The silence of his new "quarters" in Fort Solace was deafening. It wasn't the quiet hush of a palace wing, but a vast, empty stillness punctuated only by the distant lapping of waves and the mournful cry of a seabird. Arion stood in the center of the cramped room, the rough woolen blanket on the cot looking more like a sack than bedding.
His first attempt at lighting the hearth was a humiliating failure. He'd seen servants do it a thousand times, their movements practiced and swift. He tried to mimic them, fumbling with the damp kindling and a dull flint. Smoke billowed into the room, stinging his eyes and making him cough, but no flame caught. After several sputtering attempts, he kicked at the cold stones in frustration. This simple, basic act of survival felt like an impossible puzzle.
"Need a fire, Your Highness?" a gruff voice echoed from the doorway.
Arion spun around. Sergeant Borin stood there, a wry, almost pitying look on his face. In his calloused hands, he held a small bundle of dry twigs and a piece of tinder. Without a word, he knelt, and with a few deft strikes of his own flint, coaxed a tiny flame to life. The warmth, though meager, was instantly noticeable, a small beacon in the overwhelming cold.
"Thank you, Borin," Arion muttered, feeling the flush of embarrassment creep up his neck.
"No need for thanks, Prince. Just practicalities," Borin grunted, rising. "This ain't the capital. No one here to do your warming for you." His eyes softened slightly. "Anya's making some tea in the common hall. Might warm you from the inside."
Arion followed Borin to the common hall, a large, drafty room that served as mess hall, gathering place, and probably barracks for some. The air was thick with the smells of boiled fish and damp wool. A few hardy Eldorians sat at rough tables, eating in silence, their gazes occasionally flicking towards the newcomer. Anya, her face still drawn with worry, poured him a steaming, bitter concoction. It tasted nothing like the spiced teas of the palace, but the heat was a welcome comfort.
The next few days were a blur of frustrating firsts. Arion found himself constantly cold, constantly hungry, and utterly useless. He tried to help with chores around the fort, but his attempts to mend a fishing net resulted in a tangled mess, and his efforts to chop firewood nearly cost him a finger. The locals watched him, their expressions ranging from weary tolerance to outright disdain.
"Look at the Prince, can't even hold an axe right," one burly fisherman scoffed within earshot.
Arion's pride flared, but he swallowed it. This wasn't about pride anymore. It was about learning, about surviving. He found himself observing, really observing, for the first time in his life. He watched Borin meticulously clean his sword, the movements economical and precise. He watched Anya carefully mend a tear in his cloak, her hands nimble despite their age. He watched the Eldorians go about their daily tasks, their movements born of necessity and efficiency.
One afternoon, while attempting to repair a broken fence post, Arion finally snapped. The wood splintered under his clumsy blow, sending a jagged piece into his hand. He cried out, dropping the hammer.
"Blast it all!" he cursed, sucking on his bleeding palm.
A shadow fell over him. Elara, the huntress Arion had seen on the docks, stood there. Her leather-clad figure was still, her eyes, sharp and intelligent, taking in his frustration and his wounded hand. She carried a bow slung across her back, and a small, freshly caught rabbit hung from her belt.
"You're swinging like you're trying to impress a court lady, Prince," she said, her voice low and surprisingly clear, without the gruffness of the men. "Not like you're trying to split wood."
Arion bristled. "And what would you know of it, huntress?"
She arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her gaze. "I know that a dull axe and a soft hand won't feed you up here. You've got the strength, but no purpose behind it. No grit." She knelt, plucked a broad, dark green leaf from the ground nearby, and crushed it between her fingers. "Here. Rub this on your hand. It'll help."
Arion hesitated, then took the leaf. The crushed pulp had a pungent, earthy smell. He applied it to his cut, and to his surprise, the bleeding slowed almost immediately, and the throbbing eased.
"Thanks," he said, grudgingly.
Elara nodded, her gaze sweeping over the dilapidated fence. "This fort won't stand another winter if it keeps rotting. And the seas won't give up their bounty willingly. You think you can govern this place from a fancy throne, Prince? Out here, the land governs us. And it demands respect."
She turned to leave, but Arion stopped her. "Wait. You hunt, then?"
"That's how we eat," she replied, a hint of challenge in her eyes. "If you want to learn, you stop swinging like a fool and start listening. If you survive, that is."
With that, she walked away, disappearing into the mist that perpetually clung to the edges of the fort. Arion watched her go, a strange mix of annoyance and curiosity stirring within him. He was a prince, yes, but here, he was merely a boy who couldn't even light a fire. Maybe, just maybe, this Eldorian huntress had something to teach him. The first stirrings of adaptation, a flicker of something beyond just enduring, began to take root in his battered spirit.