The celebratory bonfires burned out, their last embers of warmth scattered by the cold wind before dawn.
Minas Tirith, that giant construction site, reawakened as the first gray-white rays of daylight pierced the clouds.
The brief fervor brought on by cheers and ale was washed away by the biting cold and the reality of work in the winter morning.
Workers bundled up in their clothes, their breaths fogging in the air, emerged from rows of half-finished barrel-like buildings.
Their faces still bore the exhaustion of a hangover, but the chill had clearly dispelled yesterday's atmosphere, leaving only reality in its wake.
After all, the glory belonged to the Lord. They, on the other hand, had to keep swinging their hammers and pushing their carts to earn their winter rations and merit points.
Tristan was up early. He stood on the third floor of the town hall, gazing down at the bustling stream of people below, who looked like a swarm of ants.
His brows were slightly furrowed.
