Thebes stands proud upon the Boeotian plain, girded by ancient walls and older curses. Its seven great gates pierce those defences like eyes watching every road—iron-clad and storied, named for heroes long turned to dust. The city breathes martial strength; its streets are broad, its stones worn by the sandals of countless soldiers. Spears and shields hang above doorways like votive offerings. Even the temples here carry the weight of war.
Yet beneath the pride lies shadow. Thebes is a city of dark lineage—where Oedipus once ruled and fell, where bloodlines twist like laurel wreaths too tightly wound. Its people are wary, clever, and fiercely loyal. They honour Ares as readily as Apollo, and speak the names of Cadmus and Pentheus in whispers.
Bronze glints on the training fields. Chariots rattle in the early light. Thebes does not welcome outsiders lightly, but when it does, it watches them well.
It is a city both cursed and sacred, where greatness is forged not by glory—but by surviving fate.