To My Esteemed Partner,

Trade has been fierce along the desert road, though the heat of Glumea tests my patience as much as my skin. Their machines, powered by desert fire and hidden furnaces, are unlike anything in Friar. Marvels, yes, but costly to repair when even a screw fails. I have begun to wonder if they are made to break quickly, to keep our coin flowing into their workshops.

The caravans whisper at night of Red Beard’s knives glinting in shadow. I do not deny their danger, but I trust the old oaths—sworn with water, wood, and bone—still keep the Wolves from tearing open every wagon that rolls by. Oaths hold power even where steel cannot.

What worries me more is how the sands seem to shift faster each year, swallowing roads I walked in my youth. The Phantom dunes move like living beasts, eager to erase our paths. I fear one day they will erase us as well.

May our coin flow steadier than the sands.

In profit,
Rassel