In the dim, flickering light of the hidden boratory, shadows danced across the cluttered shelves and strange contraptions lining the walls. The crystalline vial in Dr. Ginrich’s hand seemed to pulse with a life of its own, the shimmering light within shifting in hues of gold and white.

  The bck-cloaked figure tilted their head slightly, their voice cold and calcuting. "How many can you make?"

  Ginrich’s smile widened, a glint of pride in his eyes as he set the vial down on a metallic table. "That depends entirely on the materials you've gathered." He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "The bodies of royal knights, Pentra knights, or, best of all, padins. Dead or alive, of course, though the living specimens yield a far purer essence."

  The figure’s hooded head dipped in acknowledgement, though their posture remained tense. "And the potency? Can it rival the Aetherium of a true knight?"

  Ginrich hesitated, his fingers drumming against the table. "Not quite." He gestured to the vial. "What I've extracted here is a fraction of the power a true knight wields. The divine energy we draw from these materials dissipates during the process, degrading slightly. But it’s nothing to be disappointed about." His smile turned sly. "It may not match a knight in purity or strength, but it is far more malleable. It can be replicated and mass-produced, given sufficient raw materials."

  The figure stepped closer, looming over the alchemist. "Mass-produced? Enough to outfit an army?"

  Ginrich spread his arms in mock humility. "With enough materials delivered to my boratory, yes. This divine energy may be diluted, but its versatility allows me to shape it into new forms. Weapons, enhancements... soldiers." He paused, watching for a reaction beneath the figure's hood. "Imagine an army fueled by a pale echo of Aetherium. Not as strong as a knight, but far more numerous. Numbers have their own power, wouldn't you agree?"

  The cloaked figure was silent for a moment, the faint hiss of their breathing the only sound. "Then the collection efforts must be doubled. No, tripled."

  Ginrich nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. Bring me more martials, and the light of your army will soon rival the radiance of any kingdom." His eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of ambition and malice.

  "Good," the figure rasped. "But be warned, Ginrich. Fail me, and I will find someone else to continue your work. You are not irrepceable."

  The alchemist’s smile faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, bowing his head. "Of course, my lord. Failure is not in my vocabury."

  The cloaked figure turned, their cape swirling as they moved toward the hidden exit. Ginrich watched them go, his eyes lingering on the shadows they left behind. Once the figure was gone, he turned back to the crystalline vial, his smile returning.

  “Not as potent as a knight?” he murmured to himself, chuckling darkly. “Perhaps. But with the right experiments, who knows what limits we can surpass?”

  The boratory seemed to hum in agreement, the eerie light from the vial casting strange patterns on the walls as Ginrich prepared to push the boundaries of his twisted alchemy even further.

  In a dimly lit tavern in the heart of Ashenveil, the air was thick with smoke and the stench of sweat and cheap ale. Around a battered wooden table, a group of mercenaries gathered, their faces hardened by years of survival in the unforgiving wastes. At the head of the table sat Darnak, their grizzled leader, a man with a face as scarred as the nd they called home.

  Darnak smmed his mug onto the table, spilling ale across the wood. "You’ve all heard the whispers," he growled. "Someone’s hiring out of Ashenveil. Big job. Bigger risks. They’re after royal knights."

  The room fell silent, the clinking of mugs and muted conversations from other tables fading into the background. The mercenaries exchanged uneasy gnces before one of them, a wiry man named Cray, spoke up. "You’re joking, right? A royal knight? One of those walking mountains of steel and Aetherium? Might as well sign our own death warrants."

  Darnak scowled. "That’s what I said. It’s a damn fool’s errand. One knight could carve through twenty of us without breaking a sweat."

  Another mercenary, a broad-shouldered brute called Grint, leaned forward, a sly grin on his face. "Yeah, but you didn’t hear the reward, boss. Two core stones for every ten bodies."

  The room stirred at the mention of core stones, a collective murmur of greed and hesitation rippling through the group. Darnak’s eyes narrowed. "Two core stones? You’re sure?"

  Grint nodded. "Straight from the client’s mouth. They’re paying in stones, boss. The real deal. Aetherium of the purest kind, same as the nobles hoard. You could retire off that kind of haul."

  Darnak leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "A cornerstone..." he muttered, running a calloused hand over his beard. "It’s a hell of a prize, but it’s still suicide. Who’s the idiot stupid enough to take on knights for it?"

  A younger mercenary, barely more than a boy and clearly new to the group, hesitated before speaking up. "What’s a core stone?"

  The room erupted in ughter, the grizzled mercenaries mocking the boy’s ignorance. Grint reached out and smacked him on the back of the head. "What rock have you been living under, kid? A core stone is what makes nobles and knights what they are. Aetherium packed so pure it might as well be a piece of the Goddess herself."

  Cray smirked. "Yeah, and good luck getting your hands on one. You’d have to die once just to even see one, let alone touch it."

  The boy frowned, rubbing the back of his head. "So... they’re that rare?"

  "Rare’s an understatement," Darnak said, his tone grim. "Only the church or the crown controls them. They’re what powers the padins and knights, makes them stronger, faster, and damn near invincible. And now some lunatic wants us to bag knights just to pry the stones out of their corpses."

  Grint leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. "But if we pull it off, boss, just think. A cornerstone for each of us. No more scraping by in this hellhole."

  Darnak stared at the group, his sharp eyes taking in their expressions—fear, greed, and hunger for something better. After a long pause, he smmed his hand down on the table. "Fine," he growled. "We’ll take the job. But don’t get cocky. If any of you think this’ll be easy, you’re already dead."

  The mercenaries cheered, their spirits buoyed by the promise of wealth, even as the shadow of the task ahead loomed rge. The boy, still rubbing his head, leaned toward Grint and whispered, "How do we even fight a knight?"

  Grint ughed darkly. "Pray you don’t have to, kid. Pray they don’t see you coming."

  NOTE

  AshenveilOne of the ten regions of Pentra is twin to Cragmoor. A forsaken and wless expanse shaped by the aftermath of ancient wars. The nd bears the scars of its violent past, with jagged bckened trees, crumbling ruins, and barren wastends stretching into the horizon. Ashenveil attracts society’s outcasts and rogues. Thieves, mercenaries, swindlers, and wanted criminals find refuge here, driven by desperation or greed. It’s a haven for anyone willing to risk it all for a quick payday, regardless of morality or consequence. Trust is a rare currency, and alliances shift as quickly as the winds that carry the ash.

  Land Characteristics:Volcanic fissures split the ground, sending up trails of smoke and the occasional gout of fire, while vast ashen pins stretch endlessly under a grey, oppressive sky. The ruins are said to hold cursed relics and forbidden treasures, luring adventurers and opportunists alike. Yet, the nd itself seems hostile, with whispers of vengeful spirits and traps left by those who perished long ago.

  In Ashenveil, survival belongs to the ruthless, and wealth often comes at the cost of blood.

  The Orders of Pentra

  Royal Knights maintain strict neutrality toward the church and nobility, focusing solely on the monarchy’s interests.

  Padins priorities the divine mission above all else, and their loyalty to the Pope and Priestess can create tension with the King if their goals diverge.

  Knights of Pentra often serve their noble patrons’ agendas, sometimes conflicting with the overarching goals of the King or Church.