The transition was as drastic as a splash of cold river water after a lifetime in the furnace. As the Imperial Caravan crossed the invisible line where the Great Western Desert surrendered to the fertile basins of the Triple Rivers, the world changed its palette. The relentless gold of the dunes was replaced by the deep, emerald greens of weeping willows and the shimmering silver of the waterways.
In the heart of this delta sat the City of Veils—a neutral metropolis where the only king was the Coin, and the only law was Discretion.
Because it was a city of trade and secrets, the City of Veils had a peculiar tradition: everyone wore masks. From the wealthiest spice merchant to the lowliest cutpurse, a half-mask of silk, leather, or bone was a requirement for entry. Here, titles were discarded at the gates. It didn't matter if you were an Emperor or a beggar; if your gold was good, you were welcome.
