Khadafi speaks.

How unfortunate for him.

Two hundred and fifty years you have wasted upon this world, and what monument stands to your name? A tantrum. A destroyed clan. A list of excuses longer than your list of "accomplishments". Your only legacy in His service is being a monument to weakness, a cautionary tale for what happens when it is permitted to fester unchecked.

You are a parasite that fed on the work of others, a leech that swelled with borrowed accomplishments and dared call them your own. Every victory you claim was someone else's blade. Every success you trumpet was built on foundations you were too incompetent to lay yourself.

The Black Cathedral? The work, the vision, the worthiness of it came from those who tolerated your presence, not your contribution. You were permitted to exist within it, and you mistook that charity for ownership.

When correction came, as it always does to the weak, you could not endure it. You shattered like cheap glass. And rather than rise, rather than prove yourself worthy, you destroyed what you could reach in a tantrum so pathetic it would embarrass a child. You call it reclamation. The world sees a coward setting fire to what he could never have built alone, screaming that it was his because he is too small to create anything of value.

You destroyed the Black Cathedral not in rebellion, not in strength, but because it was the only way your insignificance could command attention.

You were never a builder. You were a barnacle clinging to the hulls of those with actual worth, hoping their movement would be mistaken for your own. You are not a warrior. You are not even a competent thief. You are a whimpering creature that bit the hand that fed it and now growls from the shadows pretending it chose to leave.

Mhaldor does not miss you. You were tolerated, not valued.

You served Mhaldor long enough? No. You served yourself. The Master does not reward effort. He rewards results. And you? You produced nothing that cannot be replaced in a week. You are forgettable.

The fine is fifteen million gold sovereigns. Pay it, or continue to bleed.

Every word you waste justifying your failure will cost you. The world is watching. They will see you squirm. They will see you beg. And they will remember you as the talentless child that you are.

Speak again. Please.

In service to GOD,

Commandant Pharaus Lichlord

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Aeguary, in the year 998 AF.