While the Aalen drowns, you polish policies. Who in the hells do you think you are?

You boast of honourable conflict yet hide behind clerks, changing fines and rules as though paperwork could mask a bloated corpse's smell.

I have received letters from generals, priests, Darkwalkers, Caefir, Sartai, even cabin boys offering parley or warning. From you: nothing. The Lion of Sol finds his purr only when the risk is limited to ink.

Your own Senate cannot stand you; half your populace calls you "Lord Abstain" behind closed doors. They march, bleed, and die in battles you have never heard of because their Chancellor prefers to debate fee schedules instead of strategy.

Do not claim this is mercy. It is vacancy. A ruler unwilling to speak for his city forfeits the right to be heard. Every day your silence lengthens, Cyrene's oath grows thinner, and the wider realms learns that its so-called Gate is manned by a toll-collector.

Keep your ledgers balanced, Milabar. History will remember that, when land and lives lay in the scale, you weighed reputation first and found yourself wanting.

- King Tu'eras

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Chronos, in the year 992 AF.