A few days later, a dust-covered convoy of carriages from the direction of Minas Tirith entered Newly Town.
Leading the convoy was none other than Tristan, the newly appointed mayor of Mi Port.
He lifted the carriage curtain, and his gray-blue eyes reflected the sight of Newly Town.
Unlike the clamorous, chaotic, and rawly energetic atmosphere of the massive construction site that was Minas Tirith, Newly Town was already an orderly small town exuding an air of prosperity.
On the smooth, white stone-paved streets, pedestrians came and went, their faces free of the numbness and misery common among the lower class of the Royal Capital.
The air was filled with the aroma of baking bread and the sweet scent of fermenting ale.
Tristan's gaze fell upon the notice board in the town's central square.
A crowd had gathered there, where a clerk was loudly proclaiming something.
