Satrap-No-Longer,

Aamiran, you speak of storms as though they absolve you, as though fate itself descended unbidden upon your eyries. Yet Corruption teaches a harsher, truer mercy: nothing is spared by pretending decay is dignity. Malice will be your lesson, a sacrament unto which I shall teach you.

Malice is to recognize what has failed, to name it without flinching, and to cut it free before it poisons all that depends upon it. You were offered this lesson again and again - in the pressure at your borders, in the narrowing of your choices, in the quiet terror of your people as the world closed its fist.

You called these trials cruelty.

Corruption calls them instruction.

Even now, while you shout defiance into the void, your people stand before my Lady's Shrine. I have seen them. I have heard the tremor in their voices as they kneel, not in despair, but in clarity. They come ready to devote themselves to Corruption, and through Her, to the Empire -Her Empire. They understand what you refused to see: that Corruption is not mindless ruin, but refinement; not the end of all things, but the end of illusions. It is the art of survival sharpened to truth, the blade that pares away pride, stagnation, and the comforting lies of sovereignty that leave a people to die alone. Your priesthood learns this now, in blood and ash, because they must. Had you listened when they still whispered it in counsel, your name might not be spoken as a warning.

The Empire does not devour for sport. We remake. Corruption does not ask for worship so much as honesty: an admission of weakness, an acceptance of change, and the will to be reshaped into something that can endure. Those who kneel do not cease to be; they are made fit for the world as it is, not as they wished it to be. This is the lesson you scorned while clinging to the fiction of unbroken wings. You chose spectacle over salvation, pride over preservation.

Your people have chosen differently. They have chosen to live, to belong, to be reforged within the embrace of Corruption and the order of the Empire. History will remember that choice. And it will remember yours, too - not as the roar of a storm, but as the brittle crack of something that would not bend, and so broke.

Her Dirneti wo Temiytisa,
Ivonia Ilalith de Verdigris

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 19th of Lleian, in the year 16 AC.