One moonless night, a distant thrum echoed through the obsidian palace. Not the sound of riots—Dregaria did not permit such things—but of something deeper.
A chorus of hunger. A whisper of discontent. The silent thunder of hopelessness.
From his balcony, Velkarth looked out over his empire's capital, glowing with artificial brilliance. And yet, in the alleys, shadows moved with purpose.
Turning to his council, he growled, "Why do they despise me, when I have given them roads, towers, and temples?"
No one answered. None dared.
Until a single voice croaked—an ancient advisor, half-forgotten by the court.
"Because they do not walk your roads, Your Majesty. They carry them. Bleeding."
That night, Velkarth walked alone into his archives. Dust-covered reports. Unread summit transcripts. Scrolls stolen from Sharath's summits.
He read.
And for the first time, he listened.