The tides turn red with memory, and the sea bears witness to debts unfulfilled. You murdered my son; with that act, you have made every ocean a grave for your own.

Let it be known: so long as justice is denied, no ship bearing your banner shall find peace on any water. Your sailors will learn to dread the hush before the ballista's thunder and the shadow on the waves that means the Blackgale hunts close.

This is your one reprieve - ten million gold, rendered every ten years, delivered as I command when my emissary calls. Refuse, and your flotilla will find no rest, no matter the storm or star. Pay, and perhaps you buy a moment's mercy for your people.

Should you believe sanctuary lies behind your city's walls, let me dispel that illusion. If your ships instead cower in harbour, my ships will reach them and you where the Hearth meets the sea. Targossas itself will tremble as fire and iron fall upon its shores - your sanctuaries will become the sites of your undoing. There is no refuge from the tide I bring.

Your answer does not decide whether the sea claims you; it decides how. Delay, and I promise you this: every Targossian drowned or burned beneath the black flag will be remembered as the cost of your hesitation.

Do not mistake this for a threat. It is prophecy.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Lupar, in the year 978 AF.