Twelve winters have passed since the Day of Great Sorrow, yet my god has not returned.
We offer the living heat of our blood and raise our prayers. They go unanswered.
The sickness has not touched any of us yet, but I feel it—in the water, in the earth, in the whisper of grass beneath my feet. One day it will reach us.
Our people in the mountain city live as though nothing ever happened. They raise temples to the Lord of Death and listen to the silence. They wish to forget.
That is why we must remember.
