Act I. The Enchanted Chains

THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO: A Revolutionary Fairy Tale

Sometimes, late at night when normal people are asleep, I get ideas that probably shouldn’t see the light of day.

The other night, I started wondering—what if I rewrote classic communist texts as a fairy tale?

Several hours (and probably too much weed) later, I ended up with a dystopian fable inspired by one of the worst propaganda pieces ever written: The Communist Manifesto.

So buckle up. Welcome to the Kingdom of Laboria, where the collective rises against the evil Merchant King and victory feels sweet until reality sets in and the new rulers prove just as bad as the last.

The first chapter is free. After that, only members of the Red Menace Collective will get access to draft chapters until the book is released.

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Act I: The Enchanted Chains

Once upon a time, in the prosperous yet peculiar Kingdom of Laboria, there existed two lands within one border. Not different realms on any map you'd find in the Royal Cartographer's dusty archives. No. But ask any child with dirt-smudged cheeks and eyes too old for their years, and they'd point exactly where one ended and the other began.

The border smelled of desperation and tasted of ash. You knew the moment you'd crossed it.

In the northern hills stood Palace Heights, where mansions stretched their spires toward the sun, greedy fingers trying to claim the very sky as private property. The Merchant King and his bloated Royal Council lived in such obscene splendor that gardeners spent sixteen-hour days training flowers to bloom in patterns spelling out family crests. Their children – pale, perfect things with porcelain skin and hollow laughter – wore clothes woven from moonbeams and butterfly whispers. They dined on feasts so elaborate that entire courses existed solely to cleanse one's palate for the next indulgence, served on plates that cost more than a Gray Quarter family would earn in three lifetimes. Their greatest hardship was deciding which of their seventeen ballrooms might best suit the evening's festivities. Or whether the east wing fountains should flow with wine or perfumed water for Tuesday's garden soiree.

Beyond the golden gates and the rigid hedge mazes of Palace Heights lay the Gray Quarter, where perfection crumbled into neglect. Here, the sun seemed reluctant, like a shy lover, to shed its warmth with the same enthusiasm. The cobblestones had forgotten how to remain level (if they'd ever known), sitting crooked like the backs of those who walked them daily.

In cramped cottages with perpetually leaking roofs, the workers of Laboria rose before dawn and returned long after dusk. Their hands were calloused, maps of pain etched into flesh, whole histories of labor written in cracked skin and bent fingers.

Eliza Shaw lived in one such cottage. Its walls were so thin that winter winds played them like flutes, creating a constant melody of misery. The gaps between the boards whistled different notes depending on the direction of the wind. Sometimes a mournful requiem from the north; sometimes a frantic, squealing shriek from the east. The cottage's one window had long lost any glass it might once have possessed. A scrap of cloth – once her grandmother's shawl, now faded beyond recognition – hung limply, a useless guardian against the elements.

At twenty-six, Eliza's face already showed the premature lines of constant worry. Tonight, those lines deepened as she knelt beside her daughter's bed, pressing a damp cloth to the child's burning forehead.

"Hush now, Lily-flower," she whispered, though the girl hadn't made a sound in hours. The silence frightened Eliza more than crying ever could.

This wasn't the life Eliza had imagined for herself. There had been a time—before Lily, before exhaustion had become her constant companion, before her dreams shrank to fit inside the walls of this miserable cottage—when she had believed the Spell of Necessity herself. She had swallowed it whole, like bitter medicine.

Her father had been a skilled supervisor in the Northern Mill, one of the few Gray Quarter residents permitted to wear the blue cap of Technical Expertise. The cap that marked him as better than most, but still far beneath the lowest Palace Heights servant. Their family had lived in the slightly better eastern edge of the Quarter, in a home with actual glass windows and a private water pump that only broke three times a year instead of monthly.

"You're fortunate, Eliza," her father often told her, his voice carrying the grinding sound of someone who had convinced himself of a comfortable lie. "The Merchant King rewards exceptional skill. Learn the loom patterns well enough, and you could earn the blue cap too."

She had believed him, studying pattern-making with monastic dedication, her fingers bleeding at night as she practiced on scraps stolen from the Mill floor. At sixteen, she had been chosen for the advanced weaving program, an honor that made her parents beam with pride. The other girls in her street had looked at her with envy tinged with resentment. A future of relative comfort seemed assured.

Then came the Mill Efficiency Decree. Supervisors like her father were suddenly deemed "unnecessarily elevated laborers," their positions eliminated in favor of Noble Overseers from Palace Heights who knew nothing of the work but wore the right family crests. Her father's protests earned him reassignment to the most dangerous section of the Northern Mill. The boiler section, where men aged a year for every month they worked.

When the boiler explosion happened two months later, the official report cited "worker incompetence"—never mind that he had warned of the faulty pressure valve for weeks. He had documented it, and begged for the three-copper repair that would have saved those twelve lives.

With her family's modest security vanished like morning mist, Eliza had been forced to abandon her advanced training and take any position available. At seventeen, she married Thomas, a kind young man from the Western Quarter who worked the loading docks. When Lily came a few years later, they had been happy despite their circumstances. It's always the happiness which flourishes where it shouldn't that tastes sweetest because you know it cannot last.

And it didn't. Thomas was selected for the Foreign Trade Fleet, a virtual death sentence of three-year voyages to distant kingdoms on ships barely seaworthy, with crews treated worse than the rats that infested their hulls. His last letter had arrived two years ago. The shipping office had stopped accepting her inquiries six months after that. They had threatened to report her for "disruptive behavior" when she'd continued asking.

Survival now consumed Eliza's every waking moment. The myth of advancement through exceptional service had died with her father. The fantasy of family security had vanished with Thomas. Only Lily remained, her single light in an ever-darkening world. And now even that light flickered dangerously as fever ravaged her daughter's tiny body.

"Mama," ten-year-old Lily whispered through cracked lips the color of faded roses, "I'm so thirsty."

Eliza reached for the water cup, finding it empty. The communal pump had stopped working three days ago, and the Palace Guards now rationed water from barrels, one cupful per person per day. She had already given Lily her own ration, had watched her daughter drink it in desperate gulps that left nothing for later.

"Just a little longer, love," Eliza murmured, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt. "The medicine will help soon."

This was a lie. There was no medicine. The apothecary had turned her away that morning when she couldn't produce the five silver coins required. That was more than she earned in a month at the Mill. "The fever lily remedy comes from Palace Heights gardens," he had explained with rehearsed regret, not meeting her eyes. "Very rare. Very expensive. Nothing I can do."

The irony wasn't lost on Eliza. Her daughter, named for a common wildflower that grew in abundance beyond the kingdom's walls, would enter adolescence only to potentially die for lack of an ornamental bloom that decorated noble dinner tables.

***

Life in the Gray Quarter followed immutable patterns, as rigid as the factory shifts yet lacking any official mandate. Each morning began with the Factory Bells—enormous iron monsters that ripped workers violently from their sleep while the elegant chimes of Palace Heights barely stirred their nobles from their pleasant dreams.

The communal water pumps became the first battleground of each day. Workers lined up with dented metal buckets, watching the handles gush rusty liquid for the first dozen pulls before clearing to something drinkable. Palace Guards supervised the larger pumps, enforcing the strict ration: one bucket per family, no exceptions.

"Next! Move along now," barked a Guard, striking his baton against the pump's stone base when anyone took too long.

The walk to the Mills formed the next ritual, a river of bent backs and downcast eyes flowing through streets deliberately designed to remind workers of their station. The cobblestones became progressively more uneven as one traveled away from Palace Heights, with cracks and holes that filled with malodorous water after each rain. No maintenance crews ever appeared to fix them, though workers regularly paid "path maintenance taxes."

At the Mill gates, daily humiliations awaited. Guards conducted random "loyalty inspections," forcing selected workers to empty their pockets, recite pledges to the Merchant King, or demonstrate their knowledge of proper deference protocols. Those who failed faced docked wages or worse.

"Arms out, mouth shut," a senior Guard instructed a young man who had arrived from the rural provinces just weeks earlier. The Guard performed an exaggerated search, confiscating a small carved wooden toy the worker had made for his sister. "Unauthorized crafting," the Guard announced. ""Materials belong to the Mill, not to you."

The young man said nothing, having already learned that protesting such treatment only doubled the punishment. He simply adjusted his tattered cap and moved through the gate, his shoulders slumping further under invisible weights that grew heavier each day.

Inside the Mills, workers were connected to machines rather than collaborating with each other. Conversation was discouraged through a system of production quotas that left no breath for idle words. The noises—clanging metal, hissing steam, grinding gears—created a deliberate cacophony that made human voices inaudible. Some workers believed this was by design, a way to prevent dangerous ideas from spreading during working hours.

***

The Palace Guards came on Sundays.

Eliza dreaded the hollow thud of their boots on cobblestones, the way conversation died as the Black Wagon rounded the corner into their street. She stood clutching her week's earnings—coins warm from being held too tightly in her palm.

"Shaw residence," called the Guard with the ledger. Rain plastered his uniform to his shoulders, but his voice remained dry as dust. "Approach."

She stepped forward, mud sucking at her worn shoes. The Scale-Master barely looked at her as he extended a gloved hand. Eliza placed her coins in his palm.

"Insufficient," he said after weighing them, the single word falling like a stone.

"But that's everything," Eliza whispered. "The Mill reduced our—"

"Hand," interrupted the third Guard, already reaching for the metal brand heating in a small brazier attached to the wagon.

Eliza extended her right hand. The searing pain as the brand pressed against her palm seemed almost expected, like the punctuation at the end of a familiar sentence.

"Water rations reduced for three days," the ledger Guard announced, already turning toward the next dwelling.

At home, Lily watched silently as Eliza soaked her branded palm in their drinking water allotment. The mark would fade before next Sunday, just in time for the Guards to renew it if necessary. The King's crown, burned into flesh—a reminder of ownership more effective than any proclamation.

"Does it hurt bad?" Lily finally asked, her small face solemn in the dim light.

Eliza almost lied, then stopped herself. False comfort taught dangerous lessons. "Yes," she said simply. "But pain passes. Hunger doesn't."

Lily nodded, her eyes older than her years. "At school, they say we should be grateful. That the Mills provide for everyone according to their proper place."

Her voice took on a questioning tone. "But our place always seems to be hungry."

Eliza tensed, glancing at the thin walls as if Guards might be listening. "Be careful where you say such things. Even true observations can be dangerous."

"I know," Lily replied with a maturity that made Eliza's heart ache. "I only say the approved things at school. I save my questions for home."

They both understood that the Palace Guards would return next Sunday, and the one after that, taking more than was given, branding those who couldn't pay, a cycle as changeless as the seasons. Not because there wasn't enough in Laboria for everyone—the wagons that carried food and textiles to Palace Heights proved otherwise—but because suffering itself was the currency that kept the Merchant King's ledgers balanced.

***

At the heart of the kingdom stood the legendary Magical Production Mills—massive structures of stone, steel, and inexplicable enchantment. Day and night, the Mills churned and hummed, belching rainbow-colored smoke into the sky. It was said that within their walls, ordinary materials were transformed into the most wondrous goods any kingdom had ever known: silks that changed color with one's mood, carriages that required no horses, and devices that could capture a person's voice and release it months later, word for word.

"The Mills are the kingdom's blessing," proclaimed the Town Criers each morning. "Through their bounty, all of Laboria prospers!"

Yet, curiously, while the Mills produced ever more goods with each passing year, the tables of Gray Quarter families held ever less food. Workers crafted exquisite furniture they would never sit upon, stitched elegant garments they would never wear, and assembled delightful toys their own children would never touch.

Eliza had spent fourteen hours that day in the Eastern Mill, her fingers raw from operating the looms that wove miraculous self-warming blankets. The previous week, she had watched Palace Guards load a shipment of these blankets onto carriages bound for Palace Heights. In the Gray Quarter, three children had frozen to death during an unexpected cold snap.

One of those children had been her neighbor's son. The memory of his tiny blue-tinged face haunted her as she looked down at Lily's flushed one. Different symptoms, same disease: the plague of poverty in a kingdom of plenty.

More curious still was that few in the Gray Quarter questioned this arrangement. When stomachs growled at night, parents would simply tighten their belts and remind their children of the Spell of Necessity.

"This is simply how things must be," they would explain with resigned sighs. "The Merchant King and Royal Council manage the Mills, and we provide the labor. It has always been so, and always shall be."

Eliza had once believed this herself. But watching Lily struggle for breath, something hardened inside her. A kernel of rebellion was taking root where acceptance had once grown.

***

In Palace Heights, the nobles had a different explanation for the kingdom's arrangement, which they discussed over thirteen-course dinners.

"The prosperity dust from the Mills rises up to us, as is natural," said Lord Puffinbottom, the Minister of Justified Inequity, while delicately dabbing his lips with an embroidered napkin that cost more than a Gray Quarter family's monthly wage. "If we allowed the workers more, they would simply become lazy and ungrateful. Their suffering is, in fact, a kindness we provide."

The dining hall of Lord Puffinbottom's manor sprawled larger than the entire communal square of the Gray Quarter's western section. Crystal chandeliers hung from thirty-foot ceilings, each containing more candles than a worker's family would use in a year. The table itself was a masterpiece of conspicuous excess—forty feet of polished mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl patterns depicting the "natural order": nobles above, workers below, all arranged in a harmonious hierarchy that the dinner guests found most agreeable.

Each Noble House sent representatives to these weekly governance dinners, where the kingdom's policies were determined between the fish and meat courses. Tonight's gathering was particularly well-attended, as the Merchant King had mentioned "productivity concerns" in his quarterly address.

"I've found that hunger is the most effective management tool," said Baron Goldcrest, the Royal Overseer of Northern Production. "Last month, we reduced rations in the ore processing division by thirty percent. Output increased by twelve percent within a week."

"Marvelous efficiency," nodded Countess Silverchain, the Minister of Labor Distribution. "Though I've discovered that hope can be equally motivating when properly manipulated. We've introduced a 'Premium Worker' designation in the textile division. Workers who exceed their quotas by fifty percent receive a green armband and an extra bread ration once a month."

"And how many achieve this designation?" asked Lord Puffinbottom, amused.

"That's the beauty of it," Silverchain smiled, accepting a glass of wine from a servant. "We set the quotas just high enough that fewer than one percent can physically achieve them, regardless of effort. But they all work themselves to exhaustion trying. It costs us a few extra bread loaves while extracting thousands of additional labor hours."

The table erupted in appreciative laughter as servants brought in the fourth course—a delicate arrangement of imported fruits carved to resemble woodland creatures. The Countess's nine-year-old daughter clapped with delight.

"Mother, look! The little apple bird is so perfect! Can I have the artisan make one for my birthday celebration?"

"The carver isn't an artisan, darling," Silverchain corrected gently. "Just a Gray Quarter knife-worker. But yes, we'll have a hundred made for your party. They're really quite affordable when you calculate by piece rather than by worker."

As the nobles discussed the upcoming social season, comparing planned galas and festivals, none seemed aware of the irony in their earlier conversation. The very productivity they celebrated was measured in how efficiently they could extract labor while returning as little as possible to those who produced their wealth. This wasn't a side effect of their system—it was its central feature, deliberately designed and constantly refined.

***

They came for Marcus at dusk.

Eliza was returning from her shift when she saw the Palace Guards surrounding his small dwelling. His wife's scream cut through the evening air, a sound so raw it made people turn away. Their daughters watched from the doorway, the younger one clutching a worn doll whose button eyes seemed more alive than the child's frozen face.

"Citizen Marcus Wheeler stands accused of seditious speech against His Prosperity," announced the Guard Captain to the neighbors who had gathered, some from duty, others from the terrible human instinct to witness suffering. "The punishment is the Pits."

The whisper that ran through the crowd held more fear than Eliza had heard in a single word before. The Reminder Pits. Everyone knew of them. They were the holes beyond the Northern Mill, deep enough to stand in but not lie down, exposed to sun and rain and the eyes of passing workers, a brutal reminder in the cost of speaking truth.

"What did he say?" someone dared to ask.

The Captain's smile was thin. "The accused stated that 'The King eats our children's bread' after observing a grain wagon departing from the Mill where three children had collapsed from hunger that morning."

Eliza remembered those children, how still they had lain on the Mill floor and how slowly the foreman had walked to investigate, as though their small bodies were merely inconvenient obstacles to production.

The next morning, Guards diverted all workers past the Pits on their way to shifts. A dozen holes had been dug in the hard clay, each just large enough for a standing person, each deep enough that only the heads and shoulders of the occupants were visible. Marcus occupied the center pit, the night's rain still dripping from his hair, his eyes already distant.

Above each pit stood a sign detailing the prisoner's crime. Above Marcus: "I questioned the King's right to the fruits of production."

For three days it rained. On the fourth day, the sun returned with vicious strength. Workers were still required to pass the Pits, to see Marcus's lips crack with thirst, to witness his daughters standing at the perimeter, not permitted to approach but made to watch.

On the fifth day, Marcus's pit stood empty.

No one asked what had happened to him. When his family was evicted for "failure to maintain productivity during bereavement," no neighbors offered shelter. When his youngest daughter collapsed from pneumonia the following week, with no father to provide for medicine, the Town Crier noted only that "Gray Quarter efficiency has improved through natural reduction of dependent population."

Eliza understood then that the Merchant King's genius lay not in the punishment itself but in making witnesses complicit through their silence, teaching that to care for another was to risk becoming like them. Fear severed community more effectively than any Guard's sword.

What haunted her most was how ordinary it all seemed the following week.

The Mills continued.

The wagons rolled.

The Palace Guards collected their tithes.

As though Marcus had never existed, as though his daughters' grief was as insignificant as rain on cobblestones.

This too was by design, not just the suffering of the defiant, but the erasure that followed.

In Laboria, to be forgotten was the final punishment.

***

Marcus's petition had been simple: children under twelve should be limited to eight-hour shifts instead of fourteen, with at least one meal provided. As Eastern Mill's production quotas increased and adult workers collapsed from exhaustion, more children were being assigned to dangerous machinery. Three had lost fingers in the past month alone. One had lost her life.

The petition journey began at the Mill's Administrative Office, where the clerk required all documents to be submitted in triplicate, written on official petition paper that cost two days' wages per sheet. Each submission required a different colored ink, available only from licensed Palace Heights stationers.

"Form D-12 is incomplete," the clerk informed Marcus after making him wait three hours. "Section 14, Paragraph C requires the exact weight of production loss anticipated from reduced child labor hours, calculated to two decimal places and verified by a licensed Efficiency Accountant."

The Efficiency Accountant, Marcus discovered, charged consulting fees equivalent to a month's wages and required payment in advance. After scraping together the money from fellow workers, Marcus returned with the completed documents, only to be told: "Petition regulations were updated yesterday. All calculations must now use the new Royal Productivity Formulas. Previous submissions are invalid."

This cycle repeated for months. When Marcus finally secured all the proper forms, signatures, and validations, he was permitted to present his petition to the District Grievance Committee, three mid-level nobles who held court for precisely one hour each month.

"Petition 47-D-238 denied," announced the Committee Chairman after a thirty-second review. "Insufficient economic justification for policy modification. Next petitioner."

"But the children are dying," Marcus protested, breaking protocol by speaking after the ruling.

The Chairman signaled to the Palace Guards at the door. "Petitioner is exhibiting signs of Emotional Decision Contamination, a violation of Petition Code 5-J. Remove him and record the violation in his employment file."

As the Guards dragged him from the chamber, Marcus caught sight of a document on the Chairman's desk: a pre-printed form with "PETITION DENIED" stamped across it, lacking only the specific petition number. He realized then that the outcome had been determined before he had even entered the room.

The following day, Marcus was reassigned to the Mill's most dangerous section, the same one where his eight-year-old nephew had lost three fingers the previous week. The message was unmistakable: the system allowed the appearance of redress without the possibility of actual change.

***

Throughout the Gray Quarter, strange whispers had begun to circulate. They were carried first by a figure known only as the Herald, who moved between worlds, witnessing the stark contrast between feast and famine. The Herald spoke of disturbing trends, how the Mills now produced twice the goods they had a decade ago, yet worker rations had been halved in the same time.

These whispers survived despite Laboria's elaborate propaganda system, designed to maintain the Spell of Necessity through constant reinforcement of the kingdom's "natural order." Beginning in childhood, workers were immersed in carefully crafted narratives of their proper place and purpose.

The Town Criers represented the most visible arm of this system. Each morning, these officials in modest but immaculate uniforms positioned themselves at major intersections throughout the Gray Quarter. Their proclamations followed a calculated formula: three parts praise for the Merchant King's wisdom, two parts warnings about the dangers of questioning established order, and one part announcement of reduced rations or increased quotas, always framed as opportunities for workers to demonstrate their dedication.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" called a Crier outside the Central Mill gates. "Praise be to His Prosperity the Merchant King, whose divine economics brings structure to our lives! Remember! Questioning production quotas brings chaos to the natural order! By royal decree, textile quotas increase by twenty percent effective immediately. His Prosperity offers this blessing so workers may demonstrate their gratitude through enhanced productivity!"

For children, indoctrination began in the Worker Preparation Centers—concrete buildings where young ones gathered while parents worked their shifts. There, instructors led daily recitations of the Laborer's Litany and conducted role-playing games where children practiced proper deference to authority.

"Who remembers the Three Virtues of Proper Workers?" asked an instructor, surveying a room of six-year-olds sitting on hard wooden benches.

"Gratitude, Diligence, Silence!" the children responded in practiced unison.

"Excellent! And what happens to ungrateful workers?"

"They cause suffering for everyone!" the children chanted, having memorized the response without understanding its implications.

The most sophisticated element of the propaganda system targeted adults through the Kingdom Knowledge Sessions, mandatory weekly meetings where supervisors delivered carefully crafted narratives. These sessions employed subtle psychological techniques, including group reinforcement of system-supporting statements and public shaming of any who showed insufficient enthusiasm.

"Let's remember together: why do we work?" intoned a session leader to assembled textile workers.

"Because work gives meaning!" came the required response.

"And who provides our work?"

"His Prosperity the Merchant King!"

"And if the Merchant King did not organize our labor?"

"Chaos would reign! Starvation would follow! The kingdom would collapse!"

When one worker's response lacked sufficient conviction, the session leader paused dramatically. "Citizen Adler, perhaps you would benefit from additional Kingdom Knowledge reinforcement? The evening sessions include helpful memory aids."

Everyone understood these "memory aids" involved hours of standing in stress positions while reciting loyalty pledges. Citizen Adler immediately straightened her posture. "The kingdom would collapse, Session Leader! Without His Prosperity's guidance, we would surely perish!"

The leader nodded approvingly while making a note to monitor Citizen Adler in subsequent sessions.

Against this relentless machinery of manufactured consent, the Herald's whispers represented something revolutionary: factual information unfiltered by official narratives. When workers learned that the Merchant King had doubled his treasury while halving their rations, they weren't simply receiving information—they were experiencing the first cracks in a lifetime of carefully constructed reality.

***

In the farthest corner of the Gray Quarter, in a tiny cottage distinguished only by its slightly more determined roof leak, an Old Scholar kept records and memories. Though his bones ached and his spectacles were held together with twine, his mind remained sharper than the Royal Council's decorative swords.

"It wasn't always like this," the Old Scholar would murmur to anyone who would listen, though few did. "Before the Mills, before the Merchant King's grandfather tripled the size of his counting house, people worked the land together. Harder in some ways, yes, but they kept what they grew."

The Old Scholar's eyes would then grow distant, clouded with memories.

"I remember the last uprising," the Old Scholar told Eliza one evening, his voice dropping to a whisper though his cottage door was closed. The single candle between them cast long shadows across his lined face, deepening the history written there. "Thirty years ago, before your birth."

His hands trembled slightly as he pushed aside his meager dinner to make room on the table. With one gnarled finger, he traced patterns in the dust. Shapes slowly formed into buildings, figures, what appeared to be a Mill surrounded by tiny human forms.

"The Northern Mill workers organized what they called the 'Dignity Coalition.' Nothing radical. They asked for one additional rest day per month and the right to keep a fifth of their production rather than a tenth."

Eliza leaned closer, drawn by something in his voice, a tone usually reserved for speaking of the dead.

"The Merchant King's father sent in Guards from the Eastern Provinces. Not the regular ones you see in the streets. These wore black uniforms with no insignia. They sealed the Northern Mill with three hundred workers inside." He paused, his finger hovering over the dust-drawn Mill. "Then they introduced what they called 'The Cleansing Smoke' through the ventilation system."

"They killed them all?" Eliza asked, horror and disbelief warring in her voice.

The Scholar looked up, his glassy eyes suddenly sharp. "Worse. The smoke contained a substance that affected the mind. Removed inhibition. Induced rage." His finger smudged through the dust figures, disrupting their neat formation. "Worker turned against worker in a frenzy of violence."

He fell silent, lost in memory. Outside, a dog barked once and then quieted, as if aware it had said too much.

"The Guards watched through special windows," he finally continued. "Taking notes. Refining their technique."

"Why?" Eliza whispered.

"To learn the most efficient method of turning strength against itself. To discover how easily people become weapons against their own kind." His voice had gone flat, drained of emotion by years of carrying this knowledge alone.

"When they finally opened the doors three days later, only seventeen workers remained alive, covered in the blood of their comrades. These survivors were paraded through every district, their minds shattered. Their purpose wasn't to warn us. It was to show us what we might become."

"Why doesn't anyone speak of this?"

The Scholar's laugh held no humor. "Those who witnessed it are dead or, like me, old enough to be dismissed as senile. The Guards who participated were eventually eliminated to remove evidence. The seventeen survivors died by their own hands within a year." His voice cracked. "My son was among those sealed in the Mill. My daughter-in-law was one of the seventeen. She never spoke again before walking into the river six months later."

"And your grandson?" Eliza asked, noticing for the first time a small wooden toy soldier half-hidden among the Scholar's few possessions.

The old man's expression closed like a door. "Became a Palace Guard. Believed the official story that revolutionary agitators had caused the violence. He despises me for spreading 'lies' about his parents' fate." His voice dropped lower still. "He now commands the special unit that handles 'labor unrest.'"

Eliza sat in stunned silence, understanding now why the Old Scholar's warnings carried such weight. He had witnessed how thoroughly history could be rewritten, how completely truth could be replaced by convenient fiction.

"Remember this, Eliza," he said, covering the dust-drawing with his palm and wiping it away. "The Merchant King's most effective weapon is not Guards or hunger or even fear. It is the distortion of memory itself. When people cannot trust what they remember, they become unable to imagine anything different from what they see."

In Laboria, accurate memory was perhaps the most revolutionary act of all.

"But beware the seductive promises of perfect equity, for I have seen what follows," the Old Scholar continued. "In the Eastern Realms, they once had a revolution that promised to make all equal. Their 'People's Republic' replaced one tyrant with a hundred, and their once-productive fields grew barren under collective ownership. Their 'equity' meant equal misery for all but the new rulers."

Few heeded these warnings. The young seldom listen to the old, especially when the old speak of dangers that seem remote compared to present suffering.

As she left his cottage that night, Eliza realized the Old Scholar had given her something dangerous—an unaltered piece of the past, a truth that contradicted official history. She carried it carefully, like something that might shatter if examined too closely or burn if held too tight.

***

Nearby, in a tavern at the edge of the Gray Quarter, a different kind of voice had begun to draw attention. An Ambitious Orator with eyes that burned like the Mills' furnaces spoke of injustice in terms both poetic and fierce, his words kindling a dangerous fire in the hearts of listeners.

"The prosperity dust does not rise naturally—it is stolen!" he would declare, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried to every ear. "The Magical Mills produce enough for all, yet we starve while they feast. The solution is simple: we must seize the Mills for ourselves, and then all will share equally in their bounty."

The Pragmatic Craftsman, a master blacksmith who had designed many of the Mills' most intricate components, would sometimes interrupt. "But the Mills require specialized knowledge to operate. Change may be needed, but total upheaval could—"

"Silence, collaborator!" the Orator would snap, his momentary flash of anger quickly masked by a benevolent smile. "The Mills' 'complexity' is but another lie they tell us. Once we control them collectively, they will yield their secrets and their bounty to all."

***

That night, as Eliza kept vigil by Lily's bedside, she heard a tap at her window. Outside stood the Herald, face half-hidden by a hood.

"I have something," the Herald whispered, pressing a small vial into Eliza's hand. "Fever lily extract. Three drops every six hours."

Eliza stared at the vial, its contents glowing faintly in the moonlight. "I can't afford—"

"No payment," the Herald interrupted. "Consider it a gift from those who believe in a different future."

Before Eliza could ask more, the Herald was gone, melting into the shadows. With trembling hands, Eliza administered the medicine to Lily, watching as the child's breathing gradually eased.

By morning, Lily's fever had broken. As sunlight filtered through the patched curtains, casting weak patterns on the floor, Eliza made a silent vow. This system that valued ornamental flowers over children's lives, that produced magical blankets while allowing the poor to freeze—it could not stand. It would not stand.

Later that day, as workers trudged home from another exhausting day at the Mills, Eliza paused outside the Magical Production Mills. She had spent fourteen hours crafting luxurious blankets embroidered with scenes of mythical feasts, yet her own child had nearly died in a bed covered with threadbare rags.

"Why," she wondered aloud, her voice gaining strength with each word, "do the Mills bring forth such bounty, yet our children know only hunger and sickness? Where does it all go?"

A passing Palace Guard heard her dangerous question and scowled. "Move along! Idle wondering leads to idle hands, and idle hands lead to the Royal Dungeons!"

Eliza met his eyes for the first time in her life, rather than looking at the ground as workers were trained to do. Something in her gaze—a new defiance, a refusal to be cowed—made the guard step back.

"I said move along," he repeated, his voice less certain.

Eliza walked away, but the question had taken root in her mind like a seed that would not be dislodged. No longer was it just a question. It was a demand, a call to action.

And unbeknownst to her, the same transformation had begun in countless other minds throughout the Gray Quarter.

In that moment, though none yet realized it, the first tiny crack appeared in the Spell of Necessity, a crack that would soon widen into a chasm, releasing forces that would tear the kingdom apart only to forge something darker in its ruins.

That night, Eliza dreamed of her daughter playing in a meadow of fever lilies, the flowers abundant and free for all to use. It was a beautiful dream. But dreams born of hunger and suffering do not stay dreams for long.