By morning, we were already writing history.
The Westmarsh Letter was drafted over tea and nerves, inked in looping strokes by candlelight, and rewritten twice more before the final version was sealed. It was bold, pointed, and elegantly unapologetic.
We printed forty copies. Twenty for public halls, ten for private guild meetings, and ten to be hand-delivered to every noble with business ties to the coast. No one would claim ignorance.
The letter read:
We, the undersigned, call for transparency, fairness, and a return of voice to the hands that carry this kingdom. We do not seek disruption. We seek balance. We do not declare rebellion. We declare reckoning.
The names beneath it were not just signatures—they were battlements.
As I sealed the last copy, Mina asked, "How many of these
