Atticus allows Benedict's cruel laughter to be the only sound that follows Myr's heartfelt words for a long, tense moment. Coldly, he considers his apprentice beyond the bars of their cells, watching him with disdain that almost approaches pitying. What a waste of a different sort; he could have made much of that sharp mind if Calpurnia and Aurelias had thought to give Benedict into his care at a younger age, before the vultures of Minrathous' seedy society had time to sink their talons into him. Instead, whatever decadence and hedonism the boy has been marinating himself in for the past half a decade has rendered him utterly immune to Atticus' style of tutelage.

He grimaces. Perhaps if he'd waited a year or two before embarking on this gamble, perhaps if the boy had been given more time--well, time was not a flexible commodity for Atticus. The present was all either of them were allowed.

He shifts his attention back to Myr, reclaiming his focus. "Misplaced trust has done much to sow the seeds of discontent amongst the Circles here in the South, hasn't it," he notes quietly, his voice almost sympathetic. After another considering pause, he examines his shackles and continues: "You're right to be critical of Tevinter's magocracy; its reliance on--" What was that word the Dragon had used? Ah yes, "--profligate magics is whittling away any hope the society has at sustaining itself beyond an additional century or two into the future. Its collapse is inevitable.

"But even without the Magisterium, without the pointless politicking and back room dealing, even without the pathetic crutch of blood magic--the Tevene mages themselves, well." Here he smiles. "We will light our own way."

Even if he must wrench the light from the sky and show it to them himself.