Dreams were forbidden.

Dreaming was a myth, an impossibility.

A disease detested across the lands of Thelessia.

Yet, Qardis had never known unrest since the claims of dreams erupted in the last century, surging the populace to a dangerous reticence of keeping secrets to themselves. Some were fortunate enough to survive without ever having to speak about the unspoken, the others, their secrets would speak by themselves.

And when it did, it was bloody. Red had become a colour to fear in the city, and you would never see it unless it ran down somebody's nose.

A spy or a mishap, perhaps. Oftentimes the latter was the reason. Alwold Tariwin wondered what unlucky accident caused a force of Ironhands to run after that officer he had noticed speaking with his grandfather about three weeks ago. These men that his grandfather met were different from time to time, and they only met him once, before they were never seen together again. But this should be the first time Alwold was seeing a man his grandfather met being seen again, and today in very unforgiving circumstances.

This man had appeared in front of their homes before Alwold's grandfather drew him into an alleyway, away from their enclave beyond the gates, their matters to be disclosed in the shadows, only it would appear that the shadows weren't particularly a strong containment for his secrets, and now it was running down his nose for everyone to notice.

His face was as white as the pavement he sprinted on, with a sharp stream of red threading from inside his nostrils into his moustache. The middle-aged man trailed a pair of gold-armoured enforcers behind him catching up with every foot, effortlessly most definitely. One hand gripping the shorter handle of his satchel and the other holding onto his hat like he was more concerned for his hair that could blow away in the wind than his life.

Alwold ensured a clear path to the Athenaeum should the scene urge him to run. It was where he was heading to before the bells alarmed the district, alerting the surrounding Ironhands of another anomaly in the province and diffusing the normal people off of the open square.

For now, Alwold was fixed beside the knees of the colossus of Thalassa. The other Primers assumed precaution similarly, shifting closer to the walls displaying the immortalized builders of Qardis. Beneath them, the people held their breaths in a frightened silence. Wisely, some slid away into the nearest thoroughfares away from the inevitable scene, preferring no part in what they had to witness if they stayed. Because truly, the people of Qardis have witnessed enough. And there were others that remained in the vicinity anyway, but not for the same reasons as those who glared aggressively at the Monocle's law enforcement. They would soon be carrying signs later in the evening with messages just as grim as their faces.

The fugitive dreamer now lost his hat to the wind, and within that attempt to turn back and reach for it in the air, a rope tangled around his ankle. A Ironhand pulled back the hilt of his lasso and he pivoted to the ground. His groan drowned in the collective gasp of the scattered crowd. His chin broke for more blood to escape, and now his face had become more unsightly than he was without the sole absence of eyebrows. And that balding head made no difference whether he had it covered or hadn't.

A woman cried from a crowd huddled beneath the robes of the colossus of Eaella before she pushed through and fell to her knees. Alwold clenched his jaw, although there was nothing he can do for her, just as her pleas wouldn't work against the Monocle. He wondered why would anyone even try begging to these deaf heartless brutes.

The Ironhand cuffed the hands of the dreamer behind his back while he moaned in pain. The other signalled for more Ironhands from the other side. A pair arrived with the doomed black carriage, the satin flag of their province gleaming under the white sky; the black stag embossed in it waving in the wind like a dark eternal reminder:

You are here, and you always will be.

The girl's protest was no help, to no one's surprise. She looked too young to be his wife. Perhaps she was his daughter or sister. She had the same black curls as her father, who was now being pushed into the open backdoor of the carriage.

Alwold remained at a considerably distant spot from the scene, safe but unable to hear the woman's words. She began crying, violently. Alwold surveyed the crowd. Remorse and pity were washed on their faces, but he could also notice the violent curiosity that lingered, to watch a man be taken away for experiencing visions beyond his control. At least that's what he was told.

No one chooses to dream. The dream chooses you.

The girl gripped the leg of the Ironhand locking the backdoor, her father's bleeding face behind the barred window. He was repeating for her to go away but she wouldn't listen. The Ironhand turned the other end of her musket to push her away from removing his boot. He nudged her, calmly, probably even telling her to remove herself before he'd force her to. Alwold thought it'd be best for her to let go. The Monocle ignoring the Strivers was one thing, and the Primers now subjected to the same 'equal' treatment had stirred restlessness even amongst certain affluent parties.

The Ironhand almost got his leg back but the girl got a grip of it again. The Ironhand turned his head behind fiercely, then kicked her aggressively. The crowd gasped again, louder, while the protesters of the evening began to reshuffle close into the square, collectively assuming an early dissent. Alwold was preparing to run while his feet sweat and burn inside his sandals.

She took herself from the ground with a bleeding nose herself, but this was caused by a lack of discernment, clouded by her intense emotions, and not a dream. Still, she staggered, trying to blink through the haze of pain and blood pooling on her upper lip. The angry crowd pressed in, while the curious ones scattered away in caution. And for a moment, the square seemed to contract, the air thick with tension and a sense of unease that buzzed like a low hum beneath the surface. Alwold felt it too—a subtle shifting, as if the very cobblestones beneath him were holding their breath.

The Ironhands changed their stance, more hands on weapons, glances exchanged in quick, cautious movements. They know the signs. This is how it always began: a spark in the form of a kicked woman, a broken dreamer, a weeping child, and the slowly kindling rage of a people who had seen too much and swallowed too much of the Monocle's tyranny.

Alwold kept his eyes on the girl. She was on her feet now, trembling, the shock on her face as unmoving as the Ironhands' unfeeling masks. The crowd murmured, a growing chorus swelling with fear and resentment. The protesters, once scattered, began to consolidate near the scene from the edges of the square, their faces hardening, their fists tightening. Alwold knew that look. He wanted to join, but doubted the value of his contribution if he did.

A rock flew from somewhere and crashed onto the Ironhand's helmet, at the one who kicked the girl. The enforcers' weapons rose instantly, and the crowd closing in stopped. It felt as though even the wind had ceased to still, on edge about the chaos to unfold. The silence crippled their throats. Alwold could see it, their fists yearning to make contact, the clenched jaws waiting to split and allow the throats to scream. A revolution's child in the making.

Someone lunged from behind at the musket, and a gunshot thundered.

Screams. Louder than the second gunshot.

Alwold flinched violently at the sound, then hissed, realizing he cut his palm on the edge of the wall he was gripping. As he examined the reddening slit on his palm, more Ironhands bled through the scattering crowd. His frustration with the cut on his hand was building over his pre-existing wrath on the Ironhands. He tightened his jaw and slipped into the lane behind him while keeping his eyes on the Ironhands forming a defensive circle around the carriage, creating a path for it to go first before they deal with the people.

Alwold wasn't willing to remain there any further. If he knew a dreamer's arrest was the eventuality, then why did he stay? Was it the diminutive weight of hope that lingered in his heart, that he could witness a different turn of events for a change? Was that even possible in a place like this? Where the upper hand was never with the people.

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