In the beginning, the heavens bent low, and the gods walked among us. Their words were law, their light our shield. But light is fickle; even the brightest star must one day turn away."
—Fragment from the ruined Temple of Solenne
---
The priests once declared that no prayer went unheard, that no offering lay forgotten. The altars were gilded with blood and incense, and the air of the sanctuaries was thick with devotion. Humanity believed itself eternal, guarded by divine hands.
Yet when the Dead rose, the gods did not descend.
No pillar of fire struck the shadow. No thunderbolt split the earth to drive back the corpses. No voice answered the wails of the dying.
Instead, silence.
It is said the High Priest of Veyla, goddess of mercy, mounted the steps of her temple when the first plague of the Dead fell upon the holy city. His voice cracked as he cried out:
"Veyla! Do not abandon us, for our children choke in darkness! Look upon the faithful and spare them! Send your light, lest hope itself perish!"
But the only reply was the buzzing of flies over the corpses in the square.
In the last days, temples became tombs. Believers locked themselves within their shrines, thinking the sanctity of prayer would keep the monsters at bay. But stone walls crumble. Blood runs as easily in sanctuaries as in gutters.
Some whisper the gods did not forsake humanity—they fled. Others claim the gods were devoured, their essence consumed by a hunger greater than divinity itself. A darker sect proclaims that the gods had never cared, that their miracles were but illusions meant to chain mortals to obedience.
Whatever the truth, one fact endures:
The day the gods turned away was the day mankind stood alone.