We have successfully resuscitated both the Souffrance and the Douleur, and manned them with what we could spare. What horrible names, whatever were those two thinking? Skeleton crews on every warship has done nothing positive to our combat simulations. That shining light keeps us coordinated enough to function, but it is running our bodies ragged. We have seen no sign of Les Sirènes, nor any sign of the artifact they consumed. The reports of their capture by Bretonians were likely not fabricated. We are not happy with this outcome.
It is not enough to lurk in the shadow of the Barrier Nebula any longer. The machine tells us that we are scraping by on luck and willpower, and it seems our luck is running out. It has been decided that we report to Research Station 19, to break down and repurpose our remaining materials. There will be no reinforcements, not from comrades or above. The crown has fallen, and there are only enemies on every edge. This will not deter us. They will face the glory of who they used to be.
The navigation system has delivered our path to us. It has become increasingly clear what our goal is. The light has not left the eyes of the crew, and our guiding light has informed us that we pave the path towards a greater Gallia. We will prove to her that one King's Man is worth ten thousand of these spineless cowards that bend the knee of fealty to Sirian dogs. Gallia once broke our enemies in their own homes, and these filth sit idle, wearing the chains of treaties and the shackles of Sirian expectations, and accepting the whips of Sirian sanctions.
Our guiding light told us "no mere sacrifice, instead, a repositioning of our enemy's blades". Hah! To that I say, if they have blades left to reposition! To that I say, if we do not storm New Paris and crown ourselves! To that I say, if we do not break the hearts of each feeble "Confederate" until they bend the knee and return Gallia to the glory that left this star sector ablaze!
Yet, no matter my pride, I cannot deny: this is a long march. Longer still, considering the state our engine is in. A long march that I am not expected to survive. Not by my men, not by my computer, not by our guiding light. Therefore, this is the final entry in the log. Our guiding light wishes to wait, claims she must listen to something before she allows us to move. After she hears whatever she is listening for, she will be sealed below, alongside some others, in the prison holds, where she may well survive the coming battles.
Dearest Aliénor, mon coeur, if you should somehow read this, know only this: I died a man. I died a hero. I died doing what was righteous. If someday they march upon New Paris and pull Gallia from her deathbed, and breathe life into her again, ask them to erect a monument to the noble men and women slain fighting for the greater good of our people, even when our people rejected us.
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