Dunskar thrives where it should not.
The land itself is… unnatural. Beneath the city runs something the locals call a leyline—a current of energy, invisible yet undeniably present. It is said that this is why the kingdom stands here.
And why it refuses to fall.
Treasure vaults—ancient, buried, dangerous—are scattered across the region. Some sealed. Some forgotten. Some… very much alive.
The crown does not guard them alone.
They rely on the Guild.
Together, they maintain order—mapping threats, controlling access, and ensuring that whatever sleeps beneath does not crawl its way into the streets above.
For the common people, this means safety.
At least… on the surface.
The central districts are pristine. Stone roads, guarded gates, structures that speak of wealth and control. The king and the nobles reside there, surrounded by layers of protection.
But Dunskar has another face.
Beneath the city, beyond the reach of sunlight—or perhaps, beyond the reach of care—there are tunnels. Old drainage systems, abandoned structures, forgotten spaces.
They are not empty.
Smugglers. Thieves. Those who slipped through the cracks… or were pushed into them. They live below, building a second Dunskar in the dark.
No one speaks of them openly.
Yet somehow, everyone knows.
The nobles, for their part, present themselves as benefactors. Trade routes flourish under their influence. Merchants move freely, wealth circulates, the kingdom grows.
But I have learned something important:
Their generosity has direction.
Support is given where it will be seen.
Investment flows where it can be counted.
Every five years, twelve seats in the royal council are decided. Twelve nobles, chosen not just by lineage—but by influence.
The king makes thirteen.
And so, every road built…
every trade opened…
every act of “kindness”…
is never just for the people.
It is for the vote.
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