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I write these words to my fellow Seventeenth Sharders for, unless Earth has an as-of-yet unknown Spiritual connection to Scadrial, metal will do me no good. I know of no other native equivalent that could serve the same function, and I doubt that the local computer hard drives are any safer than a Feruchemist’s metalmind. My only hope therefore – indeed, our only hope – is to spread the word quickly before my message is transformed. Beware if this post has been edited, for my account – and even those of our trusted administrators – will not be secure before this creature. And yet, the only safe way is to memorize this immediately regardless, for I know not if this entity is bound by any such mortal restraints. I have begun to wonder if I am the only sane man remaining. Can the others not see? If Terris texts preserved and revered for centuries could be altered with a Ruinous whim, of course our precious texts and databases were insecure. My brethren ignore the facts. They trust in the accuracy of the novels and the Words of Brandon. They are deaf to my objections and blind to my discoveries. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps I am mad, daft, or simply overcomplicating things. My name is Brian. Musician, scholar, traitor. I was not one of the ones to originally discover the existence of the Cosmere, but I am, unfortunately, the one who now must – despite my personal yearnings – put a stop to it, for now I know that Brandon Sanderson must never be allowed to complete his work. I write this message now, pounding it into my keyboard, because I am afraid. Afraid for myself, yes – I admit to being human. I know this message may not be well received, and the Seventeenth Shard may now bend their wills and their efforts to my extermination, for I am challenging all they once though they knew. I am also afraid, however, that all I have discovered – that my story – will be forgotten. Afraid that my plans will fail. Afraid of a doom worse, even, than losing the Cosmere. It all comes back to Brandon Sanderson. I feel bad for him, for all the things he has done for us – and that we now must convince him to stop. But, let me begin at the beginning, for I get ahead of myself. It all began as I started to transcribe the epigraphs – Kwaan’s inscription from the Conventical of Seran – from The Well of Ascension, when I happened to check it against the writing read by Sazed on pages 132 and 759-762 of the TOR hardback copy. Both were, supposedly, the same text as it was written in steel, but they did not quite match. Shocked and intrigued, I finished my copy during the next weeks and compared it with the rest in its entirety: (The sections in italics are those that had only the epigraph copy and could not be checked with anything uncorrupted by Ruin. The words in bold are those in the text that differ from the preceding word in the epigraphs.) “I write these words in steel, for anything not set in metal cannot be trusted. I have begun to wonder if I am the only sane man left (remaining). Can the others not see? They have been waiting so long for their hero to come— the one spoken of in Terris prophecies— that they quickly jump between conclusions, presuming that each story and legend applies to this one man. My brethren ignore the other facts. They cannot connect the other strange things that are happening. They are deaf to my objections and blind to my discoveries. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps I am mad, or jealous, or simply daft. My name is Kwaan. Philosopher, scholar, traitor. I am the one who discovered Alendi, and I am the one who first proclaimed him to be the Hero of Ages. I am the one who started this all. And I am the one who betrayed Alendi (him), for I now know that he must never be allowed to complete his quest. I write this record now, pounding it into a metal slab, because I am afraid. Afraid for myself, yes—I admit to being human. If Alendi does return from the Well of Ascension, I am certain that my death will be one of his first objectives. He is not an evil man, but he is a ruthless one. That is, I think, a product of what he has been through. I am also afraid, however, that all I have known—that my story—will be forgotten. I am afraid for the world that is to come. Afraid that my plans will fail. Afraid of a doom worse, even, than the Deepness. It all comes back to poor Alendi. I feel bad for him, and for all the things he has been forced to endure. For what he has been forced to become. But, let me begin at the beginning. I met Alendi first in Khlennium; he was a young lad then, and had not yet been warped by a decade spent leading armies. Alendi's height struck me the first time I saw him. Here was a man who towered over others, a man who—despite his youth and his humble clothing—demanded respect. Oddly, it was Alendi's simple ingenuousness that first led me to befriend him. I employed him as an assistant during his first months in the grand city. It wasn't until years later that I became convinced that Alendi was the Hero of Ages. Hero of Ages: the one called Rabzeen in Khlennium, the Anamnesor. Savior. When I finally had the realization—finally connected all of the signs of the Anticipation to Alendi—I was so excited. Yet, when I announced my discovery to the other Worldbringers, I was met with scorn. Oh, how I wish that I had listened to them. And yet, any who know me will realize that there was no chance I would give up so easily. Once I find something to investigate, I become dogged in my pursuit. I had determined that Alendi was the Hero of Ages, and I intended to prove it. I should have bowed before the will of the others; I shouldn't have insisted on traveling with Alendi to witness his journeys. It was inevitable that Alendi himself would find out what I believed him to be. Yes, he was the one who fueled the rumors after that. I could never have done what he himself did, convincing and persuading the world that he was indeed the Hero. I don't know if he himself believed it, but he made others think that he must be the one. If only the Terris religion, and belief in the Anticipation, hadn't spread beyond our people. If only the Deepness hadn't come when it did, providing a threat that drove men to desperation both in action and belief. If only I had passed over Alendi when looking for an assistant, all those years ago. It wasn't until a few years later that I began to notice the signs. I knew the prophecies—I am a Terris Worldbringer, after all. And yet, not all of us are religious men; some, such as myself, are more interested in other topics. However, during my time with Alendi, I could not help but become more interested in the Anticipation. He seemed to fit the signs so well. He was born of a humble family, yet married the daughter of a king. He could trade words with the finest of philosophers, and had an impressive memory. Nearly as good, even, as my own. Yet, he was not argumentative. The Terris rejected him, but he came to lead them. He commanded kings, and though he sought no empire, he became greater than all who had come before. He fathered no children, yet all of the land became his progeny. He was forced into war by a misunderstanding—and always claimed he was no warrior—yet he came to fight as well as any man. He was no simple soldier. He was a force of leadership—a man that fate itself seemed to support. He left ruin in his wake, but it was forgotten. He created kingdoms, and then destroyed them as he made the world anew. There were other proofs to connect Alendi to the Hero of Ages. Smaller things, things that only one trained in the lore of the Anticipation would have noticed. The birthmark on his arm. The way his hair turned gray when he was barely twenty and five years of age. The way he spoke, the way he treated people, the way he ruled. He simply seemed to fit. But, I must continue with the sparsest of detail. Space is limited. The other Worldbringers must have thought themselves humble when they came to me, admitting that they had been wrong. Even then, I was beginning to doubt my original declaration. But, I was prideful. In the end, my pride may have doomed us all. I had never received much attention from my brethren; they thought that my work and my interests were unsuitable to a Worldbringer. They couldn't see how my work, studying nature instead of religion, benefited the people of the fourteen lands. As the one who found Alendi, however, I became someone important. Foremost among the Worldbringers. There was a place for me, in the lore of the Anticipation—I thought myself the Announcer, the prophet foretold to discover the Hero of Ages. Renouncing Alendi then would have been to renounce my new position, my acceptance, by the others. And so I did not. But I do so now. Let it be known that I, Kwaan, Worldbringer of Terris, am a fraud. Alendi was never the Hero of Ages. At best, I have amplified his virtues, creating a Hero where there was none. At worst, I fear that all we believe may have been corrupted. And so I come to the focus of my argument. I apologize. Even forcing my words into steel, sitting and scratching in this frozen cave, I am prone to ramble. This is the problem. Though I believed in Alendi at first, I later became suspicious. It seemed that he fit the signs, true. But, well, how can I explain this? Could it be that he fit them too well? I know your argument. We speak of the Anticipation, of things foretold, of promises made by our greatest prophets of old. Of course the Hero of Ages will fit the prophecies. He will fit them perfectly. That's the idea. And yet…something about all this seemed (seems) so convenient. It felt (feels) almost as if we constructed a hero to fit our prophecies, rather than allowing one to arise naturally. This was the worry I had, the thing that should have given me pause when my brethren came to me, finally willing to believe. After that, I began to see other problems. Some of you may know of my fabled memory. It is true; I need not a Feruchemist's metalmind to memorize a sheet of words in an instant. (And I tell you, call me daft, but the words of the prophecies are changing. The alterations are slight. Clever, even. A word here, a slight twist there. But the words on the pages are different from the ones in my memory. The other Worldbringers scoff at me, for they have their metalminds to prove to them that the books and prophecies have not changed. And so, this is the great declaration I must make. There is something—some force—that wants us to believe that the Hero of Ages has come, and that he must travel to the Well of Ascension. Something is making the prophecies change so that they refer to Alendi more perfectly. And whatever this power is, it can change words within a Feruchemist's metalmind.) The others call me mad. As I have said, that may be true. But must not even a madman rely on his own mind, his own experience, rather than that of others? I know what I have memorized. I know what is now repeated by the other Worldbringers. The two are not the same. (I sense a craftiness behind these changes, a manipulation subtle and brilliant. I have spent the last two years in exile, trying to decipher what the alterations could mean. I have come to only one conclusion. Something has taken control of our religion, something nefarious, something that cannot be trusted. It misleads, and it shadows. It uses Alendi to destroy, leading him along a path of death and sorrow. It is pulling him toward the Well of Ascension, where the millennial power has gathered. I can only guess that it sent the Deepness as a method of making mankind more desperate, of pushing us to do as it wills. The prophecies have changed. They now tell Alendi that he must give up the power once he takes it. This is not what was once implied by the texts—they were more vague. And yet, the new version seems to make it a moral imperative. The texts now outline a terrible consequence if the Hero of Ages takes the power for himself.) Alendi believes as they do. He is a good man—despite it all, he is a good man. A sacrificing man. In truth, all of his actions—all of the deaths, destructions, and pains that he has caused—have hurt him deeply. All of these things were, in truth, a kind of sacrifice for him. He is accustomed to giving up his own will for the common good, as he sees it. I have no doubt that if Alendi reaches the Well of Ascension, he will take the power and then—in the name of the presumed greater good—(will) give it up. (Give it away to this same force that has changed the texts. Give it up to this force of destruction that has brought him to war, that has tempted him to kill, that has craftily led him to the north. This thing wants the power held in the Well, and it has raped our religion's holiest tenets in order to get it.) And so, I have made one final gamble. My pleas, my teachings, my objections, and even my treasons were all ineffectual. Alendi has other counselors now, ones who tell him what he wants to hear. I have a young nephew, one Rashek. He hates all of Khlennium with the passion of envious youth. He hates Alendi even more acutely—though the two have never met—for Rashek feels betrayed that one of our oppressors should have been chosen as the Hero of Ages. Alendi will need guides through the Terris Mountains. I have charged Rashek with making certain that he and his trusted friends are chosen as those guides. Rashek is to try and lead Alendi in the wrong direction, (to dissuade him,) discourage him, or otherwise foil his quest. Alendi doesn't know that he has been deceived, that we've all been deceived, and he will not listen to me now. If Rashek fails to lead Alendi (the trek) astray, then I have instructed the lad to kill Alendi. It is a distant hope. Alendi has survived assassins, wars, and catastrophes. And yet, I hope that in the frozen mountains of Terris, he may finally be exposed. I hope for a miracle. Alendi must not reach the Well of Ascension, for he must not be allowed to release the thing that is imprisoned there.” And so, I come to the focus of my argument. I apologize. Even typing in this haste, hoping to share the message before I am found out, I am prone to ramble. This is the problem. For just as writing on Scadrial was altered to fit the schemes of Ati, we never considered that the same could happen here, to us. This was the worry I had, the thing that should have given me pause. After that, I began to notice the other problem as described above. The alterations are slight. Clever, even. A word here, a slight twist there. But the words in the story are different from those in the epigraphs. This seems a small thing, but who knows what else has been altered - things only copied once, things we have no way of verifying? And so, this is the great declaration I must make. There is something – some force – that is altering our information about the Cosmere, something that wants us to believe… what? We don’t know what all has been changed. And whatever this power is, it can change words in a novel previously thought canon. I lack the years in solitude or the incredible memory for comparisons to solve this problem alone. And so, I share this with you now in desperation. While I know not the exact goal, something nefarious and powerful has taken control of the Cosmere for its own purposes – something we must somehow stop. And so, I have made one final gamble. I lack the location, position, and connection to effectively present my case to Brandon Sanderson. Therefore, I call for your aid. We must bring this to his attention, or that of his assistants, as quickly as possible. Do not entrust this to the written word; indeed, if this message seems inconsistent or incoherent, know that we are already too late, and its eyes are already upon us. Understand that I take no joy in being the bearer of this news; I love these novels, and the entire Realmatic creation that envelops them, as much as the next individual. But we must act now. Time runs short, and nothing may be safe. Those of you who interact with Mr. Sanderson, I beg of you to bring this to his attention before it is too late. Brandon Sanderson must not finish his Cosmere, for something is somehow imprisoned or inhibited thereby, and he must not be allowed to release it. [All right, all right, but the irony of the typos (unless the discrepancies were intentional] was just too great to pass up. Part of me does indeed wonder what Mr. Sanderson would say if presented with this. I hope you laughed – or at least chuckled.]