Dawn in Minas Tirith was veiled in a rolling sea fog.
Fabian stood on the foundation of the unfinished church, the wooden planks beneath his feet damp with dew.
Hundreds of workers had already gathered before him. They removed their hats and bowed their heads in the morning light.
"The Lord will bless the diligent. Your sweat will build His temple in the mortal realm."
His voice, gentle yet powerful, echoed across the construction site.
The prayer ended. The crowd dispersed, picking up their tools.
Fabian recognized most of their faces. Over the past two weeks, more and more people had volunteered to help build the church.
They used their break time to carry stones and mix mortar, seeking not merit points, but inner peace.
More than a third of them had developed the habit of coming for morning prayers.
'This is a good start. The Lord's gospel is taking root like a seed in this barren land.'
Fabian was about to return to his residence when he overheard the workers talking.
