I asked Grok to ‘translate’ Pax Amarria, it did a really good job I think. I can post the chapters here, but if anyone is curious, here is chapter 1.
Chapter I: The Light That Binds
In the name of God and His chosen Scriptures, I, Heideran VII, by the Grace of the Divine Sovereign Emperor of Holy Amarr and Holder of the Celestial Throne, set these words to record.
It is not for glory that I write, nor for the adulation of courts and cathedrals, though both have been mine in abundance. I write because the vision that stirs within me will not be silent. It demands voice, demands witness, demands that even the lowliest soul in the farthest reach of the cluster might one day read these words and feel the warmth of a peace not yet born.
I have seen war. Not merely from the gilded balconies of Oris, nor through the filtered holoreels of the Ministry of War, but with these eyes that God granted me. I have walked the blackened decks of ships torn open to vacuum, have knelt beside the bodies of children whose only crime was to be born beneath a banner different from my own. I have heard the final transmission of a battleship captain (an Amarr captain, faithful and brave) begging his crew to hold the line while his voice cracked with the knowledge that no line could be held forever.
And I have asked myself, again and again: Is this the will of God?
The Scriptures are clear. We are chosen. We are the sword and the torch. We were commanded to bring light to the darkness, to reclaim what was stolen, to bind the universe beneath one truth. For centuries my forebears wielded that command like a lash, and the cluster bled for it. Billions knelt. Billions more burned.
Yet the same Scriptures that bid us conquer also bid us show mercy. They speak not only of reclamation but of stewardship. They remind us that every soul, even the soul of a Minmatar savage or a Gallente libertine, bears the faintest ember of divine origin. To extinguish that ember forever—is that righteousness, or is it the ultimate blasphemy?
I tell you now what I have told the Holders in closed council, what I have whispered in the ear of Khanid when he thought to renew old vendettas, what I have confessed in the dead of night to the empty air of the Imperial Chapel: the era of the lash must end. Not because we have grown weak. Not because we fear the Republic’s fleets or the Federation’s votes. But because God, in His infinite mystery, has turned my heart toward a different reclamation.
The reclamation of peace.
There are those among my own people who call this heresy. They clutch their genealogies and their slave rosters and cry that I would unmake the Empire my ancestors forged in fire. Let them cry. I have read the chronicles of Ardishapur’s wars, of Zaragram’s crusades, of the mad excesses that followed each “victory.” I have seen where the path of endless reclamation leads: to a galaxy of graves and a throne that sits atop a mountain of bones.
I will not add my reign to that mountain.
In the year 23341, when the Minmatar Elders struck at the heart of the Empire and freed a billion souls in a single night, many in the court demanded immediate and total retaliation. Fleets were readied. Extermination orders drafted. I stood before the Privy Council and spoke a single sentence that stayed every hand:
“If we answer this wound with a greater wound, we prove the Elders right: that we are nothing more than tyrants who understand only force.”
Silence fell. Then, slowly, the orders were rescinded. Not out of weakness—never that—but because I showed them a different strength. The strength to choose mercy when vengeance would have been easier. The strength to open negotiations where our grandfathers would have opened fire.
From that moment flowed consequences none could have foreseen. The Starkmanir were returned, not as broken chattel but as living proof that Amarr could change. The first tentative trade accords with the Republic. The joint humanitarian missions into cursed space where Amarr and Minmatar pilots flew side by side against a common foe. The Gallente, ever opportunistic, saw advantage and extended their own hands. Even the Caldari, wary as cornered wolves, began to speak with us rather than past us.
These were not the actions of a conqueror. They were the actions of a shepherd who finally understood that some sheep are led by gentleness where the rod has failed for ten thousand years.
I dream of a cluster where no child wakes fearing the slaver’s brand, where no holder fears the rebel’s knife. I dream of cathedrals rising on Pator where Minmatar and Amarr pray beneath the same vaulted roof. I dream of joint fleets—not of conquest, but of guardianship—standing watch against the greater darkness that hungers beyond the gates.
Some will laugh. Let them. Laughter is the sound a dying era makes when it hears the future approaching.
This book is my testament. In the chapters that follow I will lay bare the path I have walked, the prices I have paid, the sacred things I have asked my people to lay upon the altar of peace. I will speak honestly of the resistances I have faced, of the nights I have spent in prayer begging God to show me if I have chosen madness over duty.
But know this, reader—whether you kneel in Dam-Torsad or stand free beneath the skies of Matar, whether you command a titan or toil in the belly of a mining barge: the peace I seek is not the peace of submission. It is the peace of equals who have chosen, freely and in full knowledge of the past, to set aside the weapons that have served only to wound us all.
The light that binds is stronger than the chain that breaks.
By my hand and seal,
Heideran VII
Emperor of Holy Amarr
In the 105th year of my reign