The fourth moon rose red tonight, illuminating the north for the first time since the death of Iridia. Without her it is a bleak place indeed, the ice reclaiming its lost land with a vengeance, turning the entirety of it to a mirror, jagged and cutting. I can see it from here, the towers of Nye just tall enough to catch a glimpse of the now-frozen waste.
Though, I imagine, that means little to you. You will have never seen the glass towers, never felt their fragile strength, never walked the green plains of the Darren or swum in the Selpher’s frigid waters. Sometimes I worry that the world will be so different, so changed by the time you find this that these words themselves will cease to hold any meaning.
Regardless, I must continue. There is no other choice, no margin for hesitation or failure. For, you see Lynn, there are things you must know, things only I can tell you. But first, a word of caution. If you are anything like the boy I knew once, this warning will likely go ignored, though I have yet to decide whether that would be a blessing or a travesty. I should like to think that you will remain constant, that the you living now is the same as the you to whom I write, but I also hope that you grow, that you become wise and careful.
The gods know you need it.
But I digress. The warning: read only the pages of this journal addressed to their corresponding date. Do not read ahead, do not skip to the end. Do not, for any reason, miss a day. What I write to you is of the utmost importance. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that not only your life, but those of everyone you have ever and will ever know rely upon your complete, prompt obedience.
I beg of you Lynn, do not disobey this single commandment. Throw these messages away if you must, choose to disregard them, only do not read those not meant for your eyes.
On whatsoever day you find this, read the next letter tomorrow. There will be instructions there as to your first task.
I wish you luck, Lynn, and good fortune.
- Sincerely Yours,