As the light of day perished beyond the horizon, black bled upon parchment.

It had been a lifetime since Darth Metus had laid his sulfuric gaze upon the Black Iron Tyrant. A lifetime since the day they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, witnessing the infancy of what would become a Sith Empire. Shortly thereafter, their roads diverged. Destiny had different plans for both of them. One would become an Emperor, the other a Vicelord. Now, so long after ambitions turned to ash, Darth Metus physically collected his thoughts. And as the hours of night moved ever forward, so too did the missive before his eyes.

The letter was a history: the tale of his Confederacy and the recounting of its fall. Of identifying the threats which slumbered within the Netherworld. The Sith did not write this story for his own benefit, but as a reminder and warning to the former Emperor. In the modern era, the Sith were gone from the Galactic stage. Like the beasts of winter, they hybernated and licked their wounds. Darth Metus had no doubt that there would come another resurgence. And when it did, Carnifex would not be far behind.

He shared this story as a reminder: Relax not the Iron Fist.

He shared this tale as a warning: The Netherworld was not their Ally.

The very realm of death always had bigger fish lying in wait. Darth Metus learned this the hard way. Thus, the missive was signed and sealed. It would take some time for the letter to find its way across the stars - weeks, months, even.

But upon its arrival, Carnifex would be reminded. Perhaps, then, the inevitable return would be better than the last.