The car pulled smoothly onto the main thoroughfare, leaving the gates of the Elford estate behind. As the sleek black vehicle merged into the arterial lanes of Vermillion City, the horizon widened—skyscrapers rising like glass monoliths, each one a different language of power and ambition.
Vermillion wasn't just a city. It was a declaration.
A fusion of old-world aristocracy and bleeding-edge innovation, the city unfolded in layers—each district bearing its own pulse, its own unspoken codes.
To the east was Marrowgate, a dense, ancient quarter threaded with cobbled lanes and low-arched bridges. Most of the city's historical institutions were housed there—museums, grand libraries, old-world cafes with wrought-iron terraces and faded sigils etched into their stones.
