One by one, the delegates of the seven communities stepped up to the long zinc table beneath the glare of the two hundred white animal fat lanterns. Their boot-heels clicked on the wooden walkway planks with the slow, steady pace of a graveyard shift reporting to the pits. There was no haste and no pause. Each signed name was a deliberate act of defiance against twelve years of town terror.
Nessa Tern stepped forward first for River Ward. Her thin, soaked fingers took the iron dip-pen with steady resolve. She signed her name in clear, sloping script: Nessa Tern, for the River Lock and Canal Families. Beside her, six high-pressure tenders in rubber hip-boots stepped up in turn: Brand, Orin, Kaelen, Jaris, Tomas the younger, and old Mark. Each man dipped his calloused thumb into the black stamping pad. Then he pressed his distinctive whorl into the margin beneath her name as official witnesses, their wet sleeves dripping river sludge onto the timber floor.
Melli Dorn followed for the heavy-duty workshops of Salt Ward. She didn’t use the steel pen. She reached into her leather apron and drew out her own charred hickory dipping pen. The tool she had carved from an oak rafter that survived the great lehr fire of Year Four. She dipped it into the soot ink and carved her signed name in bold, heavy strokes. Melli Dorn, Master Annealer, for Salt Ward Workshops. Beside her signed name, she drew the fire guild’s three-flame mark, dedicating thirty-eight…
