“The throne knows only those who can hold it.” — carved on the stone gate of the Royal City

Chronicle

The first half of the parchment book that opens the game: the Grey Tide, the empty throne, the old houses that outlasted the tide, and where the Four Peoples and the legends came from.

Prologue: The Empty Throne

The throne of the Royal City has stood empty for three hundred years.

The last High King died on the night the Grey Tide came. At dusk a grey mist rose from the sea, taller than the walls and colder than the night. It crept over the harbours, over the wheat fields, through the seven gates of the Royal City, and swallowed cities, fields and chronicles alike — leaving nothing behind but legends.

In the mist there were no kings and no borders. For three hundred years no one knew what was left on the other side.

Now the mist is withdrawing. The shores of the outer lands are rising again, and young lords are stepping onto the beaches. Some plant their banners in the sand; others are already gazing into the depths of the mist — where the empty throne still waits for its master.

The Grey Tide

The old folk say the Grey Tide is not a mist at all. It is the sea, dreaming.

It comes without a sound. Those it swallows do not die — they fall asleep, and their cities, their crafts and everything they remember sink with them into the grey dream. Smiths forget how to work the bellows, farmers forget when to sow, and even writing is licked from the page, leaf by leaf. That is why, when the tide ebbs, people must begin again with stone axes and huts of thatch.

Yet the tide is slowly waking. Each time the mist pulls back, something sleeping wakes with it: first a strip of coast, a river valley; then the old roads and ruins buried beneath; and then forgotten knowledge — how bronze is cast, how iron is quenched. Some say that when the mist withdraws to the foot of the Royal City, even the High King's crown will shine again.

What the mist gives back, it never takes again. The banners you plant and the walls you raise will stand.

Where the Mist Withdraws

The mist withdrew first from the outer lands: Starfall, Moonshade, Jadecoast, Cloudsea, Duskmoor, Tidewatch and the Oldwild. They lie farthest from the Royal City, and their soil is the kindest. Here the young lords land, build and till. These are the cradle provinces, where the Old Pact shelters new houses and the strong may not prey upon the weak.

The Heartland still sleeps in the mist. From the shore you can see its ridges, like a sleeping beast: the middle ring of Anvilmark, the Eyrie, Redrock and their sisters; within them the inner ring of Dragonspine, Holywell, Ashmark and the rest; and at the very heart the Crownlands, where the Royal City stands. The mist retreats ring by ring — the middle ring wakes first, the inner ring and the Crownlands last.

And farther out at sea the mist is still too thick to see through. Other continents and other kingdoms may lie there, waiting for the next ebb.

You are one of these young lords. Choose a stretch of coast and plant your banner.

The Four Peoples

On the night the Grey Tide rose, people fled in four directions.

Some fled up the mountains. They climbed past the snowline, carved their towns into the rock, and lived three hundred years on the stone and iron of the mountain's heart. They became the Highlanders: their walls are the thickest, and their infantry, behind great shields, the hardest to move.

Some took to their horses and rode deep into the grasslands, always ahead of the tide. For three hundred years they never stopped; the saddle is their home. The riders of the Steppe Folk come fastest, leave fastest, and carry home the most.

Some hid in the old woods where the mist could not reach, and lived by the bow. The arrows of the Forest Folk fly truest, and what they hide, no one ever finds.

And some simply took to their boats, drifting along the edge of the mist for three hundred years until they had seen every coast. The Tidefolk will trade in anything, and when they come ashore to plunder, each of them carries off enough for two.

Now the tide is ebbing, and the four peoples have come home. Once your city stands, think on where your people came back from: their craft is your strength, and your clan hall trains warriors no one else has.

Old Houses and Wild Tribes

You are not the only one who has woken.

Before the Grey Tide the Realm had many great houses. Their towers stood on high ground, and the mist never swallowed them whole: the Iron Duke, the Black Count, the Golden Khan, the Storm King, the Night Regent… Now they step out of their towers, muster their hosts, and send riders to the coast to see who lights fires beneath the new banners. They will spread their lands and demand tribute from their neighbours. A young lord who has held a city for two days with too few soldiers will often hear their horns one morning.

And there are the tribes of the wild — the Wolf Fang, Skull Hill, the Blood Moon… For generations they have roamed the edge of the mist, gathering what the tide washes ashore: weapons, grain, and gold. Their camps are well guarded, fiercer the closer they lie to the Heartland; but whoever beats them goes home with spoils, and sometimes with a legend willing to follow.

The Passes

Mountains and great rivers cut the Realm into provinces, and between one province and the next there are only the passes: a stone bridge, a mountain gap, or a narrow isthmus rising out of the sea.

Whoever holds a pass holds the road. Other lords' armies cannot march through a pass you hold; they must go the long way round, or take the pass first. Yet the holder may also open the gate and set a price — grain, timber, or gold. Merchants and armies alike must weigh it: pay the toll, or take the long road.

The old folk tell of a house that guarded a bridge and collected tolls for three generations, until they were rich enough to buy half a province. Then came a king who would not pay… The story always stops there, for the storyteller wants a copper first.

The Legends

The Grey Tide does not only take. It also brings.

It rises from another world, and when it ebbs it leaves that world's legends on the shore: Hannibal, who led elephants over snowy mountains; Caesar, who crossed the Rubicon; Guan Yu, who slew a champion before his wine went cold; Zhuge Liang with his feather fan; Joan, who carried her banner into the flames… They wander the Realm, weighing every lord who plants a banner; and each time the tide pulls back and the Realm enters a new age, more of them awaken.

A legend follows only a lord whose renown is great enough. Renown is earned: win a battle, hold a city, sweep away a camp, lead your people into a new age, and your name is sung a little farther. The more famous the legend, the more renown they ask; and keeping a legend in your service costs good, solid gold.

The larger your town hall, the more legends it can host. They will lead your armies or hold your city — and when your paths part, you may send them on their way.

The Southern Ebb

On day 42 a wind rose over the southern ice sea.

The Grey Tide that lay at the end of the world drew back like the sea at ebb. First a white spine rose out of the mist — a frozen land bridge running from the snowy southern shore of the old lands into the fog — and beyond it, farther south, a land no one living had ever seen. Old sailors call it Ebbshore: where the tide fell.

Ebbshore slept beneath the mist for three hundred years. Ship ribs lie stranded along its shores, and the roads of the old world sleep under its salt marshes. At its heart stands a drowned keep, its walls still hung with weed; they call that place Sunkenhold, and they say the old dynasty hid half its treasury there.

New houses come ashore on the outer ring of Ebbshore — Saltmere, Gullcliff, Driftwood, Shellstrand — young land, sheltered by the old covenant like every outer province. The old lords have heard the news too, but they can only cross by the ice bridge, and at its waist stands an isthmus fort: whoever holds it holds the southern gate.

This time more than one layer of sleeping knowledge woke: the Medieval Age (day 42), Gunpowder Age (day 56). Castle spires, squares of pikes and knights in plate came first; soon after, the smoke of matchlocks and the guns of star-shaped bastions woke as well.

The mist over Sunkenhold lingers 7 days longer. When it lifts, Ebbshore will be the new battlefield — and in the Royal City, the empty throne will be contested once more.

The High Kings

The throne of the Royal City has stood empty for three hundred years.

From this age on, whenever a round of the contest for the Royal City ends, the alliance holding the city is crowned: a crown is set before its tag, a monument rises in the Royal City, and its leader's name is written on this page, to be handed down from age to age.

This page is still blank: the throne is waiting for its master.

Epilogue: The Next Ebb

The Grey Tide has not yet fully ebbed.

In the Heartland the mist is lifting ring by ring, and the gates of the Royal City stand at its end. Whichever house, whichever band of allies reaches the throne — and holds it — the Realm will remember their names.

Beyond the sea the mist still lies thick. Each time the tide pulls back again, a new land will rise: new shores, new passes, new tribes, perhaps even a new throne. By then stone axes will long have given way to bronze and steel; and they say that, farther still, birds of steel will fly over the Royal City.

Until then, tend your lands, choose your allies, and watch your neighbours.

Let the Realm remember your name.

The throne is still empty

There is still plenty of open land in the Realm, waiting for your first city.

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