To the Tyrant of the Conqueror Iniquitous,

Congratulations on your ascension. You now bear a shackle few will ever be blessed with, and that fewer still ever learn to see the curse lying quietly within. You stand pious on the shoulders of those who would bring the realm to its knees in the name of the Malevolent Master, and it is His power that cloaks you now in the crimson fog of responsibility.

But I know you as others do not. I know you as a coward who broke his oaths and ran from his people the moment you realised that suffering wears a glove not of velvet, but of iron most cold, and that you did not have the courage to embrace its sting. You waxed lyrical on failure and personal ineptitude, of an inability to be the Commander your soldiers needed you to become, and I believed you when you said that you were not enough.

I believe you still. And to you, a ruler now of these ever-dying lands, I deliver a blessing: May your reign be one of strife and anguish, and your days laboured beneath regret as you endure the exsanguination of your people.

In service,
Eoka Nithilar-Tarxun, Voice of the Apocalypse


Penned by my hand on the 15th of Glacian, in the year 926 AF.