Five hundred Zorgers kneel, packed tight like the links of a chain. Dark cloaks, unseen faces, but the same fire burning in their silence. Before them, the emerald cascade shimmers like a promise. The Sacred Water—priceless, untouchable, the axis of their world.

They are not here to pray. They are here to build.

The walls sweat history, carved with faces frozen in eternity—Shai Zorgoud watches, unmoving. Every stone placed, every chisel strike against the rock is an act of faith. Survival is not enough. They crave an empire. A sanctuary. A fortress against time, against raiders, against oblivion.

Above them, the sky is gone. Only stone, sacred torchlight, and the green glow rippling across their skin. They are sweat, stone, and will. And as long as the water flows, the Zorgers will rise.