Beloved Sister,

The sea is fickle, and I barely reached the Archipelago alive. The islands rise like sentinels, each heavy with silence. Fishermen here speak of voices in the tide, urging them toward reefs they dare not sail. Some return wide-eyed, their boats laden with strange shells; others do not return at all.

The villagers keep shrines built from stone that feels older than Friar’s cathedrals. They whisper of Franklin and Richard Pole, saying their footsteps still echo in the caves. I cannot tell if they speak in reverence or warning.

I do not think I will linger long. The air tastes thick, as though every breath is weighed. I fear the sea does not welcome me, and I would rather risk storms than the silence of these islands.

Pray for my swift return.

Your brother,
Samel