As time progresses, that which we build will inevitably change. Growth and decay are paired forces, and their influences shape outcomes well beyond our ability to foresee. But what can someone say when a vision fails so utterly as to become insignificant? What happens when a dream stops?

When I departed Kinsarmar to explore my legacy in the traditional homeland of my family, that which I built was secure. With grand vision, the Ghost Tower had been reopened, and the Phantoms had regained their place within the Duchy. The Spectres that we built were invisible by choice, not by relevance. They walked the shadows with purpose, turning over enemies both internal and external to the Duke's justice.

You who hold the Ghost Tower hold the key to centuries of power. Locked within those walls are treasures you have yet to imagine or control. Yet what are you? An irrelevant shell who's only purpose is providing the Duchy with the most modern and simplistic of our tasks, alchemical toxicology. Not one step has been made toward achieving greatness, you have forgotten all of the lessons you were taught. You are Phantoms no longer, Sondgroth's name now belongs to me alone.

Your city has enemies, more ride against you than with you in these modern nights. Several of those that pledge with your cause work with your enemies. You must recapture the glory that came with your legacy, or you must perish and give way for those that can. Time is not on your side, and the fortune granted Rogues does not favor the blind.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Solis, in the year 603 AD.