Letter 011

Charles Klaus Metternich,

These old hands betray me.

I find myself regretting, more than once, that I never learned the simple courtesy of a dictation spell. Ink is slow. Bone is slower. Still—I persist. There are things that must be written by hand, even now. Perhaps especially now.

You will forgive the tone that follows.

There are confessions to be made.

When your father died, four years past, my kind grieved him more deeply than most of your own people ever knew. He was not merely a man of rank. To the smallfolk—to my folk—he was a quiet force of protection. Food where there was none. Shelter where there should have been none. Dignity, where the world had long since stopped offering it.

He carried that burden without spectacle.

He lived longer than he had any right to, given the blood in him. We used to say—half in jest, half in reverence—that there was something elfin about him. The eyes. The wit. The way he moved through danger as though it had already agreed to let him pass.

But even such men do not escape forever.

What I now tell you will change your understanding of him.

I write the rest in your private cipher.

—

You must read carefully.

Your father was not only what he appeared to be.

He was instrumental in freeing thousands from the slave mills in the East. Not as a gesture. Not as charity. As a sustained effort—organized, deliberate, and in open defiance of law. He worked closely with Madame Oald of the Curie. Together they maintained routes—quiet ones—that moved the enslaved out of reach of the markets.

This was not merely unlawful.

It made him enemies who do not forget.

Understand me: I do not threaten you. I would sooner cut out my own tongue than dishonor him through his son. But others are not bound by such loyalties.

The ledgers have surfaced.

There are those who are already tracing the financial roots—Speculare, Shyria, the investments your father made to fund these operations. Your sister knows this. She must. If she appears strained, this is why.

The Slaver Corps remembers.

And they believe, as many do, that guilt passes through blood.

This will come for you. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon enough that you must begin preparing now.

There is another thread.

Among your father’s dealings lies a peculiar chapter—investments tied to a place called Hozekka.

You will find little about it through ordinary channels. That is by design.

It is a glacial wasteland beyond the Kingdom’s reach. No settlements. No trade routes. Officially, nothing of value.

Unofficially—it houses a containment complex. Old. Quiet. Carefully forgotten.

Revenants.

After the Great War, there was an inquisition. Not a public one. Those of Cyrillan bloodlines deemed… unsuitable… were taken. Their memories stripped. Their identities erased. They were placed there, in the ice, where nothing leaves.

Hozekka exports machinery. Precision instruments. Components—some of which you carry even now in your own devices.

Your father had access.

More than access.

Let us say only this: he used that access to liberate far more than anyone has accounted for. Not merely from the East—but from deeper places. Older systems.

This places you in a position few would envy.

On one side: those who owe your family honor beyond measure. The Turians among them.

On the other: slaver guilds, humanist purists, and their allies—who would happily erase your name from the world.

And in Dylath Leeen, these forces—unlikely as it sounds—have found common cause.

The Scar Palace is where such contradictions gather.

Be cautious of your sister.

I say this without malice. Only honesty. Her motives are… layered. I do not see clearly through her actions, and that troubles me. If she reaches out, listen—but do not accept without question. Nothing she does is without purpose.

Now—to the present danger.

There are movements in the south.

An island—Viliori Amioul. Worthless by most measures. Goats, rock, wind. No authority worth naming.

Which makes it ideal.

I maintain a small holding near its southern port. Recently, there have been arrivals. Settlers, of a sort. Not locals. Not quite anything one would call civilized.

They appear along the entire southern coast now, in small numbers. Their habits are wrong. Their manner wrong. Some are merely degenerate drifters.

Some are not.

Watch the eyes. The way they breathe. The way they move near water.

I believe Dylath Leeen is preparing an incursion there.

Not immediately. But within a handful of years—perhaps sooner.

The Kingdom knows.

Dylath knows that the Kingdom knows.

And so both prepare.

You can see it written plainly if you know where to look. Sokota is no longer a frontier town. It is a fortress in waiting—capable of housing half a million soldiers. The same will come in the west. The lands between—once dismissed as untamable—will be forced open.

Trade will follow.

War will follow trade.

And progress, as ever, will grind whatever stands in its path.

You may find yourself at the center of this.

Not by choice. By inheritance.

Which brings me to the only advice I can offer that resembles a path forward.

You must secure your position.

Your sister cannot inherit directly. Your mother cannot manage what remains. If nothing changes, your family’s standing will erode until it vanishes.

There is one remedy.

You must marry.

Quickly, and well.

Secure an alliance with a house of standing—Ducal if possible, at least comital. Complete your academic credentials within two years. With those in place, you may claim title, stabilize your position, and re-enter the structures that matter.

Without this—you will be exposed.

Come to me when you can.

Your Logoscopos is repaired. And the Pearl you seek is in my possession.

It is time you took your Endowment seriously.

You have lingered at the edge long enough.

The world is changing, Charles.

You may either be shaped by it—

or learn, finally, to shape something in return.

Your friend and tutor