And so the sands ran red.

And the hounds barked at the end of their very long leash,
as they are wont to do.

To the Dragon of the North,

Your militia acquitted themselves well. I expect the wyrms of the Mhojave are well-sated on the blood and bone alone. Glory in it as is expected. You came to collect a debt in blood owed, and I am not too proud to admit you have collected. I expect the Regent and I will be speaking shortly.

To the High Priest of Loss,

A wiser man I knew once told me that the only truth is the full realization of His realm. That I ought understand that the only time I am free, the only time I am real and true, is in the crucible. Struggling, clawing, bleeding, he said. Not winning, perhaps.

Almost certainly not every time.

I much preferred him.

Paxe Visara
Thronekeeper of Bones

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 2nd of Omeian, in the year 5 AC.