Third day of the second tenday of Flamerule, year of 719
My liege, news from the field. Our expedition to Theruk has yielded fruits most delectable - the Expedition-Marshal has informed me that within the subterranean chambers, a discovery of great bounty has been made. To put it simply, it is a cavern lined with crystalline monoliths, each one thrumming with an energy that sets one’s teeth on edge.
Aetherometers fail to hold steady in their presence, and even without instruments, the effect is palpable - a low vibration in the air, a pressure at the base of the skull, as if the very stones are beholden to some unseen force. The scholars mutter of untapped power, of potential beyond reckoning.
Whatever force gave rise to these crystals, it is long gone. Whether they can be harnessed remains to be seen. We will proceed with care, but we must capitalise - this is power, and if we do not claim it, someone else will.
Sixth day of the first tenday of Alturiak, year of 719
My liege, I must thank you once more. To be adorned with the Royal Cross is nothing short of a dream made manifest. As I write this, the first instalments of Stormcores have been unveiled, and the results speak for themselves. The energy they provide is unlike any seen before—clean, constant, and seemingly inexhaustible. Cities that once dimmed at dusk now glow through the night. Forges run without pause, warships move without sail or beast. The old limits of magic and industry are being rewritten before our eyes.
Here in Kiharet, the High Spire is now crowned with a Stormcore nearly fifteen metres in height. I saw it myself - in all its indestructible perfection, the untrimmable edges gleaming like captured lightning. People have been gathering in the streets just to watch it catch the light. It hums with the same quiet pulse, but here it is directed. The scholars call it a marvel. The rulers call it a boon.
I should be direct, though - I write to inform you that my ship to the capital has been delayed. The navigator took a fall, and must recover for a day. I await your command.
Eighth day of the second tenday of Uktar, year of 720
My liege, all is well by the western gate. The famine and creeping plague of the dead continue pushing them towards us, and the streets are more crowded than ever before - I feel a curious mixture of hope and desperation in the air. However, it becomes ever more clear that the lands beyond our walls suffer greatly. I advise you issue a statement soon, even if just to quell unrest.
For now, I see the arrival of so many as a boon. The streets bustle with life, trade flourishes, and the markets are more plentiful than they have been in years. The people are grateful, and the city grows wealthier by the day. How fortunate we are to behold a Stormcore, and how fortunate that the Stormcores halt the advancing desolation.
Let us not grow complacent, though. I fear the peace will not last, and that we must take precautions.