Mother,

The mountain air chills me, though the sheep graze as if nothing stirs. Yet I swear the Lance hums at night, as though the stone itself remembers battles not yet fought. Explorers tramp through daily, some with eyes full of fire, others hollow already, their courage spent before their coin.

The priests say Atum shields us from the worst, but I see cracks even in their prayers. When I walk the paths, I find offerings left in haste—flowers, trinkets, broken charms—all abandoned at the foot of the cliffs. It feels as though people hope the mountain itself will bargain with them.

If the Reaper rises again, Mother, promise me you will not linger near the Lance. I fear its shadow may not spare even the smallest village.

Your son,
Orren