Dearest Caylan,
I grow old, my love. So, so old. The pain in my side worsens with each passing day—it won’t be long before I join you in Aetherius.
Funny. I’ve written you every day since you passed. It always dulled the pain. And now, as I stand on the threshold of death, just a heartbeat away from our reunion, I find myself racked with worry. I’ve sent countless letters to our family on Balfiera Isle, but haven’t received a single reply. I fear that I may be the last Keeper of the acropolis. With me dead, who will kindle the fires below? Who will keep the forsaken one in her tomb? Everyday I feel her growing stronger—scraping at the lid of her sarcophagus, yearning to be free. Someone must come. Someone must maintain the fires. We cannot allow her to go free.
But I ramble. Rest well, my love. I will be with you soon.
Your loving wife,
Temeye
