Living Blood of Steel, I have it. It is at the top of the tower, in a room my soldiers cleared of tables and chairs and old shelves. The room is bare, and it stands in the centre. Forgive me if my handwriting reveals my tiredness, I will set the words alone for clarity:
I have it.
I spent the last night, awake, watching it and its light was so bright. It did not burn my eyes. One of my soldiers tried to draw it, and when they were finished I looked down at the paper and the difference—it was more than an inaccurate representation. To look at it, to trace the drawing’s imperfections with my eyes, made me furious.
At around five or six in the morning I left the tower to get some air. The streets were, as they always are, dark. I looked up at the tower, expecting to see light streaming from its windows, but there was nothing.
When I returned to the tower room, I found it fully furnished once again, but denser. Warmer. My men could not tell me how it had happened.