To My Dearest Eleanor,
If you are reading this, then the gate has fallen, and my watch is ended. Do not mourn. This is the price of our creed, a cost I have always been prepared to pay. The air here is thin and tastes of ozone. The stone beneath my feet is cold, a constant reminder of the world we protect.
From the chasm, I can hear them. It is not a sound one can describe; it is a chorus of splintering geometries, a song that unravels the mind. There are three of us left. Three lions against a tide of impossibility. We have barricaded the archway with memories and lit the brazier with our last hopes. It will have to be enough.
I only regret that I will not see the roses in our London garden bloom again. Tell them I died well. Tell them I died standing. An army of light against the dark.
Yours, forever in service,
- Richard
(Recovered from a sealed pouch, Agartha LZ. Note was cold to the touch.)
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