Whirran,

A teapot. A sun. You reach for mockery, for wit, for whatever fragile armor your tongue provides against the truth. But words shape nothing, however desperately you cling to them.

You sneer at our purpose, likening it to empty boasts. Yet who stands now, unbowed and unbroken? You believe my deaths to be triumphs, yet I return, as I always do, as I always will. The Inquisition is not a claim. It is a truth etched in flame and blood, a tide that will drown the arrogant and the unclean alike.

You did not spare me, Whirran. Do not deceive yourself. You simply failed to end me.

Your blasphemy has been weighed. Your defiance has been marked. You think yourself beyond judgment? Then let the Inquisition teach you the cost of hubris.

Know this, heretic. We burn hotter than your defiance.

Your challenge is heard.

Hajamiqiel Ermoki

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 22nd of Celes, in the year 9 AC.