[A nondescript envelope is left on the desk of the Fourth Legion during busy hours, marked only to the Sergeant.]
You who has slaved yourself to the most terrible lie, Justice, through the Wroth- you are marked.
Know that our salvation from the Wheel will be through the unshackling of our souls from your Butcher God and all the others of the Wheel. It is through you that I will smite the Wroth, and tear his sin from my flesh.
Sing your praises to your Lord while breath still fills your lungs, he will still not provide anodyne for what is to become of both of us.
[There is no signature]
Radislav mulls over the letter with the company of a cigar and a shotglass of whisky one dark autumn evening, later seen in an unusually congenial mood.