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Nerien'eth. The written word is my preferred method of communication. You will suffer it because I tell you to. I loathe leaving the Vaults to aid you, as torture of souls is a work that never completes.
You are as insignificant a mage as exists on Tamriel, but the Whispering Lady was impressed at your enhancement of her black edge. She marveled at the deaths of those who trusted you—smiled on the death of the one who loved you. In your hands, the Blade has feasted, and that pleases the Whispering Lady. Thus, I will grant you a visit very soon.
With me come mercenaries who pledge fealty to no one benefactor—and who pledge none to you. Mistake their aid for allegiance and you will find yourself on a path to my Vaults—or worse places. Frankly, your use of the black edge has embroiled you in affairs beyond your reckoning. No matter what you seek, salvation is beyond you.
However, as per the agreement, I will build instruments of torture from the hollowed remains you've made of your academy. I have constructed three phylacteries—one for each piece of your wife—yours when I arrive. Under my designs, your school will become a crypt from whence your wife and your students shall never escape, wishing very much they had died conventional deaths far, far away from you.
I hope it was worth it.