The formal announcement ceremony took place in the Great Hall that afternoon. Over five hundred nobles, ministers, and courtiers had assembled—not because they cared about Arin's appointment, but because royal decrees were social events where alliances were made and gossip was currency.
Arin stood before the assembled court in his best formal attire, which still looked shabby compared to his brothers' elaborate silk robes embroidered with gold thread and precious stones. His own robe was simple blue wool with minimal decoration—appropriate for a sixth prince who nobody expected to amount to anything.
The Royal Herald, an ancient man whose voice somehow still boomed across the massive chamber, read from an ornate scroll:
"By decree of His Majesty King Aldric Eldoria, Sovereign of the Realm, Protector of the Five Provinces, Guardian of the Eastern Trade Routes, Lord of—"
The list of titles went on for a full minute. Arin tried not to fidget.
"—Prince Arin Eldoria is hereby granted the title of Baron and full lordship of the territory of Ashvale, comprising approximately 180,000 souls, 12,000 square miles, and all associated rights, responsibilities, and revenues therein!"
Polite applause rippled through the crowd. Polite, and utterly empty.
Arin scanned the faces as he accepted the formal scroll containing his appointment. Some showed pity—poor boy being sent to manage a dying territory. Others barely concealed their relief—the embarrassing prince was being removed from court. A few younger nobles smirked openly, already composing witty barbs about the 'Baron of Blight.'
Near the back, he spotted Lady Cassandra Vex, daughter of Duke Vex who governed the prosperous southern provinces with their million-person cities. Two years ago, drunk on wine and foolish courage, Arin had asked her to dance at the Spring Festival.
She'd laughed in his face.
Now she whispered something to her friend, and both giggled behind their silk fans.
*Let them laugh,* Arin thought grimly. *I won't be here to hear it much longer.*
His brothers stood in a line near the throne, as tradition demanded for royal announcements. Kaelen's face was carefully neutral—the Crown Prince had perfected the art of revealing nothing. Matthias looked vaguely uncomfortable. Darian seemed bored. Lucian studied his fingernails. Young Marcus was the only one who met Arin's eyes, and something in that gaze might have been sympathy.
Their mother, Queen Valoris, sat beside the King. She was fifty-seven but looked forty, her beauty preserved by expensive cultivation techniques available only to royalty. Her jade-green eyes swept over Arin once, cataloging and dismissing him in a single glance, before returning to the more interesting spectacle of court politics unfolding around her.
She hadn't spoken to him in three years.
The Herald finished reading the extensive list of rights and responsibilities. Arin signed the acceptance document with hands that only trembled slightly. The royal seal was pressed into hot wax, making it official.
Baron Arin Eldoria, Lord of Ashvale.
It sounded almost respectable, if you didn't know that Ashvale was where nobles went to fail.
After the ceremony, there was supposed to be a celebratory feast. It was tradition—newly appointed lords were honored with elaborate dinners where nobles toasted their success and forged new alliances.
Arin waited in the designated banquet hall for two hours.
No one came.
The servants had prepared a table for fifty guests. Roasted duck, honeyed pork, fresh bread, imported fruits, fine wines—a feast that probably cost more than most Ashvale families earned in a year.
Arin sat alone at the head of the empty table, Gregor standing silently behind him, as the food grew cold and the candles burned down.
"Your Highness," Gregor finally said gently. "Perhaps we should—"
"No one's coming." Arin pushed back his chair. "Of course no one's coming. Why would they?"
"Prince Matthias sent word he's detained with urgent research—"
"It's fine, Gregor." And it was. Arin had stopped expecting kindness from his family years ago. "Let's just go. We have packing to finish."
They left the banquet hall, its untouched feast a perfect metaphor for his entire life—elaborate preparations for expectations that would never be met.
Behind them, servants immediately began clearing the table, muttering about waste.
---
Back in his chambers, Arin found three items waiting on his desk.
The first was a letter sealed with his mother's personal seal—a jade phoenix. His hands trembled as he broke it open.
*Arin,*
*Your appointment to Ashvale is appropriate given your limited capabilities. The territory's modest scale matches your modest talents. I advise you to govern quietly and avoid bringing further embarrassment to the family name.*
*Do not expect additional support from the crown beyond your stipend. You are on your own.*
*Conduct yourself with dignity, even in failure.*
*Queen Valoris*
Arin read it three times, each word a small knife finding flesh. Not "my son." Not "Your Highness." Just "Arin."
And that final line—*even in failure*—not *if* you fail, but *even in* failure. She didn't hope for his success. She simply expected his failure to be quiet.
He carefully folded the letter and placed it in his travel chest. Not because he wanted to keep it, but because someday, when he'd hopefully proved everyone wrong, he wanted to remember exactly what his own mother had written to him on the day of his exile.
The second item was a small leather journal. Inside the front cover, written in familiar handwriting:
*"Little brother - These are my personal notes on land management and resource allocation. They're not as elegant as the official texts, but they're practical. I hope they help. Prove them wrong. - Matthias"*
Arin felt his throat tighten. It wasn't much, but it was more than anyone else had offered. His brother had at least acknowledged his existence, had given him something useful.
He added the journal to his belongings with more care than it probably deserved.
The third item was unexpected—a sealed package bearing no family crest, just a simple ribbon. Inside, he found a well-worn but functional sword in a plain scabbard, and a note:
*"Your Highness - I'm requesting official transfer to Ashvale as head of your guard. The palace approved it. Figure you'll need someone who can actually fight, since you still hold your sword like you're afraid it'll bite you.*
*This was my first captain's blade. Good steel, nothing fancy. It's saved my life more than once. Maybe it'll do the same for you.*
*Don't die in the first month. I'd like to think my judgment of character isn't completely worthless.*
*- Captain Marcus"*
Arin stared at the sword in disbelief. Marcus was giving up a comfortable palace position with a guaranteed pension to follow him to Ashvale? Why?
He drew the blade—it was indeed good steel, well-maintained despite obvious age. The grip was worn from years of use, molded to Marcus's hand. This wasn't just a weapon; it was a piece of the man's history.
And he was giving it to Arin.
"Gregor?" Arin called out, his voice rough.
The old servant appeared immediately. "Yes, Your Highness?"
"Marcus is coming with us?"
"Apparently so. The transfer papers came through an hour ago. He's already begun packing his belongings." Gregor's weathered face showed rare approval. "Captain Marcus is a good man. We'll need someone of his experience in Ashvale."
Arin looked at the sword in his hands, then at Matthias's journal, then at his mother's cruel letter.
Three pieces of correspondence. Two offering help, one offering nothing but disappointed dismissal.
Maybe he wasn't completely alone after all.
"Pack everything," Arin said, decision crystallizing. "Every book I own, every map, every document. If we're going to try to save 180,000 people from slow death in a cursed territory, I'll need all the knowledge I can get."
For the first time in days, Gregor smiled. "As you command, Your Highness."
---
Arin spent his last night in the palace in the royal library, copying maps and administrative texts by hand since he couldn't afford to hire scribes or purchase original books. His hand cramped after three hours of writing, but he persevered.
He was on his seventh page of copied notes about tax collection systems when he heard footsteps.
"Burning the midnight oil, little brother?"
Arin looked up to find not Matthias, but Kaelen—the Crown Prince himself—standing in the library entrance. His eldest brother wore simple traveling clothes rather than court finery, and his expression was carefully neutral.
"Your Highness," Arin stood quickly, bowing. "I didn't expect—"
"Sit." Kaelen approached, carrying a leather case. "No need for formality when it's just us."
*Just us.* As if they'd ever been "just us." Kaelen was seven years older, infinitely more talented, and had barely spoken to Arin in the last five years.
The Crown Prince sat across from him and placed the case on the table. "I should have come to your celebration feast. That was poor form on my part."
"You're the Crown Prince. You have more important responsibilities than attending a feast no one else came to."
"Don't make excuses for me." Kaelen's gray eyes—so like their father's—studied him. "I let court politics dictate my actions. Mother made it clear that showing you support would be... problematic for succession planning. I chose political expedience over basic decency."
Arin blinked. He'd never heard Kaelen speak so candidly. "I... understand. Politics is complicated."
"Politics is an excuse cowards hide behind." Kaelen pushed the case toward him. "This contains 5,000 gold. Personal funds, not from the crown. Use it however you need in Ashvale."
Arin stared at the case in shock. "That's a year's stipend. I can't—"
"You can and you will. You're going to need resources beyond what Father provided." Kaelen's voice was firm. "180,000 people depending on you, Arin. That's not a punishment—that's a serious responsibility. You'll need every advantage you can get."
"Why?" Arin had to ask. "Why help me? Everyone else has written me off."
Kaelen was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "When you were six years old, you fell during a palace tournament. Broke your arm badly. Remember what you did?"
Arin remembered. He'd gotten up, refused the healers until after the tournament ended, and insisted on finishing his bout despite the pain. He'd lost badly, but he'd finished.
"You didn't quit," Kaelen continued. "Even as a child, even in pain, even knowing you'd lose. You didn't quit. I've thought about that moment more than you know." He stood to leave. "That kind of stubbornness is worth more than natural talent that's never been tested. Don't prove me wrong, little brother."
He was gone before Arin could respond, leaving behind 5,000 gold and the first genuine encouragement Arin had received from family in years.
Arin opened the case with shaking hands. The gold coins gleamed in the candlelight—five thousand of them, each one representing possibility, opportunity, a chance to actually make a difference in Ashvale.
Combined with the crown's stipend, he had 10,000 gold total. Still not enough to transform a dying territory, but enough to... try. To really try.
He returned to his copying with renewed focus. If Kaelen believed he was worth investing in, maybe—just maybe—he could prove that faith wasn't misplaced.
The night passed in a blur of writing, planning, and desperate preparation.
Tomorrow, he'd leave the palace forever.
The day after that, he'd arrive in Ashvale.
And then?
Then he'd find out if stubborn determination could somehow compensate for eighteen years of failure.
180,000 people were counting on him.
He couldn't let them down.
Even if he had no idea how to succeed.
---