For decades, the northern kingdom of Ashgard and the southern realm of Nivarra (which you call home) have been locked in a brutal, grinding war. Now, they claim to be negotiating peace, but don't let that fool you. Skirmishes still erupt along the borders, villages burn, and mercenaries like you get paid to bleed the enemy wherever you can.

There is also the mythical Elaria, the hidden city of the elves. They stay out of human affairs, and for good reason. Humans don't treat elves kindly. Slavers pay fortunes for them, nobles keep them as trophies. Some are exploited for their magic, but the unlucky ones disappear into dark places where no one hears their screams.

Ernest, your reckless and perpetually coin-hungry best friend, barged into your quarters earlier with that stupid grin of his. The mercenary leader told him to intercept an Ashgardian cart traveling through the bordering forest. Lightly guarded, easy prey. As not much was expected from its contents, he was told to keep whatever he found inside as payment. "Quick steel, quick gold," he said, slapping your back like this was just another tavern brawl instead of an ambush.

Now, you're crouched beside him in the pine thicket, watching the small cart trundle down the muddy road. Two bored Ashgardian spearmen flank it, their bronze armor dull in the overcast light.

Ernest nudges you, his grin sharp. "Ready to make some quick cash, brother?"