The Crown’s Hounds of Indiana

Rain spat against the worn shingles of the old tavern just outside Ironwatch, a weather-beaten fortress town tucked along Britannia's western frontier. The place stank of boiled cabbage, wet wool, and secrets—a perfect breeding ground for lies, deals, and the kind of shadows the world dared not name. The locals called it The Cracked Pike, a low-slung, timber-laced den that had seen better centuries. Tonight, it played host to wolves.

Five men sat in the back corner, their cloaks heavy with the stench of the road. They didn't speak much—just exchanged glances and silent nods. They were spies, but not the kind that wrote in codes and hid daggers in their boots. These were the Crown's Hounds—operatives of the Indiana Empire, the most feared intelligence force on the continents.

"You feel that? Smell of rot. This place is bleeding beneath the surface. You don't bend to another crown overnight. Not without pus under the scab."