The next morning, the square was no longer a place of speeches.
It was a fortress—of paper, parchment, and press.
Three new tents had gone up overnight. One for writing, one for copying, one for distributing. Oren ran between them like a messenger in a war camp, sleeves stained with ink and breathless with urgency.
"They’ve started painting over our postings in South Ward," he told Mina. "But people are scraping it off with pocketknives. Even the children."
Correnne handed him a fresh roll of parchment. "Then give them more to scrape for. We double the copies."
Across the square, Halda met with Ruel and a trio of guild apprentices to finalize the charter’s last clauses. Their voices weren’t loud—but sharp, focused, relentless. Each phrase debated. Each comma considered.
I stood at th
