And yet, you have nothing.

No integrity. No sense. No power. No protection. No spine.

There has been much rumble and toil about the realms since our last exchange. I was asked, time and time again, why I abided your attacks upon my person. They were called vicious and foul, and to carry a certain aspect of charred flesh with them. I was even offered mending salve. I found this strange at the time; your words bear as much weight and meaning as the liver of a Mhun, which is to say they are only worth anything when separated from their owner (and, typically, broiled).

However.

Your impudence leads us down an irrevocable path. I am not a woman who wastes time with words and frivolous insults; I do not let the ink of a quill speak where my hand does the job. I will say this, though: leadership teaches many lessons to those with the wisdom to learn them. Humility. Sacrifice. Consequences.

And so I bring you consequences. Already, you will feel them: Aalen's old sigils blurring, pathways dulling beneath a tarnish at once perceived and imperceptible. Old wards rot like fruit, their time come to an end, and each sunset spoiling them further. Soon you will clutch for air, grasping at a throat too thin to grasp, wondering why the Wild no longer heeds your cry.

There is a cure, but it requires wisdom you yet lack. When you were but a nascent fledgling, you watched your father die for his weakness; it pains me to know that in the centuries since, that lesson has not taken root inside you. Instead you sat in your village and let yourself wither, your mind spilling out of your ears like some pointless wastrel, every day wasted on nothing.

In four month's time, you will come to Mhaldor with no more than one witness, unarmed, and submit yourself to my will. I will take your life and I will bind your soul, and there will be no succor granted to you by any steward of souls. You will depart this world and you will pay the price for your arrogance. Or your people will learn it for you.

Refuse, and you will watch your wardlines blacken to dust, your rangers wilt, and every child of every grove will learn that lessons unfelt in blood are never learned at all.

I will see you in Miraman.

Tabethys Aristata,
Tyrannus of Mhaldor,
Champion of GOD

P.S. I have sent you a shipment of walnuts appropriate to the various ongoing festivities. Since you are a fan of arithmetic, I invite you to count them while you mull over your short and miserable future. Feel free to keep your gauntlets on.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Mayan, in the year 992 AF.