In the early morning in Minas Tirith, sea fog wrapped everything at the dock construction site like a cold, damp burial shroud. Fabian stood on the church's wooden scaffolding, the pine boards beneath his feet coated in white frost.
Before him, barely a hundred workers stood with their hats off, heads bowed as they listened to his morning blessing.
Far more people had gathered in circle after circle a short distance away, their clamor drowning out the sea breeze.
There, a literate craftsman held up a crudely made booklet, struggling to repeat the pronunciation of a word over and over. Their enthusiasm stood in stark contrast to the sparse gathering before Fabian.
"They have forgotten the Lord's teachings." A young assistant stood behind Fabian, indignation on his face. "Those crude stories have poisoned their minds."
Fabian climbed down from the scaffolding without looking at him. His gaze rested on the workers listening intently in the distance.
"They haven't been bewitched by stories."
"They're simply filling a void. Once their bellies are full, their minds grow hungry."
He headed toward his quarters.
On the way, he saw a worker trading a salted fish from his lunch ration to someone who could read in exchange for yesterday's outdated issue of the Gray Marsh Weekly.
Once the worker received the booklet, he carefully tucked it against his chest.
Fabian stopped and watched.
Weilin Klein was using his own methods to put a new price on everything in this land.
Knowledge, entertainment, even fictitious hope had become tangible commodities for ordinary people.
The assistant beside him grew increasingly uneasy.
"Sir, we must do something. We cannot allow these blasphemous ideas to spread unchecked. We should burn those booklets and arrest that so-called Theater Troupe!"
"And then?" Fabian countered. "Make everyone believe the Lord's radiance