They always silence the prophet. That is the order of things. Truth spoken aloud is a blade, and those who build their empire from lies are quick to slice off the hand that wields it. The Majesty thinks that death will silence me, just as every tyrant ever across all of history, time, and space, has thought. After all, tyrants cannot bear to be see their own reflection, and so the mirror must be shattered. Each dawn, I hear His voice, resplendent and commanding, echoing within my very being, demanding I atone for my sins just before His light scours the flesh from my bones.

Perhaps it is irony, then, that I have listened to the thousand whispers unspooling from Prince Baalphegar's web without going insane. I have survived the crucible of Duke Ashtorath's fury, burned and broken before His endless rage. I have been shaped beneath Lady Nifilhema's hands, a masterpiece wrought from suffering. I have felt Lord Gorgulu's endless hunger he tore me apart, smiling all the while. And I have kneeled before the Dominator himself, finding purpose in his darkness as he claimed me for his own.

Perhaps it is not irony after all, that the coming of the dawn is nothing to be feared? It is providence. For I have already been burned, scoured, cleansed, consumed, and remade. When the sun rises, I welcome it. I crave it. The fires of His dawn are but a pale ember against the true enlightenment of Nil. Let the sun crest the horizon, and let it burn me to ashes.

Remember, the Dawn is not a promise. It is an erasure. It comes not to uplift, but to purify, burning away all that does not bow and beg and plead. That is the Truth He offers. I offer you another: Salvation.

- Kalas Tzshalgoth, Prophet of Truth

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Juliary, in the year 705 CE.