Factions

        To the north, hidden behind sturdy walls atop a strategic peak with veils of wealth spun from silk and shadow, rises the city of Vandylcourt — the heart of The Lone Delphinium, and the dwelling of a queen whose hunger is not for food, nor power, but for more.

        Avaritia, once Queen of The Garden, was the wife of Superbia and mother to two sons: Humilitas, the newly crowned king, and Ira, the scorned brother whose wrath now burns like a smoldering forge. In her youth, Avaritia adorned herself with elegance and wisdom, admired as a sovereign consort. But when Superbia died and the throne was left to be won rather than inherited, her courtly grace rotted into bitterness.

        She did not attend the grand tournament — the ritual meant to determine the next ruler of The Garden. She made no offering to the victor, no gesture to the mourning. When Humilitas was crowned beneath the banners of The Burning Lily, he searched the crowd and found no trace of his mother’s eyes.

        He forgave her.

        She did not ask for forgiveness.

        Instead, Avaritia withdrew to Vandylcourt, a city of refined taste and hoarded treasure, where fountains flowed not with water, but with wine and melted honey. There, far from the whispers of her son’s crown, she turned her heart toward Ira, her firstborn — whose failure to seize the throne she considered not weakness, but robbery.

        Publicly, she declared her favor. “The throne,” she said, “was meant for blood, not blades.” Her words struck like a bell through The Garden, and the echo divided the land. Some, fearing the queen’s retribution, bent knee to her. Others, hearts aligned with virtue, stayed loyal to Humilitas, seeing in him not just a king, but a better future.

        That fracture — that crack in the realm’s unity — became Avaritia’s golden opportunity.

        And she has not let it slip.

        Now she gathers coin, steel, and shadow beneath the dark banners of The Lone Delphinium. Though her court appears a sanctuary of elegance, its purpose is war. Ira, from his bitter perch in Rabbit Hutch, spreads unrest across the hills — sowing discord between Slumberton and Goldenglough, rerouting grain and arms meant for the capital.

        The Alluring Dandelion, under Invidia, fans the flames from below, choking Goldenglough’s supplies from Meritide Bay, while Gula lines his pockets in silence. What little remains is quietly redirected — not to the king, but to the queen. Vandylcourt swells with these stolen riches, its forges burning hotter, its vaults filling, its armories growing fat on false peace.

        Within her gilded halls, Avaritia dreams not of her sons reconciled, but of both set aside — of a crown reclaimed by her own hand, set atop her brow with the jewels of betrayal and blood.

        She claims it is justice. She claims it is right.

        But in truth, it is greed made sovereign.

        Vandylcourt is no longer a retreat. It is a throne-in-waiting. And should its walls march, the realm will bleed.