Clarus, the capital city of light, stood in eternal brilliance under a sun that refused to set, like an overly enthusiastic stagehand who didn't know when to dim the spotlight. It was a place of divine grandeur, the holy ground of Veritas, God of Light and Truth—a deity whose worshippers had built a city so radiant that anyone entering it without sunglasses would leave with a lifetime supply of squints.
Today, Clarus was abuzz with anticipation, as pilgrims from all corners of the land were making their way to the Grand Church of Light, a cathedral so bright it might as well have been the sun's understudy. These pilgrims, representing every race imaginable, had come to complete their sacred journey at the holiest of sites, the very place where Veritas was said to have first descended in a blaze of glory that probably put the northern lights to shame.
