Dawnlord,

I am unmoved by your plea for clemency.

You continue to labour under the delusion that Creation exists to serve you, that I am your thrall, and that your repeated failures should be humoured as long as you have that nimbus around your head. The world has now seen that all your proud words are not worth the dying breath in your lungs. You have led your men to the slaughter, and you have allowed Darkness to weave freely between the Light. Eleusis abandons their tending of the land to forge machines of war for the military of your industrial city.

Is this the best your morality has to offer? One hand always held out to beg?

Whimper to the politicians if you like. Ask for another year. Two. Twenty. You have half of one. Turn your campaign around while you can, and scramble for victory in the corpse-strewn mud. Or lie down and perish beneath His booted heel.

Surrender to His will, and I will press only you into chains when His Army snaps through the Dawnspear like dry tinder. You will remain my prisoner until I deign to release you.

Resist, and I will extend His cold torment to all that you hold dear. Their blood will be on your failing conscience. Your Seraph will be clipped, Jaru butchered and enslaved, and all the angels will weep for the arrogance of one man.

You have my terms.

His,

Tyrannus Stheno Aristata

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Sarapin, in the year 833 AF.