising from his seat, "this meeting is adjourned. You are all dismissed. Robert, accompany me. I believe we still have to review the militia's accounts."