People want to be controlled. They need it. Left to their own devices, people will seek someone to tell them what to do. Sure, they’ll run around like headless chicks for a while, grinding and sweating and giving themselves over to their base impulses, but once the fun of freedom fades, they will look around at their meaningless existence and cry out, “What should I do?” That is, after all, how gods were invented.

In Bedlam, that’s what regents are: gods. Gods of commerce, gods of industry, gods of the people. Those who give and those who take away. Regents made Bedford just like regents broke Lamrose. Those who excel within the boundaries you draw are rewarded. Those who reach beyond their pens must be put into place. The question for regents isn’t “How should I use my power?” It’s “Who will stop me from doing what I want?” As someone who wields the power, you have to decide the devil you serve. You can fall in line with those who cannot see beyond the ivory towers or change the beast from within. When you’re a regent, very few can or will call you out for your decisions. But beware, oh beware, those who do.