Yet more death, yet more disappointment. I feel the ground shaking, I hear the low rumble of the coming storm. The stars couldn’t be clearer: Coen of Laslea may become our doom. Do not rest until you catch him, do not sheathe your swords until they taste his flesh. Reward me for the blood I give you, and more shall flow. Fail me, and I shall withhold it until you all writhe in pain.
Boyaress Xanthe
