When the apocalypse comes, a mysterious entity grants Theo Spencer the gift of reincarnation. The gift of a quiet life as an alchemist. He awakens in a small town in the southern reaches of a small kingdom in a non-human body. Broken Tusk doesn't seem like much, but his legendary alchemy skills will soon turn their fortune.

When the fourth princess of Istalam is due to dedicate herself to a path serving the crown, she makes a choice that shocks everyone, herself most of all: She leaves. In hiding and exiled from power, Miyara finds her place running a tea shop in a struggling community that sits on the edge of a magical disaster zone. But there's more brewing under the surface of this city—hidden magic and hidden machinations—that threaten all the people who've helped her make her own way.

After twenty years defending the frozen north against some of the most dangerous threats in the nine kingdoms, Rhoren “Bloodbane” has finally earned his retirement. While the blood mage's service to the realm may have ended, burning veins and aching joints remain, and Rhoren soon learns that a warmer climate offers relief from his chronic pain. And a chance at a fresh start.

Warm beds, quaint mysteries, and the best rosemary bread this side of Pigsend Creek. Welcome to the Weary Dragon Inn. Bev may not know who she was before she showed up in the quaint village of Pigsend five years ago, but that doesn’t bother her much. She’s made a tidy little life for herself as the proprietor of the Weary Dragon Inn, where the most notable event is when she makes her famous rosemary bread.

Pete is a simple man who enjoys a good drink amongst good friends. Not too much to ask, right? Now, he's trapped in a fantasy world far from home, stuck underground and inside the body of a smelly dwarf with fantastic facial hair. The worst part? The swill that the dwarves are falling all over themselves to drink. It's flat, it's watery, and it has the alcohol content of a rancid coconut. Can Pete save the dwarves from their own sour fate, or will he be forever doomed to plink his pickaxe away in hopes that he hits the motherlode?