"You may not realize this," Theodore began, his voice projecting across the silent square, "but excluding our garrison, the Northern Bastion of Menethis now shelters nearly two million souls."
He paused, letting the number sink in. "Two million. Even if we strictly rationed the thinnest gruel, the daily grain requirement is a nightmare."
Two million. That was the grim tally of survival. When the Empire had cast them out, the initial exodus had been a slaughter. Many had fled into the wilds, turning to banditry or dying in the mud. More had fallen during the long, brutal march, their bodies marking the road to this bastion.
Even here, death hadn't stopped—claimed by the siege defense, or worse, by the toxins in the insect meat when hunger drove men to madness.
"I must speak the hard truth," Theodore said, his face a mask of grim resolve. "Our granaries are empty."
