In March, sea breezes from the south swept away the last lingering chill of winter.
The port of Minas Tirith was busier than ever. Voices filled the docks, and freshly painted wooden cranes creaked as they hoisted crates of cargo from the holds onto shore.
Ships from Dawn Territory had become regular visitors. More than a dozen merchant vessels flying its crest queued to unload, while their crews haggled with local workers in the continent's common tongue, their accents tinged with the south.
Sealed crates were carried ashore, their destination marked as the Newly Reclaimed Land.
The windows of City Hall faced the harbor. Veylin stood at one of them, watching merchant ships flying both the Golden Sail Merchant Guild and Thornflower flags slowly sail out of the bay. They were bound for the newly stabilized Southern Isles, carrying supplies needed to establish order and rebuild.
"My lord." Tristan's voice came from behind him.
Veylin turned. Tristan was setting a neatly organized stack of documents on the oak desk before him.
"Last month's financial report, and the final draft of the spring planting plan for the Newly Reclaimed Land." Tristan spoke at a measured pace. "Our grain reserves are sufficient, and the latest batch of farming tools has been distributed. Everything is proceeding according to plan."
Veylin picked up the report and leafed through it. Every receipt and expenditure was listed, down to the last Copper Leaf. Population growth, taxes, consumption of supplies, births... through numbers, Tristan had constructed a model of a thriving territory.
Yet there was little joy in Veylin's expression.
He set down the report, his fingers tapping absently against the desk.
"Tristan, has there been any movement from the Pontifical Court lately?"
"They've been very quiet," Tristan answered. "Too quiet. Ever since our operation in the