In the early morning of Minas Tirith, the sea fog was like a damp, cold shroud, enveloping everything at the dock construction site.
Fabian stood on the church's wooden scaffolding, the pine boards under his feet covered in a layer of frost.
Before him, fewer than a hundred workers stood with hats off, heads bowed, listening to his morning blessing.
Many more had gathered in circles not far off, their clamor drowning out the sea breeze.
There, a literate artisan held up a crude pamphlet, painstakingly repeating the pronunciation of a word over and over. Their enthusiasm stood in stark contrast to the quiet scene before Fabian.
"They've forgotten the Lord's teachings," a young assistant said from behind Fabian, his face filled with indignation. "Their minds have been bewitched by those vulgar stories."
Fabian descended from the scaffolding without looking at him. His gaze fell upon the engrossed workers in the distance.
"It's not the stories that have bewitched them."
