4 days later, he arrives at the province of Eisenmark, to be exact, Eisenmark's most urbanized and prosperous city, Dankanheim,
Francis looked at his companion James, a 28 year old man who was sent to accompany him and to help him guide his first few days as the governor, "Is this what you all call a city?? It's barely more than a heap of brick and soot. And they told me this was the province's pride? I've seen workshops in the capital with more order than this entire town. Dankanheim's a disgrace."
And he wasn't wrong
The streets were narrow and uneven, barely big enough for carriages filled with mud; there was no order to the place. Houses were built wherever there had been space, some of stone, some of wood. The few brick buildings that tried to look modern stood out awkwardly, half-finished and already stained by snow. The market square was crowded and dirty. Merchants called out to passing carts with a kind of dull persistence rather than enthusiasm; the smell of damp straw, unwashed bodies, and burnt coal clung to the air as the carriage passed through the main street, and people turned to look. Their faces were pale, smudged with work and worry, but not hostile, merely resigned. They bowed when they noticed the crest on the coach, a gesture that felt more like a habit than respect. Beyond the town, a shallow river crawled past, brown and sluggish. The bridge crossing it was built of wood so worn that the grain showed through like bone.
"Well, you have been exiled, so it wasn't meant to be easy," said James
Francis sighs and looks out of the window. A few minutes later, they finally arrive at the governor's mansion, located on a small hill overlooking the snow-laden mountains. "At least the governor's mansion looked much better compared to the city", Francis thought to himself.
He enters the mansion through the door. Inside the entrance hall, the vast, tall, and imposing ceiling is adorned with chandeliers, the walls lined with faded banners, and a faint smell of dust and wax hangs heavy. A grand staircase curved upward, its carpet threadbare and dull. Candles flickered weakly along the corridor, their light trembling against cracked plaster. The furniture was heavy, ornate, and several decades out of fashion, relics of an era when this manor might have meant something. Now, it felt like a museum of forgotten nobility. He finally arrived at the governor's council, a long, narrow room that smelled faintly of damp wood and tobacco. The ceiling beams were blackened with age, and the single chandelier overhead hung crooked, its candles burning unevenly. A large oak table dominated the room, scarred with knife marks and ink stains, surrounded by mismatched chairs that creaked whenever someone shifted.
He finally took his seat at the head of the table. A lot had to be done in this province.