The sky churned with swollen clouds, dark as obsidian, roiling with rain that had not ceased in weeks. Beneath it, the village of Cleethorpes clung to the earth like a dying thing, mud huts leaning against each other for support, thatched roofs dripping into the sodden dirt paths.

A storm-wind blew in from the east, rattling old gates that barely held together with twine and brittle wood. Inside the village square, a group of men and women stood huddled beneath a sagging awning. Their faces were pale with hunger, brows slick with sweat that chilled in the wet air.

They waited for answers.

The temple doors groaned as the priest stepped out, clutching his staff of polished cedar in one hand. The villagers turned to him as if he carried the sun on his shoulders. But there was no sun, only his gaunt face and the weight of unanswered prayers.

Dumuzi, the village headman, was the first to speak, his voice sharp with frustration.

"What news from the altar, Ishiauun? Did the gods give you any sign?" Ishiauun stood still for a moment, letting the question hang in the wet air. He was not a tall man, but his presence carried weight—like the lingering hum of a gong long after it was struck. His black beard was streaked with silver, and his deep-set eyes gave the impression of him holding secrets unheard, he had not been born in Claethorpes and the villagers had once found comfort in that—believing that a man from the outside might call upon greater forces than they could. But now, even he could feel their faith slipping through his fingers like the rain.

"No sign," Ishiauun said finally, his voice steady but low. "No answer from crophix. Nor from voliazas, , nor neme. I burned the finest lamb we had left. I spoke the sacred words. But the gods remain silent."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd like the buzz of hornets disturbed in their nest. Nanshia a young mother with a babe strapped to her back, wiped her wet hair from her eyes. "So we are cursed, then? The gods have forsaken us?"

"Not cursed," Ishiauun said firmly, though he felt the lie settle uneasily on his tongue. "The gods test us. They test our resolve, our faith."

A burly farmer named Ariu, his cheeks hollow from hunger, spat into the mud. "Faith doesn’t fill a belly, priest. It doesn’t keep a monster from tearing a man apart when he steps beyond the gates. We’ve done all you asked—burned what animals we had, prayed every night, fasted when you said the gods needed sacrifice. And still, the rain comes. Still, the monster waits."

"It is not just the beast," Dumuzi added grimly, folding his arms across his broad chest. "Our trade caravans do not come. No merchants. No travelers. It is as if we have vanished from the map of the world. The forest has swallowed us whole." Nanshia's babe whimpered against her shoulder, and she patted it absently, her lips trembling.

"The food won’t last," she whispered. "It’s nearly gone now. My children ask me for bread, and I have none to give."

"The crops drowned in the mud," muttered Zaba an old man with missing teeth, leaning on a twisted cane.

"Even the goats don’t give milk like they used to. The godess of the harvest doesn't aid us. The healer says the sickness is spreading." His voice dropped to a fearful whisper. "It’s the *urtumalu*—they call it, the demon fever. It takes the young and the weak first. The gods won’t stop it. They sent it to punish us."

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"Enough." Ishiauun raised a hand, silencing the rising panic. His voice was measured, his gaze steady. "The gods have not abandoned us. We do not understand their ways, but we must not turn from them. We must be strong."

"Strong?" Ariu scoffed. "Tell that to the sick children. Tell it to the goats that give no milk."

Ishiauun took a step forward, his gaze unwavering. "Do you think I do not see the suffering? I stand before the altar every day and night, calling on the gods to save this village. I have burned the last of our offerings. I have sung every hymn, made every prayer. I know your fear because it is my fear too." The crowd quieted under the weight of his words, though the unease still simmered just beneath the surface.

Biutu, the old healer, shuffled forward from the back of the group, his thin frame swathed in a threadbare cloak. His eyes were cloudy, but sharp with knowledge born from decades of tending the sick and the dying.

"This sickness—it is not like the others,"He said slowly, her voice a rasp.

"I do not know how to cure it. I have tried roots and herbs, poultices and chants. Nothing works. And I cannot get what I need from beyond the forest. Not with the beast roaming the paths."

"What are the signs?" Ishiauun asked, his expression grave. Biutu shook he head.

"The young burn with fever, and their breath rattles. It takes them slowly, like a creeping shadow. No herb I know will stop it."

"Then we must find another way," Ishiauun said, though the answer felt hollow even to him. "We will not give up. There is always a way."

"Is there?" Dumuzi said darkly. "You were not born here, priest. You came from Sippar, where the walls are tall and the temples rich with offerings. But this is Claethorpes. No one remembers us. The lord of these lands does not care if we starve, and his warlocks will not come to our aid. We are alone."

"Alone?" Ishiauun echoed, narrowing his eyes.

"We are never alone. The gods are always watching." Ariu let out a harsh laugh.

"If they are watching, they must enjoy seeing us suffer."

Nanshia clutched her child closer, tears welling in her eyes.

"What do we do, priest? What do we do if the gods never answer?"

Ishiauun gripped his staff, the wood cool and smooth beneath his fingers. He looked out over the gathered faces, seeing not just fear, but exhaustion—men and women worn thin by hunger and loss, clinging to the last shreds of hope. He knew they expected him to have answers, to perform a miracle. But he was only a man, and the gods had been silent for so long. Still, he could not let them fall into despair. Not yet.

"We endure," he said quietly. "We endure because we must. If the gods test us, we will prove our worth. If they have turned from us, we will remind them of our faith. But we do not give up. We do not surrender to fear." Dumuzi’s jaw tightened, but he gave a slow nod. "The people need to hear that, Ishiauun. They need to believe in something, even if it's only in themselves."

Ishiauun exhaled,. "Then gather them at the granary tonight. I will speak to them."

"And what will you say?", Biutu asked quietly.

Ishiauun looked up at the darkened sky, the clouds shifting like restless spirits.

"I will tell them the truth, that the gods are testing us, teaching us to endure.Not to fall in desperation, that we will fight and overcome. We are still here. And as long as we are here, there is hope."

"So we lie to them? Our people. Decisive them with salvation which may never come!", Zamba questioned.

"Lies can become truth and truth can become lies, truth and lies are just evidence that we have to the contrary. It can't be lies if we make it through"

The villagers murmured among themselves, their faces a mixture of doubt and reluctant hope. They had no choice but to believe—for what else was  left to them?

As they began to disperse. Beyond the gates, the forest loomed, and somewhere within its shadows, the monsters waited. The storm rumbled in the distance, and Ishiauun whispered a quiet prayer to the God of Miracles, umtin.

There was no reply.