The next day, the central square of Newly Town was bustling early in the morning.
The ironwood platform used for announcements had been polished and repaired by craftsmen overnight. Its surface was now covered with a thick layer of red felt.
Behind the platform, a brand-new banner unfurled in the morning breeze.
On a black background, silver thread embroidered thorns encircling a young sprout breaking through the soil—that was the sigil of Velin Klein.
The square was packed with people.
Soldiers out of their leather armor, craftsmen covered in stone dust, cooks in their aprons, and, most numerous of all, the freemen who came to Newly Town to work for points.
Their gazes all converged on the high platform, and the sound of their whispered discussions merged into a low hum.
When Velin walked onto the platform, the hum gradually died down.
Roland followed behind him.
