Anton digested that, letting the gist coil and uncoil in his chest, and the heat felt weirdly soothing. Vindicating. It was possibly a bad sign. Or possibly it was because he had an answer beyond stubborn refusal to vindicate Erskine's hatred of himself.

Fool. Such a fool. And even though Anton knew he shouldn't, he so much did want to break some part of Erskine's thinking to bits.

"Have you forgotten that I was born into that same squalor?" he asked. "That my family was one such living out of one room, shoveling refuse into the marsh instead of our house? Poverty isn't something experienced only by one demographic or another. Mortals barely even knew sorcerers existed half the time; they could barely help themselves most of the time. How could they possibly make anyone do anything?"

He shook his head and took a breath, and then another. "You don't make things right on a pile of bodies, you idiot. Especially when you yourself have no concept of what it's like to live in those conditions. How dare you take their banner and make it your own, and act as though you're righteous."