The opulent chains of the Imperial Dungeon felt colder than the marble of the palace, biting into Arion's wrists. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something vaguely metallic, like old blood. He sat slumped against a rough-hewn wall, his jaw aching from a guard's casual backhand, but his mind was strangely clear. The rage had subsided, leaving behind a chilling certainty: his life in the Imperial City was over.
Hours, or perhaps days, blurred into an indistinguishable void. He wasn't sure. Time held no meaning in this lightless pit. Then, the heavy clang of the dungeon door, followed by the clink of keys, announced a visitor.
It wasn't an executioner, as a part of him grimly expected. It was a single, stern-faced Imperial Herald, accompanied by two silent, heavily armored guards. The Herald unrolled a pristine parchment, its Imperial seal gleaming under the flickering torchlight.
"Prince Arion Valerius," the Herald's voice boomed, resonating uncomfortably in the confined space, "By decree of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Valerius IV, for the heinous act of physical assault upon Empress Seraphina, First Consort of the Valerian Empire, you are hereby stripped of all titles, save for that of 'Prince' – a mercy granted only due to your bloodline."
Arion felt a dull thud in his chest. Stripped of titles… but still Prince. A strange, hollow victory.
"Furthermore," the Herald continued, his voice devoid of emotion, "you are hereby banished from the Imperial Capital and all its associated lands. You shall serve as Governor of Isle Eldoria, a territory in the Northern Reaches, until such a time as His Imperial Majesty deems fit to revoke this decree. Your departure is set for dawn. You will be provided with a minimal retinue for the journey."
Isle Eldoria. Arion's brow furrowed. He vaguely recalled the name from old geography lessons – a desolate, storm-battered rock far to the north, infamous for its monster-infested waters and forgotten status. It was less a governorship and more a slow, drawn-out exile. A death sentence, perhaps, delivered by the elements rather than the executioner's axe.
He managed a mirthless chuckle. "A governorship? Or a convenient way to forget I ever existed?"
The Herald's face remained impassive. "The Emperor's decree is absolute. Prepare yourself."
The guards unbound him, pulling him roughly to his feet. He was led through the palace corridors he knew so well, but they felt alien now, the tapestries and gilded arches mocking his fall from grace. He saw no familiar faces among the palace staff he passed – only averted gazes and hushed whispers.
He was led not to his own lavish chambers, but to a small, unassuming antechamber where a meager collection of travel-worn leather and plain wool garments lay folded on a wooden table. His personal effects, his fine silks, his training swords, even the worn leather-bound book of his mother's poems – all gone. Stripped clean.
Only a single, plain longsword and a small satchel with a handful of silver coins were provided. His own armor, intricately engraved, was absent. He was given a simple, unadorned gambeson and tunic.
As dawn approached, a faint, metallic clanking echoed from the palace gates. Arion was escorted out into the pre-dawn chill. A small, sturdy merchant vessel, far less grand than any Imperial warship, bobbed impatiently in the harbor. On the dock, a small cluster of figures stood waiting.
His retinue.
There was Sergeant Borin, a grizzled, loyal, but aging household guard who had served his mother. His face was a roadmap of battles and regrets, and his eyes held a profound sadness as he looked at Arion. Beside him stood Lady Elara's handmaid, Anya, a timid, middle-aged woman who had practically raised Arion. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, but her presence was a comforting anchor in the storm of his banishment. Two other nameless, elderly household guards, too old for front-line duty but too loyal to be discarded, completed the pathetic band. They were not chosen for their strength, but for their unwavering, if ineffective, loyalty.
No farewells. No tearful goodbyes from his half-siblings, his father, or any of the court he had grown up with. Only the Empress's smug, watchful silhouette visible at a distant palace window.
As Arion stepped onto the gangplank, a sudden gust of wind, cold and damp, swept in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and distance. He glanced back at the retreating palace, its grand silhouette fading into the encroaching gloom. He was leaving. All of it. The power, the prestige, the gilded cage.
The ship's anchors were raised with a grinding groan, and the sails unfurled, catching the nascent morning breeze. The vessel slowly turned its bow towards the churning, grey expanse of the Northern Sea. Arion stood at the stern, watching the Imperial City shrink into a hazy memory. He was Prince Arion Valerius, but no longer the pampered third son. He was now just Arion, and Eldoria awaited