To the Dominator, Arch-Binder of Avernus,

My chains remain unbroken.

The mission to Fastormel, as you foresaw, brought the rot to the surface. Vaelin and I retrieved the tablets from Ioun's temple—etched stone trembling with forgotten truths. The dead, of course, walk there. The city has been claimed by the silence of graves. I note this not in fear, but in admiration; even chaos leaves order in its wake. The dead do not lie.

The Iron Circle desired what was not theirs. We were followed, stalked by men in black and crimson, puffed with authority and bearing symbols not sanctified by pact. They did not ask. They demanded.

We declined.

Cornered in the ruins at the edge of the Spiderfell, Vaelin and I made our stand. I admit: I do not know if he would have endured alone. He is all vision and little wrath. But just as blood began to decorate the stone, they came—Kvothe, Jocelin, Agatha.

I did not call them.

They arrived regardless.

The Iron Circle were scattered like dry leaves. Their officer, a pale-souled thing, tried to surrender. Agatha struck him down regardless. She says her god punished her in her dreams. Curious. Would that all deities were so quick to reprimand breaches of will.

We journeyed together to Fallcrest. I find these companions useful, if not yet trustworthy. Jocelin watches me as though I’ve slipped from someone’s painting. Kvothe thinks I can’t see him measuring his odds. Agatha... she burns, and doesn’t know why.

We reached Voren’s tower only to find it hollow. Purple ichor where a sage once stood. A mind flayer has been here—your enemy and mine. It moved through the world wrapped in illusion and left a token in the groceries of a simple man. A coin, etched in psionic runes. You know the kind.

I study the signs, as I always do. The enemy slips close to our fires. It wears robes now—deep purple, tall and hooded. Witnesses saw it. Touched it. Could not remember it. That is theft of the mind. That is heresy against consent.

I will find it.

They call me Ruin. But I am not chaos. I am the correction.

I write to you not to ask permission, but to affirm intent. The circle of will has not broken. The flame beneath my skin remains steady. I am your instrument, and I serve the clause:

No dominion without surrender.

Your servant,

Ruin, Marked of the Hinge