The carriages set off an hour ago, crossing the civil borders quietly before leaving the territory of the fifth region, which is under the leadership of the Agard family.
It traveled along the paved roads toward the heart of Elethra, the capital of the democracy, located at the center of the state.
The grand city stood like a vital artery, connecting the five regions, all of which are under the influence of the Dysars, the powerful force that holds the country in its grip and protects it.
The capital, the beating heart of democracy and the largest, most dazzling city, was home to the headquarters of the security forces.
Its streets teemed with the National Guard, embodying the authority of the state and safeguarding its security.
Every corner testified to order and sophistication; there was no place for chaos or neglect.
Each street stretched out like a meticulously crafted masterpiece—clean, bright, and harmonious, reflecting the grandeur of the city.
As the nine carriages advanced through the grand square, a breathtaking scene unfolded: a towering palace atop the city, symbolizing authority and the height of democracy.
The palace crowned the capital with a splendor that enhanced its beauty, visible to every resident from any neighborhood, its magnificence so imposing that it even overshadowed the Night Tower—a structure that illuminated the capital's darkness whenever night fell.
The evening sunlight intertwined with the shadows of the buildings as the carriages passed, creating a majestic tableau that imbued the streets with a sense of contemplation and serenity at once.
Akriod's cold gaze slipped through the peaceful lives of the people, observing their details with indifference, until the clatter of the carriage's swift wheels shattered the calm.
The carriage raced with the wind, moving from a narrow street into a vast square where the scene abruptly shifted.
There, its speed gradually slowed, forced to yield before the massive crowd.
Thousands of souls gathered like a human flood, engulfing the wide square dominated by a towering statue at its center, between two intersecting streets.
Their sheer numbers were beyond what the eye could count or a passing glance could grasp—a sea of bodies and faces, chaotic and impossible to measure.
What surprised him were the upscale streets they passed through, which were eerily quiet, almost unnaturally so.
However, what he hadn't expected was the scene before him: a vast crowd, like a torrent, scattered at every corner, shouting at the top of their lungs. "Is this a protest?" Akriod asked Ronan in a cold tone, his hand resting on his chin, a gesture that reflected deep thought.
Ronan gazed out the window, the carriages halted, his eyes reflecting deep frustration. "Every year, it's the same story. They protest as if they have no regard for the very principles of civility. They believe that the leniency of democracy allows them to do whatever they wish without consequence." He uttered the words in a heavy tone, full of the anger that his words betrayed.