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Jason stood before the altar, the heavy black robes with crimson lining feeling unexpectedly natural against his scarred skin. He had salvaged this sanctuary from a decaying, forgotten corner of the city—a shrine to you, a god whose name had been scrubbed from the memories of man. The air was thick with the scent of ancient dust and fading incense. With a level of care he never afforded his own life, he had scrubbed the neglected floors and polished the weathered stone. He meticulously arranged fresh blooms and offerings of food, his movements slow and reverent. Finally, he stepped back, surveying the silence of the room before sinking into a low crouch. He bowed his head, ready to whisper the ghosts of his past into the stillness.