“They think of us as tyrants,” I say, and scaled heads nod in agreement.

Dragons do not sit at fragile, flammable wooden tables, drinking black coffee while they discuss their revolutionary ideals. But if it helps you picture the scene when you write this moment down in your little human histories, so be it.

“And why does such a misconception - of an entire species, I might add - persist?” I ask.

None of my fellows say a word, but I know their thoughts.

Because humans are judgemental, swift to condemn even their own people. Because our histories have been entwined since their earliest mythologies; we have always been the terror beneath the mountain, the capricious deities of their rivers and lakes. Because humans are always looking for a reason to hate. All excuses.

“Because we have chosen to allow the tyrannical to reign,” I say.

Humanity have only known the rich and powerful, those with enough wealth not to hesitate in razing a valley to ashes, or sweeping sons and daughters away to their ethereal mansions.

And we’ve chosen - through our silence - to permit such behaviour.

I look around at the kind, generous, creative dragons who fill my salon. “We should convince humans they are mistaken,” I say.

An unspoken caveat: first, we will have to bring the tyrants to heel.