To the Temperor Emeritus, Sir Antoninus Nithilar and the Tempire of Mhaldor,

Seventy-five years ago, before that fateful Mage of Moghedu crawled forth from her caverns to share her research with the world, before the first Eidolic beacon was fashioned, yes, before the very first territory outside the borders of a city was claimed, there was the prophesy.

Long is the Sight, and clear was the vision. It told of the rising tide of the West. It told of the flooding of our world by the West's reach. It told of more. Here, on this very news board, all of this dire prophesy was put before the eyes of the world.

And now, the tide is high.

Today, the Once-Empire of Mhaldor - the shortest and most pitiful in history - lashes out like a storm in its death throes. Bereft of courage and drunk on the false strength of overwhelming numbers, you descended upon our streets. In the absence of Ashtan's finest warriors, you sought to make a statement. You declared war upon the empty streets and slaughtered forty-one of our guards. In your minds, this was a victory, a blow struck against Ashtan's heart. Yet we know the truth. The tide may crash against the shore, but the shore does not yield - it endures, unmoved, unbroken.

The tide that floods the lands retreats just as swiftly, and so too shall your reach recede. Your banners will falter, your walls will crumble, and your dominion will be lost to the sea of history. On that day, Ashtan will be there - not as silent witnesses, but as harbingers of that ruin.

This month you celebrate your great victory over the North's guardsmen and women. The four of our people who were present confessed they could not stand against your army, and so I declare the West victorious in this battle. You won. Celebrate well.

Remember this victory, for we will never forget it.

With each passing month, more souls complete their pilgrimage to our gates, discovering their purpose among our people. The Wheel turns steadily in the North. Even now, expansions to our city are underway. As we grow, the fragile faiths of those drawn westward by the rising tide will shatter, and they will abandon you. You will diminish, just as it was foretold. And when the time comes, when the tide ebbs and the winds turn against you, we will rise. Our vengeance will be cold and measured, unrelenting in its precision. The West will learn what it means to bleed.

When you scream for mercy, we will answer with silence.
When you beg for restraint, we will give none.
When you call out for salvation, only the Void will hear.

We are patient.

Die.

~II

[X] Overseer Grandue Xeh'ria, Keeper of the Iron Crown

[A small octagon encircles a raised "II" here, inscribed in thick, amethyst ink]


Penned by my hand on the 5th of Ero, in the year 966 AF.