Port of Brest, Western Elysea
The morning fog rolled in from the Atlantic, low and heavy, casting a pale sheen over the Port of Brest. Gulls circled lazily overhead, and the salty air carried the quiet creak of mooring ropes and the muffled clamor of dockhands unloading cargo. The royal vessel Ardent had arrived at dawn, cutting through the mist like a blade through silk.
General André Masséna stood near the gangplank, dressed in his uniform—not parade regalia, but the dark navy coat he had worn during the final days in Pan America. It bore the scuffs of travel, but the medals pinned to his chest gleamed.
A small detachment of royal soldiers greeted him on the dock. Their lieutenant, young and stiff-backed, saluted sharply.
"General Masséna, welcome home, sir. Your transport to the capital awaits."
Masséna nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
He stepped onto the dock, boots landing with a solid thud. He was back in Elysea. And yet, it felt more foreign than the colonies ever had.
