In the great temple of Tofana, night had already cast its heavy veil upon the city, but the prayer hall still throbbed with the whispers of souls and the tremble of hearts. The candles lined along the tall walls sent their flickering flames dancing silently, while the scent of incense rose in transparent spirals, as if writing a prayer not spoken, but inhaled.
Dozens of believers knelt on the cold ground, their heads bowed, hands pressed to their chests, and their breaths echoed in a unified rhythm. Men and women of all ages, their voices rising and fading in soft supplication, each trying to make Tofana hear something of their pain, something of their hope.
Young priest "Lioriel" stood at the front row, raising his hands to the sky, while the echo of his deep voice lingered through the stone columns:
