Eastridge Hold did not announce itself with grandeur.
There were no banners unfurled for ceremony, no horns sounded in welcome. The gates opened because they had to—because a royal party approaching after days of unrest was not something the eastern ridge could afford to ignore.
Stone walls rose from the slope like clenched teeth, scarred by weather and time. The fortifications were intact, but tired. Isolde saw it immediately: the hairline cracks in mortar, the uneven spacing of sentries, the way armor looked worn not from battle, but from years without proper replacement.
The guards straightened as the party approached, discipline holding where morale thinned.
The carriage slowed, then stopped.
Isolde stepped down first.
The garrison commander descended the steps at a brisk pace, helm tucked beneath his arm, eyes sharp with strain. He bowed deeply the moment he reached her.
"Your Highness," he said. "Eastridge Hold stands ready."
