A decayed journal page torn from a larger volume. Bronze stains obscure some of the hasty script.
They have broken through. We no longer have means of escape, but we were able to seal the upper floors of the tower. Even now I can hear them battering against our barrier. We have rationed our food and supplies, our weapons. They will not last much longer.
Sleepless nights are evident in frayed nerves and quiet tears. The Soulwardens search my face for composure. I cannot save them, but I will not show them my despair.