The next day, dawn had barely broken.
The square at the center of Newborn Town had never been so crowded.
The settlers gathered in groups, their faces guarded and numb. They were accustomed to summons from their lord, which usually meant either higher taxes or forced labor.
On the other side, the villagers from Graymist Village were far more casual. They leaned against walls in twos and threes, indifferent to everything, as though they had only come to watch a spectacle that had nothing to do with them.
The fighting spirit stirred by the great battle weeks ago had long since been worn away by day after day of emptiness.
Barrett led the Garrison in maintaining order around the crowd. His taut face betrayed no emotion, but his occasional sidelong glances at the platform revealed his inner surprise.
A makeshift platform built from logs stood in the center of the square.
Veylin stepped onto it. He carried no weapons and wore only an ordinary dark blue Artisan Uniform, no different from those worn by the newly arrived artisans below.
He surveyed the sea of heads beneath him. The square gradually fell silent, everyone's attention converging on him.
"The land beneath our feet should grow more than sea-salt potatoes."
Veylin deliberately raised his voice so that everyone could hear.
"In the future, I want wheat fields here, orchards, smithies, tailor shops, and taverns. Your children will be able to study, and your winters will no longer be cold."
A faint stir ran through the crowd. Longing appeared on some younger faces, but most remained steeped in deep-rooted numbness.
They had heard too many grand promises from nobles, only for those promises to end up feeding the nobles themselves.
Veylin took it all in, then changed tack, his voice sharpening.
"I know