If you cross the Indiana Oceans, scale the Goulten Mountains, navigate through the wilds of the Rivrian Forest, and finally pass the Dam of Riches, you'll find it.
The Charlington Kingdom.
Home to many.
On the outskirts, hard-working farmers tend to vast fields under the blue-gold sky. They grow everything you could possibly need—from grain to dreamleaf, apples to glowroot. Their hands are calloused, their laughter loud, and their stories honest.
Further in, you'll find the beating heart of discipline: the Charlington Army. Young soldiers train day and night to protect their borders—and, if needed, die for their king.
Closer to the city center, the streets thrum with life. Common folk, traders, and wanderers mingle in the bustling lanes. Merchants, some stationary, some always on the move, sell goods from every corner of the known world. Blacksmiths hammer steel and spit curses in equal measure—though I suspect their grumpiness comes less from the heat and more from the fact that no matter how fine their blades, someone always compares them to the mythical dwarves.
(Assuming they even exist.)
The main streets of Charlington are paved with brick and lined with timber cottages. And then there are the alchemists—of all stripes and scents—brewing, burning, and bottling their strange ideas in tall crooked towers or soot-stained cellars.
And high above it all, nestled atop the golden spine of the mountains, sits the royal jewel: the Grand Castle of King Charles. Stoic. Silent. Always watching.
But if you walk past that...
Past the courts, the halls, and the polished marble...
You'll see a cottage. Not quite grand, but larger than most. Wood-framed, ivy-wrapped, smoke curling gently from its crooked chimney.
That's where you'll find me.
Aurenberg. Jessie Aurenberg.
Now, the thing about alchemists is—most of them are crazy. Not in a dangerous way (usually), but in the way that you can't tell if the smell of fire means brilliance or imminent death.
Jessie Aurenberg's lab was a shrine to that ambiguity.
The walls were stone, cracked and scorched from years of "successful failures." Every shelf groaned under the weight of vials, grimoires, burnt-out lenses, and jars labeled in neat ink like "Don't open. I'm serious." or "Do not shake unless fleeing."
A skeletal rat named Winston lived in the rafters. Jessie had accidentally reanimated him once and found his companionship oddly comforting, even if Winston occasionally tried to nibble his manuscripts.
On the far table, coils of copper twisted into a machine that whistled when no one touched it. Above it, pinned to a board, were pages and diagrams linked by thread like a spider's web made of obsession.
And in the center of the chaos, hunched over a bubbling vial of something suspiciously blue, stood Jessie—ink-stained, sleep-deprived, and absolutely convinced he was on the verge of something historic.
"Stabilization at 63 degrees Celsius," he muttered, scribbling furiously. "Coagulation minimal. Hmm. Unexpected. Delightful. Possibly dangerous."
He looked up into the flask hanging on a chain, catching a warped reflection of himself—wild hair, dark rings under pale eyes, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth.
He turned the flask away with a wince.
"Don't look at me like that, Winston," he muttered toward the ceiling. "At least I have skin."
---
"Still talking to the dead rat, I see."
Jessie jolted, knocking a beaker off the table. He caught it mid-fall with a startled grunt. "Don't sneak up on people! That's how you end up full of needles."
In the doorway stood Eira—wrapped in a simple navy cloak, her braid tied tight, a slight smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.
"And good morning to you too," she said, stepping inside with practiced ease. Her boots crunched over salt circles and scribbled diagrams on the floor.
"I thought royalty knocked."
"I thought scientists slept."
Jessie blinked. "That's… a low blow."
She laughed softly. "You're lucky I like you."
Jessie scratched the back of his head, awkward. "Statistically, one in every thirty people does. That puts you in a very exclusive bracket."
"You made that up."
"No I didn't. I wrote a paper."
"Was it peer reviewed?"
"…My rat nodded."
She rolled her eyes and stepped closer, scanning the workbench. "What is all this?"
"Attempt number forty-eight. Cellular restoration serum. Possibly life-altering. Possibly organ-melting. Results… pending."
"You look like a melted organ."
"That's rude. I'm just… chemically overwhelmed."
---
She was about to retort when her smile suddenly faded.
"Jessie... you're bleeding."
Jessie stiffened. "It's fine."
He turned away quickly and wiped the fresh blood from his lip with the sleeve of his black coat.
"How long?" she asked sharply.
"How long what?"
"How long since you last slept?"
Jessie hesitated. "Two… three days. It's hard to say. What's time but a series of—"
"Jessie."
He glanced at her, then at the floor. "...Four. Maybe five."
She stepped forward. "Come on. We're going to the infirmary."
"I have work—"
"You're bleeding from your face!"
"Well when you say it like that it sounds dramatic—"
"I'm not asking," she said, taking his arm with a grip stronger than he expected. "This isn't a request. You're going."
For a moment, he looked like he might argue. Then he saw the worry in her eyes—real, quiet, and far deeper than concern for a friend.
He nodded.
The Royal Infirmary of Charlington was built like a temple—vaulted ceilings, stained glass, and the perpetual smell of rosemary and red wine.
Jessie sat on a cold examination bench, blinking under candlelight as a trio of physicians pored over test runes, blood samples, and divination scrolls.
The head physician—a white-bearded man who had clearly never been interrupted in his life—kept muttering under his breath.
One of the assistants dropped a vial.
Another whispered, "That's not possible…"
"Check it again!" barked a younger doctor. "There's no way his cells are collapsing that fast."
The elder physician finally slammed his book shut. "By the stars—this shouldn't exist."
He turned to Jessie, brows furrowed with something between fascination and fear.
"We've run every test twice. Magically and manually."
Jessie, pale and slouched, raised a hand. "Okay. And the award for Most Ominous Pause goes to…"
> The doctor inhaled deeply.
> "You're dying, Mr. Aurenberg."
> "Define dying."
> "You have a condition we've never seen. We're calling it Internum Deterius. It means your cells are… devouring themselves. Quietly. Rapidly."
Jessie blinked.
> "How long?"
The physician looked away for a moment. Then locked eyes with him.
> "Six months to a year. At best."
Silence.
Eira gripped the bench edge, knuckles white. Jessie looked down at his hands—still ink-stained, still shaking.
The walk home was silent.
Eira had offered to stay, but Jessie waved her off with a weak joke about needing time to "decompose properly." She hadn't laughed.
Now, back in his cottage, everything felt... louder. The ticking of the gears, the drip of condensation from a faulty pipe, the soft scrape of Winston in the rafters.
Jessie stood in the center of the lab—frozen. The air, once filled with the scent of sulfur and ink, now stank of mortality.
He moved suddenly—violent, furious.
A tray of vials shattered across the stone floor. Pages flew from the desk as he swept his notes aside, screaming—an unformed, animal sound of raw frustration.
> "Six months?!" he roared, kicking over a stool. "What does that even mean!? How do you measure life in months? Do I start counting days? Hours?"
He grabbed a flask and hurled it at the far wall. It exploded in a flare of blue light.
"I've spent half my life studying the body! Mapping its secrets! Charting the pathways of decay and rebirth! And now—" he gasped, chest heaving, "Now my own cells are mocking me?!"
He stumbled to the table, gripping its edge with white knuckles. For a moment, his eyes stung—but no tears came. He couldn't afford them. Not yet.
His gaze drifted.
A photo. Or, rather, an etched parchment pinned to the wall.
It was old. Faded. But still clear enough to see a younger Jessie standing beside his mentor—an alchemist named Maehrin—a woman known for being as terrifying as she was brilliant.
The inscription below was written in Maehrin's sharp, slanted hand:
> "The body is a riddle. A cage. A challenge.
If it breaks, rebuild it."
Jessie stared.
Then something shifted.
Not all at once. Not like lightning. More like coal catching fire.
A flicker. A breath.
His shoulders straightened.
His hand, still bleeding from glass, curled into a fist.
> "No."
He looked up at the chaos he'd made—his lab in ruin, his future ripped apart.
And yet...
> "No."
> "Iam a scientist!" he growled!, fire returning to his voice.
"God damn it. If there's a problem—I fix it."
Winston squeaked from the rafters, as if in agreement.
Jessie wiped the blood from his mouth and turned to the board—papers fluttering, string dangling, questions unanswered.
He reached for a quill.
> "Let's get to work."