I remember the first time a priest whispered, “What if the council stopped keeping its promises?” That question sits at the heart of our era. Some claim the gods withdrew to test us, others insist corruption rotted the council from within, and a few radicals argue the cosmos itself shifted and left the old order behind. None of those explanations silence the unease that hums through every liturgy and oath I witness, or the political intrigue tracked in Living Pantheons.

The crisis reshaped faith into a spectrum of coping strategies. Traditionalists double down on ritual precision, convinced that obedience will coax the council back into alignment. Reformers demand purges, believing the rot lies in the hierarchies. Mystics chase unmediated union, refusing to let institutions filter whatever divine voice remains. Skeptics shrug and build ethical systems that need no gods at all. I’ve watched all of them light altars in the same square, each convinced the fire proves their argument, while authorities from Hands of Authority and power brokers in Faith Under Pressure decide who gets to speak.

When I write characters into this world, I let the fractured covenant haunt them. A devotee might still perform offerings while wondering if anyone answers. A prophet might hear something and fear it’s a trick. A cynic might find themselves praying anyway. The crisis isn’t a past event; it’s the air everyone breathes.