The cobblestones outside the central temple were slick with black mud and fallen leaves by the time the wagon from Havenwood pulled up.
Philia shifted his weight, pulling his damp collar tight against his neck. Beside him, Jorah and the other children from Havenwood sat together on the carriage, their wet boots dripping onto the floorboards. Philia wasn't alone in his silence, surrounded by familiar faces carrying the same heavy weight, but his eyes remained fixed on the crowded square outside.
He hadn't realized so many people would be here.
Not just the wealthy or the titled, but crowds of ordinary folk pressed against the fences. Off to the left, standing beneath the bare, drippy branches of an old oak tree, was a cluster of kids from another orphanage. Beside them stood a group of elderly weavers, two local blacksmiths in their best dark coats, and a dozen women holding cheap, bundled garden flowers.
