Minas Tirith Harbor, at dawn.
Tristan strode down the corridor, the parchment scroll in his hand rustling.
He pushed open the study door in the Lord's Manor. Veylin stood by the window, watching the distant sea.
"My lord, an urgent report."
Veylin turned and took the documents.
Tristan's handwriting was neat, but obvious sweat stains marked the edges of the paper.
"Production in Miport has almost ground to a halt. Even workers assigned far from the shore are starting to refuse to work," Tristan said without preamble. "Over the past five days, the enemy's methods of sabotage have become increasingly varied. Last night, they used some kind of creature to ram the harbor's bedrock. The whole city could hear those deep, muffled impacts."
Veylin leafed through the report.
The list of losses was long: three cargo ships sunk, two cranes destroyed, cracks in the breakwater, and water pipes severed in seven places.
"What about the rumors?"
"We can't suppress them anymore." Yet Tristan's tone was not as heavy as it had been at the start of his report. Instead, it carried admiration.
"The claim that 'the lord has angered the Sea God' has spread throughout the city. But... strangely enough, only two stonemasons left this morning. Far fewer than I'd expected."
He paused, then spoke with heartfelt sincerity.
"My lord, only now do I understand your foresight. If we'd followed my suggestion and covered up the truth with a lie, once that trust collapsed, ten times as many people might have left. Your honesty has instead persuaded most of them to stay and see what happens."
Veylin set down the report and walked to the nautical chart on the wall, taking little notice of Tristan's praise.
His gaze settled on the densely clustered red marks, each representing an attack.
Steadying