The "harbor" of Fort Solace was less a bustling port and more a desolate, rocky inlet. The battered merchant ship creaked against makeshift wooden piers that looked perpetually on the verge of collapse. The air, heavy with salt and the sharp scent of drying fish, was colder here, biting deeper than the open sea had.
As Arion stepped off the gangplank onto the wet, uneven planks, his boots sinking slightly into the muck, he scanned his new domain. Fort Solace was a collection of structures that seemed to have sprouted organically from the bleak landscape rather than being intentionally built. A motley assortment of timber shacks, stone hovels, and one slightly larger, more solid-looking building – presumably the fort itself – huddled against the base of a low, rocky hill. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, thin and grey against the heavy sky.
The few figures visible on the docks were a hardy, weathered lot. Their faces, etched with sun, wind, and hardship, held a mixture of curiosity and a deep, ingrained suspicion. They were dressed in practical, patched furs and thick wool, their eyes, accustomed to the wide, empty horizons, narrowed as they took in the sight of the Imperial ship and its newly arrived passenger. Whispers, sharp and low, followed Arion like the chilling wind.
"Another one, eh?" a gruff voice muttered.
"Looks soft. Not like the last lot."
"A prince, they say. What's a prince doing here?"
Commander Theron, a mountain of a man whose scarred face seemed carved from Eldorian granite, stepped forward from a small contingent of the fort's guards. His armor was practical, functional, and well-maintained despite its age, a stark contrast to the ceremonial finery of the Imperial Guard. His gaze, as cold and grey as the Eldorian sea, swept over Arion's slightly disheveled form, lingering on the plain sword at his hip.
"Prince Arion Valerius, I presume?" Theron's voice was a low rumble, devoid of any warmth or deference. "I am Commander Theron, in charge of this… outpost. Welcome to Fort Solace. Such as it is." There was a subtle emphasis on 'such as it is,' a clear implication that Arion would find no luxury here.
Arion, despite the lingering nausea and exhaustion, straightened his shoulders. He extended a hand, a gesture of Imperial courtesy. Theron looked at it for a moment, then, with a barely perceptible sniff, ignored it, turning to the captain of the ship.
"You delivered him. Now get your ship seaworthy and off our waters before a Kraken decides you're a tasty morsel," Theron barked, his priorities clear.
The captain, relieved, mumbled a quick agreement and began shouting orders to his crew. The ship that had brought Arion to his exile was already preparing to depart, eager to escape Eldoria's foreboding embrace.
"Your retinue?" Theron's gaze flicked to Borin and Anya. "Two old guards and a lady's maid. Pitiful. Did the Emperor send you here to die, boy?"
Arion felt a surge of indignation, but he suppressed it. This wasn't the Imperial Court where a sharp word could send a man to the dungeons. Here, it could earn him a blade in the gut or, worse, no help when he needed it. "They are loyal to my mother's memory, Commander. And therefore, loyal to me."
Theron let out a short, humorless laugh. "Loyalty means little out here, Prince. Survival is all that matters. Follow me. I'll show you to your quarters."
He turned and strode towards the main building, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel. Arion followed, Borin and Anya close behind, their faces grim. The inhabitants of the fort – a mix of rough-looking fishermen, trappers, and a few women tending meager vegetable patches – watched them with undisguised curiosity. Some whispered, others merely stared with hardened, indifferent eyes. There was no welcome here, only an assessment of a new, potentially useless burden.
The main building, the "fort," was a squat, two-story structure of grey stone and rough-hewn timber. Inside, it was utilitarian and stark. The air was stale, smelling faintly of damp, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies. Theron led them up a rickety set of stairs to a small, unadorned room.
"Here's your quarters, Your Highness," Theron said, gesturing with a dismissive sweep of his hand.
The room was spartan. A narrow cot with a thin, scratchy blanket, a rough wooden table, and a single, rickety chair. The window, small and grimy, offered a bleak view of the choppy harbor and the endless grey sea. A faint dampness clung to the stone walls, and the cold seemed to seep directly from them.
Arion's eyes widened slightly. His palace chambers could fit this entire room within its antechamber. There was no fire in the small, soot-stained hearth.
"The hearth needs tending," Arion said, more to himself than to Theron. He had never lit a fire in his life.
"Aye, it does," Theron agreed, a hint of something that might have been amusement in his voice. "Welcome to Eldoria, Prince. Here, you earn your warmth."
With that, Theron turned and left, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. Borin and Anya entered, their faces etched with sympathy. Anya immediately began to unpack the few meager belongings, her hands trembling.
Arion walked to the window, placing his hand against the cold stone sill. He looked out at the bleak landscape, the endless, churning sea, and the fortress that was barely a step above a glorified shack. He was truly alone here, stripped of everything that had defined him. This wasn't just a banishment; it was a test. And he had no idea how to even begin