A/N: Hi there, the prologue is pretty short but straight to the point. Hopefully I managed to showcase the right mood I was aiming towards. This is actually the first story in a long time that I'm truly anticipating writing but let's see how long my drive lasts. :-)

Prologue

High in the sky, the dawning sun slowly drifted into view. It was a busy day for most and further, a sad day for the poor. Turmoil was usual to the standard peasant life but an unsettling event had hardened that strife. For within the towering palace grounds, the last straw of liberty had been broken by no other than their fellow king.

Down in the streets of Adamo, past the withering men of Sector 5 and below the brilliance of the wealthy upper level, the newspaper boy had trotted out onto the usual spot among the bustling booths, step by step against the cold stony terrain. Short legs vigorously pushing against the looming masses, he finally halted to a stop preparing his stand of fetid newspaper stacks with a rusty bell in hand. Taking in a deep breath, he puffed out his chest and began his routine shout mixed with coaxing and waving about. Today, the headline beamed an unusual statement, “The Council is Dead, The Rule of King Will Live Again.” Yet nobody seemed to mind the news. The issue of surviving occupied their time, leaving no room to dwell on the matter. Life is already grim, difficult and short. It couldn’t possibly get any worse.

And so, the poor paper boy worked hard that morning, competing against the million hands that reached forward for their own copy, coins tossed here and there. By noon, the crowd had died down and he bent over to pick up his last two cents. “What a good day,” the boy thought as he finished up for the hour. Strolling off, back alongside the other unknowingly miserable people, he nodded to familiar faces and whistled a jumpy tune he picked up from an old show. Down the alley way he went with a little bounce in his walk. The smell of the grimy path was strong but he didn’t mind. Today was a “good” day. Turning the corner, he disappeared back out into the sad flock. There as he made his exit, he passed a plastered poster up against the brick wall, peeling at its corners.

It read, “You are Not Alone” in large fading letters and located further on the bottom right, a red stamp highlighted the cursive word “Libertas!”