Dearest Cyrela,
Before this letter arrives, the news of our failure – my failure – will reach our shores. The lands of our ancestors remain beyond our reach, and the creatures who squat in our inheritance remain unbroken. In our arrogance, we have underestimated them – I have underestimated them. Treacherous elves, foul dwarves, uncivilised men and worse rose to resist us, the fury of a continent unleashed against our legions. Fifteen years we endured, but alas the task given to me by the Senate was beyond my ability to deliver. I entreat you to ensure the oracle of Sied Emba gets a succulent offering of figs. The lying hag promised the portents were auspicious, even had the gall to tell me that such glory awaited me I wouldn’t even need to return to Dathen to claim it. As I order the survivors to sail west, only my honour remains. I promise, my nightingale, I will make you proud. Please kiss Maebh and Cara for me and tell them their father died for their future. Eternally yours,
– Calamandran