Cyrene once approached the Aalen beneath banners of artistry and courtesy, vowing that no iron from your forges would scar Tsol'aa soil. Now that pledge splinters as your legions march, hungry for territory they neither sowed nor safeguarded.

You, like so many others, name this advance "destiny," but I see only a city shedding its heritage for the clangour of conquest. What was forged in chisels and lyres now reeks of salt, iron, and haste. Know this: the Aalen keeps the memory of every promise offered beneath her boughs, and her roots recoil from oathbreakers.

We will not be gathered as curios to adorn another council's ledger. Press farther, and the forest will close around your ranks: silent, patient, implacable. Each sapling felled will answer with ten new thorns, each clearing lit with your torches will fade into shadow once more.

Turn back while the echo of your word still lingers, however faintly. Persist, and discover how swiftly the path from neutrality to predation erodes beneath ancient feet, and how rarely a traveller finds the way back to honour.

- King Tu'eras

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Aeguary, in the year 992 AF.