Minas Tirith Port, at the crack of dawn.
Tristan strode down the long corridor, the parchment scroll in his hand rustling softly.
He pushed open the door to the study in the Lord's Mansion. Velin was standing at the window, observing the distant sea.
"My lord, an urgent report."
Velin turned and took the document.
Tristan's handwriting was neat, but the edges of the paper were clearly stained with sweat.
"Production in Mi Port has ground to a halt," Tristan said, getting straight to the point. "Even for jobs far from the coast, workers are starting to refuse to work. For the past five days, the enemy's methods of sabotage have become increasingly varied. Last night, they used some kind of creature to ram the port's bedrock. The entire city could hear the low thudding."
Velin flipped through the report.
The list of losses was long: three cargo ships sunk, two cranes destroyed, cracks in the breakwater, and the water supply pipe severed in seven places.
