Year of the Emperor 275, Ostara
My Lady Mechthild,
I write now with the clarity of years, and the quiet satisfaction of a forge well-tended. You once warned me of Alaric’s softness, not as a flaw, but as a flame to be shaped. I remember your words, and I have watched their truth unfold.
Alaric stands now as a man of Hesan steel. He speaks with measured conviction, acts with precision, and bears the weight of duty without falter. The sentiment you feared would leave him exposed has not vanished—it has been buried. He does not speak of ants or dragons anymore, and I take this as proof of his transformation.
The softness you feared has been purged, and in its place stands resolve. If there is wonder in him still, it is silent. If there is feeling, it is mastered. He commands respect not by force alone, but by presence. He is not hollow. He is alloy.
You were right to caution me. And I was right to heed you, though I did so in silence.
He will be Hesan. He is ready.
Yours in shared legacy,
Otto