I hope OP explodes

"Do you see them, Minoth? How they are scrabbling for the merest dregs of meaning in life, thwarting each other for negligible gain? I sometimes wonder if they are even worth saving..."

Minoth saw. Sure, he saw. Wasn't that the point of human existence? At least, from what he'd seen, as a non-human. Amalthus was only just starting to make any real overtures about experiments he'd need Minoth for, but that meant that the time was close on; any such plans were typically kept close to chest otherwise.

But anyway. The condition. Wasn't the point to have to struggle a little, to see what better things you could find?

Or, no. The refugees weren't finding better things - more or less, they didn't have any hope to.

Rather, they were doing the best they could in the circumstances they were handed, through no fault of their own - like Amalthus had done, in a sense, except that when he said things like this it became clear that he had absolutely no intention of turning around and uplifting those similarly worse off.

What about struggling for meaning in life made people worthless?

Why would a holy man preach miracles only for the successful, needless of saviour?

How could anyone say something like that?

Until sentiments like these had begun worming their way out, Minoth had thought his Driver a generally worthwhile sort of person, himself. Dealt a rotten hand, he'd come out pretty well, all things considered. But now...

He needed to be taken down a peg or two. Not by any one person, necessarily. Maybe by the god he prayed to, rather.

What would the Architect have to say about a man like this?

Maybe he wouldn't want to deal with it either. Maybe he'd just drop down a little retribution from on high.

A fireworks display. An explosion.

An arm here, a leg there. White hair, charred black.

Boom. No more Magister.