On the dawn of November 11, 1456, morning mist like ice-mixed gauze enveloped the southern part of Dawn Island's Creekwood Town.
Frost coated the cobblestones in the town square, crunching underfoot.
In such cold weather, nearly two hundred people were crowded here.
Their breath pooled into puffs in the cold air, quickly dispersed by gusty winds.
On the east side of the square were farmers and helpers in coarse short jackets, along with a few veteran soldiers of the Defensive Army wielding clockwork muskets.
On the west side were small merchants in fine wool robes, stewards of old noble families, and even two guild leaders wearing feathered hats.
They clutched brass hand warmers, their boots polished bright, full of impatience.
"I say, we've been waiting for half a day, is the Holy Alliance playing tricks again?" The baker Temmler wrapped his mink vest tighter, "And they said they'd reduce our rent, yet the Tax Collector comes more often than the Leia people."
