They call them the god of destruction. Chaos incarnate. The bringer of death and the end of man. And yet we worship them. We love them. We fear them. They are ours.

They sits above all, enthroned in the church at the heart of Kraboki, higher than any king, more enduring than any crown. Their presence presses down like a storm, thick and suffocating. I alone am permitted to draw near.

I walk the length of the hall on trembling legs, the marble cold beneath my knees as I bow before them. My hands clasp instinctively, not from ritual desperation.

“My Lord,” I whisper, “we humbly beg another day of peace. In return, another year of our devotion, our offerings, our love.”

I dare to look up.

Their gaze meets mine.

A force, vast and unknowable, stares back.

I do not know if they hear prayers. I do not know if they cares. But I offer mine all the same, like a lamb whispering to the butcher’s blade.

Please, I think, just let me survive this day.