The ink-slingers of Riverbend rose before first light, when the sky was still the color of watered charcoal and frost glazed the press-house shutters. Inside, lamplight bled across brass rollers and oak frames, glinting on type cases slotted like soldiers in formation. Sharath had slept in the loft again—if two hours of dozing with grease beneath his nails could be called sleep. A sparrow chirped near the rafters; he answered with a yawn and a promise to feed it crumbs from tonight's ration.
Today would birth The Daily Truth.
Brother Marcus arrived with a steaming jug of chicory brew and the final copy for page one. "Lead headline," he murmured, smoothing parchment:
CROWN ABOLISHES TITHES ON LEARNING TEXTS
HARVEST GAINS IN RIVER VALLEY SURPASS PROJECTIONS
NEW PAPER MILLS PROMISE TWO THOUSAND JOBS
"We'll be accused of cheerleading the crown," Jakob warned, lugging a tray of thirty-six–point capitals.
"Truth isn't cheerleading if it's verifiable," Sharath said, eyes scanning for mis-set ligatures. "But keep the editorial sharp. Our credibility must rest on candor."
Mira darted among them, inking the rollers with practiced swirl—short sleeves revealing constellation of purple freckles made from days of contact with aniline dyes. "Clockwork check," she barked. Apprentices triggered the driveshaft; gears engaged; the great press answered with its baritone thump, vibrating through oak plank and ribcages alike.
They printed a test sheet. Sharath held it to the lamp. Type sharp. Margins square. Wrong. The headline kerning was hair-wide uneven. Mira cursed; the apprentices groaned. Sharath simply smiled. "Again."
By sunrise they had perfected the forme. At noon the first edition—ten thousand sheets—lay stacked like ivory bricks on the loading dock. Couriers in blue smocks loaded bundles into panniers. The lead rider blew a copper whistle; the convoy launched, wheels singing upon frost-hardened boards toward every town, parish, and crossroads village.
Southgate Market droned with livestock bleating and barter chants when the first rider coasted in. Traders paused, sniffed at unfamiliar perfume of fresh ink. The courier lifted a paper above his head; children scrambled like minnows. A blacksmith's wife bought a copy for a copper bit, unfolded it with trembling hands. The black headline made her gasp; a cabbage vendor leaned over; a minor scribe offered to read aloud. Within minutes the sheet lay in the center of a tight human ring, every sentence sparking commentary: no more text tariffs for her three daughters' primers; harvest totals meaning bread would stay cheap; mill jobs that might beckon her cousin back from desperation.
News spread like fire leaping roof to roof. Taverns pinned pages to beams; innkeepers copied grain prices onto chalkboards; clerks clipped articles for city-hall filing. More astonishing: locals drafted rebuttals on the spot. A baker criticized the grain reports—"They missed the blight spots near Westmere." A docket runner questioned tax figures. All vowed to pen letters to the editor.
Back at Riverbend, the press-house door barely held against citizen queue. Old magistrate Neriv demanded a subscription ledger; two monks requested blank parchment for Truth's sister edition in their dialect.
At dusk Sharath stood on the stoop, cheeks smudged, listening. Below the factory windows, strangers debated agricultural tariffs with statistics they had read only hours earlier. Candor wrought conversation. Conversation promised accountability.
He thought of the sparrow in the rafters. By releasing words into the world, they had thrown seeds on every wind. Tomorrow, shoots of understanding would sprout; the day after, forests of opinion. He felt equal parts awe and trepidation. Information, once freed, obeyed no master.
And thus began the era of daily news.