A City to Call Their Own

The sanctuary's main hall stretched vast beneath the towering dome, its curved ceiling crowned with a lattice of glass panes. The sun's rays pierced through the ocean above, bending and scattering as they passed through the shifting waters, painting the chamber in a deep, ethereal blue.

The light pulsed and swayed with the waves, an unearthly shimmer rippling across the stone floor, casting fleeting halos upon the gathered crowd.

Nine hundred and fifty-two.

That was the number Gawain had counted. Arthur had let the weight of it settle in his mind, though the sheer press of bodies around him made it undeniable.

He had lost over ninety-five percent of his peers.

The room, for all its grandeur, was filled to its limit. The Rainfolk moved in restless waves, soldiers in crisp formations along the perimeter, circling Varem's new civilians, shoulders brushing, the occasional jostle met with murmured apologies or tense glances.