Dear Sister Amra,

Work never ends here. The heat of Glumea powers the forges day and night, and my needles grow hot even at dusk. The caravans bring cloth from Friar, steel from Kum, and strange herbs said to come from Gobua itself. Explorers wander the markets with coin heavy in their purses, and I sew patches into their cloaks when their travels tear them thin. One young Flamebearer asked me to stitch the symbol of the Hearthfire into his sleeve — he said it would give him courage when leading his first expedition.

But courage is not always what they need. I have seen slimus folk in the market, their forms carrying mana like jars of water. They frighten some, but to me they are steady customers, paying promptly and speaking gently. I know Kum’s Inquisitors call them dangerous, yet no man of steel has ever been kinder to me than the slimus who waits patiently for his cloak to be mended. Perhaps wisdom is not found only in the temples.

Glumea grows rich while the rest of Solunus strains. Yet wealth is a fickle shield. I think often of you, stitching quietly in the shade of Gobua’s towers. When The Wall looms before you, remember this: not all boundaries are meant to be crossed. Some we live beside, shaping our lives around them, as I shape thread around a torn hem.

Yours in work and worry,
Salene