Amani, kingdom of Gold, they used to call it. The crown jewel of the Zahlani empire, where white stone towers scraped the sky, and every street was lined with gilded facades. A kingdom where the shine wasn't just on the surface; it ran deep, fueled by a river of wealth that flowed from the guts of adventurers and merchants alike. It wasn't an exaggeration to say it was the richest, most beautiful region in all of Zahlani—at least, it had been. Now? Now it was just another name in a long list of kingdom brought low by greed, ambition, and a complete lack of foresight.
The wealth of Amani didn't come from mining or trade routes—oh no, our riches came from something far more dangerous, far more enticing. Dungeons. Seven of them, in fact, sprawled around the kingdom like the arms of some ancient, slumbering beast.There were thirty dungeons in total throughout the Zahlani empire, but it was those seven around Amani that defined us, that gave us our brief, shining moment in the history books. It was those Seven pits of death and treasure that drew adventurers from every corner of the empire, from green-eyed novices with dreams of glory to grizzled veterans with scars that told a thousand stories. The dungeon entrances were our lifeblood, feeding the inns, the taverns, the marketplaces. It didn't matter how many died within those dark, cursed holes—there were always more, lining up for a chance to get rich or die trying.
And it was never just the adventurers who reaped the rewards. The merchants thrived on it, too, turning each city into a bazaar of the bizarre. Whatever you could imagine, Amani had it. A potion of youth? Absolutely. A strand of hair from a mutated cyclops? Of course. If there was a coin to be made, some seedy merchant had it in stock, no questions asked. It was this madness that made Amani the envy of the empire and the bane of any honest man's existence.
But that war—an unending tide of blood and destruction—they should've seen it coming. The signs were all there, plain as day, but like fools, they ignored them. The king, Rubicun the Pious—more like Rubicun the Foolish—ignored them. He was too busy praying for divine guidance to notice his officals stealing gold for the emperor. You see, Amani is—no, was—a part of the Zahlani Empire, an empire fueled by gold, steel, and conquest.
The Zahlani didn't just rule; they devoured. They consumed everything in their path, leaving behind nothing but ash and the stench of death. They were like a dungeon monster with an insatiable hunger, but instead of adventurer they feasted on the riches of a thousand lands. Their coffers overflowed with gold, their forges burned day and night, and their armies... their armies were like the wrath of the gods themselves.
They were particularly upset when they found out Amani wasn't paying its fair due. The emporer didn't take kindly to being shortchanged—especially not by one of their own provinces. Gold was the lifeblood of their war machine, and every coin that didn't make its way to the imperial treasury was an insult that demanded blood in return.
The fact that Amani dared to hold back on their tribute? That was a death sentence. The emperor didn't care for excuses, didn't care that the officials and their families had been wiped out in the chaos, didn't care that we offered to pay double, triple in taxes to make amends. All they saw was defiance, and defiance had to be culled, just like adventurers cull dungeon monsters.
You see, dungeons are a bit like gardens; they need tending, culling, to keep them in check. Monsters breed in those dark, cursed places, their numbers swelling like a sickness if left unchecked. Regular culling keeps the balance, keeps them from spilling out into the world. The Zahlani understood that well enough. But to them, Amani wasn't a garden—it was a festering wound, a rogue dungeon breeding treachery instead of monsters. And they were the adventurers, with their gleaming swords and purifying fire, coming to root out the infection before it spread.
It took them only a matter of days to remove Amani from the map. I remember how the news spread like wildfire through the streets. One day, we were a province of the Zahlani Empire, a small but proud part of their grand dominion. The next, we were nothing. Just another patch of scorched earth where their armies had passed through, leaving behind nothing but ruins and ghosts.
Their response was as efficient as it was merciless. They didn't send a delegation, didn't issue any ultimatums. They sent legions. Soldiers with eyes like cold iron, mages who rained fire from the skies, and war machines that ground our defenses to dust. Amani didn't stand a chance. How could we? We were nothing more than a minor province with a handful of underfed soldiers and walls that hadn't seen a real battle in generations.
The Zahlani didn't just defeat us; they erased us. They made an example out of Amani, a warning to the rest of the empire. You don't defy the Zahlani. You don't withhold what's theirs. If you do, you get wiped off the map—literally.
Our cities were leveled with the same cold precision an adventurer might use to clear out a dungeon, each strike planned, each flame calculated. The streets where I used to play were buried under rubble, the markets where my mother bought our bread reduced to ash. All that was left were whispers of what had been, ghost stories for those who were unlucky enough to survive.