The word revolution hung in the air like a brand on heated iron.
Veylen Draas didn't move immediately after saying it.
He let the word sink, heavy and undeniable, before slowly lowering himself back into the chair behind his marble desk.
The Sea Dragon behind him curled tighter, its massive bulk a tide of scaled, glimmering azure, wings folding elegantly along its body, tendrils of mist pooling around the floor.
Veylen's hands steepled before him, the sharp planes of his face cast in silver and blue by the light spilling from the dragon's presence.
His voice, when it came again, was steady, grand.
Measured like the speech of a man who had long rehearsed the fall of empires.
"The rich grow richer," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "The poor grow poorer. Disparity widens with every cycle. And the title of Guardian…" he almost sneered the word, "…has become a mask. A symbol used to move with invincibility. Untouchable."
His hands unfolded slowly.
"We want to change that."
