We swore our oaths to the First Ones, beneath the same stars that lit their hunt. Yet one by one, those stars flicker and fade, and in their place… darkness. The absence of warmth. Endless. Inescapable. Now come the whispers - no longer faint, but gnawing at the marrow. With each word, we are unmade. Soon we will be but hollow vessels. Our oaths, devoured.