A little sea mist drifted through the dawn over Minas Tirith.
Fabian stood on the foundations of the unfinished church, the wooden planks beneath his feet damp with dew.
Hundreds of workers had already gathered before him. They removed their hats and bowed their heads in the morning light.
"The Lord shall bless those who labor diligently. Your sweat shall build His sanctuary in the mortal world."
His voice echoed across the construction site, gentle yet powerful.
When the prayer ended, the crowd dispersed and picked up their tools.
Fabian recognized most of these faces. Over the past two weeks, more and more people had volunteered to help build the church.
They spent their breaks hauling stones and mixing mortar, asking for no merit points, seeking only a little peace of mind.
More than a third of them had already formed the habit of coming to pray each morning.
This was a promising beginning. The Lord's gospel was taking root in this barren land like a seed.
Fabian was about to return to his lodgings when he overheard the workers talking.
"Hey, do you think that lad Rocky will win in the end?" asked a man pushing a wheelbarrow.
"Hard to say. He's up against Gray the Bonecrusher. But I like Rocky's grit! Even if he loses, he has to lose on his feet!"
"Exactly! It's much better than that thing in town, When Sugar Comes Knocking. How could a farmer's story be as exciting as a story about dockworkers like us?"
Fabian stopped in his tracks.
Rocky? A play?
The words left him utterly bewildered.
How could there be theater in this port, which had nothing but dirt, sweat, and crude ale? That was a pastime for the nobles of the Royal Capital.
He approached the workers with his