Countless winters have passed since the Day of Great Sorrow. I stopped counting.
Almost no one remains. Each act of resistance grows harder than the last.
The mountain city stands empty. My people were wrong—and have already paid for it with oblivion.
One final recourse remains: a relic from distant lands. With it, I will either restore my god… or perish.
At the full moon, I will perform the ritual before the sacred beasts of the Lord of Death, upon the altar. I will draw my own blood with an obsidian blade and pray.
