Prologue: The Empire of Steam

In the mist-wreathed morning light, the port of Kettlewick bustled like a kettle at full boil. Crates stacked high with fragrant tea leaves swayed dangerously as workers hauled them from the holds of merchant ships. Aromas of jasmine, oolong, and pu’erh curled through the air, mingling with the briny scent of the sea.

They called it the Empire of Steam, Steepia — a kingdom built on leaves and longing. Here, tea was more than a drink; it was life, law, and currency all at once.

Maribel Clay wiped the sweat from her brow as she polished the spout of an old copper kettle, watching the chaotic dance of trade unfold. Beneath the clamor of merchants barking orders and sailors unloading cargo, she heard the steady, comforting hiss of steam rising from the town’s many brewing pots.

But today, the usual harmony felt off. There was tension in the air, a tightness behind every transaction, as if the whole town was holding its breath.

"Oi, Raji! Mind the edge of that crate, love!" called Tamsin, a stout merchant with arms like iron bands. "The last thing we need is the Duchess’s silver-tip rolling into the gutter!"

Raji, her trading partner, grinned as he steadied the teetering crate. "Wouldn’t be the first time her Grace drank from the gutter, eh?"

Their laughter, though genuine, barely masked the unease creeping into their voices.

Maribel’s gaze drifted to the banners fluttering above the port, emblazoned with Steepia’s crest: a kettle encircled by golden leaves. Proud symbols of the kingdom’s wealth. But pride, she knew, could crack like thin porcelain.

"It’s just leaves... isn’t it?" Maribel whispered to herself. "Leaves and water. Yet it binds the world."

Her father, Master Clay, always said the same. He’d taught her to respect the leaf, to understand its balance of bitterness and bloom. Yet as Maribel watched the traders scurry, the sweat on their brows slick with anxiety, she saw not balance, but brewing unrest.

A sudden shout cut through the morning hum. "Incoming shipment!" barked the Port Master. "Tariff raised three crowns a crate!"

The crowd froze. Three crowns? Outrage rippled through the market like a dropped pebble in a pond.

"Three crowns? That’s robbery!" Tamsin snapped.

"That’s Brulée," Raji replied bitterly. "Squeezing every leaf for gold."

Maribel’s heart twisted. Chancellor Brulée — the tyrant with a smile sharp as a sugar knife. His policies were drying the lifeblood from their trade, one tariff at a time.

Above it all, she imagined Brulée himself, perched in his council chamber, sipping dark, bitter tea as he watched his empire writhe beneath him.

But Steepia was not yet broken.

As the townsfolk began to murmur and shift, a spark flickered in Maribel’s chest. A spark of defiance. A thought steeping in the corners of her mind: What brews beneath this empire of steam?

She didn’t know yet. But she would find out.

And when the pot boiled over, Steepia would be ready.