The fifteenth year of Queen Rose Wimberly's reign marked three years since Ray began his decidedly bizarre new life in Carmen, a quaint little border village in the Vermont Barony.
On the surface, Carmen was the sort of place you'd expect to find in the background of a pastoral painting—sheep grazing, villagers waving, and absolutely no hint that life there might one day involve a near-fatal tangle with monsters and deceit. Yet here Ray was, playing adopted son to Harold Vermont, the local lord who had plucked him from the jaws of a far worse fate. Harold didn't just rescue Ray and his companion Crystal from the forest; he essentially saved them from starring in a cautionary tale about why trusting strangers is a terrible idea.
For Ray and Crystal, Harold's intervention was nothing short of divine providence—or at least providence with better timing than most. Their previous "protectors" turned out to be less "guardians" and more "con artists with a flair for drama." These enterprising individuals had crafted intricate tales of danger and heroism to lure adventurers into their schemes, feeding off the universal truth that there's always someone dumb enough to believe they're destined for glory. It was a clever scam until it wasn't, and Ray and Crystal were left holding the bag—of betrayal, naturally.
Without Harold's blessed intervention, their story would have ended in tragedy. Betrayed by allies, mistaken for monsters, and hunted by glory-seekers, they would've become little more than a footnote in an adventurer's tragic memoir. Their biggest mistake? Running afoul of a doppelganger, one of those mythical creatures whose mere mention can turn any tavern into a buzzing beehive of bravado and ridiculous wagers. These shapeshifters were infamous for mimicking their prey down to the tiniest detail, making them both the ultimate challenge for adventurers and an absolute nightmare for anyone unfortunate enough to be mistaken for one. Ray and Crystal survived the encounter, sure—but "survived" in this case was a euphemism for "lived to tell the kind of story no one would ever believe."
For Crystal, the betrayal and subsequent doppelganger fiasco left her more jaded than a dragon's hoard. Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor, and she was the punchline. As for Harold, his rescue of the two might have been an act of pure kindness—or perhaps just an unspoken agreement with the universe to keep life interesting. Adopting Ray as his son certainly achieved that. The villagers, ever eager for scandal, gleefully embraced the rumor that Ray was Harold's illegitimate child, born of an affair with Crystal. It was the sort of gossip that spread faster than wildfire in a drought, and Harold wisely let it run its course. The truth? Far too complicated and far less entertaining. Besides, if the villagers wanted a juicy story to spice up their cabbage-farming lives, who was he to deny them?
In the three years that followed, Ray discovered that this world was as strange and layered as a poorly written epic—but much more interesting.
It all began with The Source, a primordial being whose origin story read like something a bard would sing after three too many ales. The Source, according to legend, created the world in a fit of artistic ambition before shattering itself into fragments to create humans, elves, demons, and beast-people. From its scattered remains, mana was born—a magical energy that flowed through everything like an invisible stream of caffeine. Oh, and spirits? Tiny shards of The Source, drifting around invisibly, supposedly watching over the world. Whether they did so with benevolence or exasperated sighs was anyone's guess.
The geography of this world was divided into conveniently labeled Racelands, as though The Source had been too tired to come up with creative names. To the north was the Beast Raceland, home to the beast-people; the Elven Raceland lay to the west, presumably full of tall trees and even taller egos. Demons held the south in their Demon Raceland, while humans ruled the east, divided into two kingdoms: Bermone and Stokes. At the center of it all was the Monster Lands, a vast stretch of wilderness that served as a sort of chaotic neutral zone—or as the locals called it, "a great place to die horribly."
Ray's current home, Bermone, was the more powerful of the two human kingdoms, boasting a thriving economy, a fearsome military, and an impressive capacity for holding grudges. A century ago, a massive civil war had torn the Human Raceland apart, leaving Bermone and Stokes glaring at each other across their shared border like estranged siblings at a family reunion. The reasons for the war were shrouded in secrecy, but popular theories ranged from political betrayal to someone drinking the last of the royal wine. No one really knew, and frankly, most people didn't care—until the border skirmishes flared up, of course.
Bermone's ruler, Queen Rose Wimberly, was a force of nature. She had claimed the throne through the Royals and Crowns contest, a grueling competition designed to weed out anyone without the cunning of a fox and the patience of a saint. Rose was the first woman to win the title of heir, an achievement that earned her both admiration and a significant number of enemies. The stories of her rise were the kind of thing bards loved to embellish—though, in this case, the truth was probably just as dramatic.
Carmen, meanwhile, existed on the fringes of all this intrigue. Perched at the edge of the Vermont Barony, it was a sleepy village surrounded by enough danger to make cartographers break out in hives. To the west lay the Monster Lands, to the southwest the Demon Border, and to the south the Stokes Dukedom. If you turned north, you'd find the rugged March of Lothwyn, and to the east, the County of Greythorne. Carmen's economy relied on two things: farming and adventurers foolish enough to stop by on their way to somewhere more interesting. It was the kind of place where nothing much happened—except, of course, when it did.
Despite its precarious location, Carmen had a certain charm. The villagers worked their fields, tended their livestock, and gossiped with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for bards spinning tales of heroism. For Ray, it was the closest thing to peace he had known. Harold's manor, perched on a hill overlooking the village like an ever-watchful shepherd, became his sanctuary. Over three years, he learned about the intricacies of mana, the legends of The Source, and the bafflingly complicated politics of the Human Raceland.
For the first time since arriving in this strange world, Ray felt a sense of belonging. Carmen wasn't just a place to live—it was a refuge, a home. And if the locals were a little eccentric and their gossip a little too creative, well, that was a small price to pay for a life free of betrayal, doppelgangers, and ill-fated monster hunts.