The ferry glides into Kalmar’s harbor. As the sails are furled and ropes thrown ashore, the sound of trumpets carries across the water. Dockside servants hurry along the wharf, rolling barrels of salted fish and mead, while stable boys tug at restless horses. The smell of smoke and tar mingles with roasting meat drifting from the town beyond the walls.

On the battlements above, heralds wave pennants and shout proclamations. “Welcome to Kalmar, seat of the Union of the North!” their voices echo. Citizens crowd near the docks, craning their necks for a glimpse of arriving envoys. Some cheer, hopeful for peace. Others whisper, suspicious of Danish power.

As you step onto the worn stones of the dock, every eye turns toward you - nobles from Sweden cloaked in fur, Norwegian traders in wool, Danish guards with polished helms. You are not just a traveler; you are a representative of Denmark’s crown. How you carry yourself in these first steps will be remembered long after tonight’s feast.