Sylas still didn't say much of anything, but he didn't need to. He could see the struggle in Old Brama, even the energy charging up in the gun he had suddenly held up fell impotent.
Frozen in place, Old Brama felt like he was trapped in some sort of limbo. He had given up on this happening so very long ago; it was the reason he had been chasing another avenue for success. He thought that unless they took their own destiny by the horns, they were destined to just continue to fall into obscurity.
The Golden Races used to be so mighty. They warred on the front lines against the Demon Race, their Royal Hero Line having once been the stuff of legends.
But now, it felt difficult even to raise their own head in their own territory. Time and time again, they found themselves negotiating, lowering their tone, weakening themselves in comparison to their opposition just to live a little longer, just to hold on a little more.
