It was a sunny, sweltering day in Drury, a small but bustling town nestled in the heart of Santa Rosa. The streets buzzed with tension, a strange mix of everyday life and the ever-looming presence of the ruling Nasyonalistas. Merchants called out their wares, children weaved between market stalls, and yet, an uneasy air lingered.
A patrol of Nasyonalista soldiers in gleaming armor marched through the cobbled streets, their synchronized steps echoing like drums of war. They barked orders with harsh precision, their brass megaphones blaring authoritarian decrees. "Obey the laws of the Republic! All must abide by the authority of the Nasyonalistas!" Their voices seemed to ripple through the narrow alleyways, bouncing off stone walls and rusted balconies.
The townspeople tensed. Shopkeepers froze mid-sale. A mother pulled her child closer, wrapping her arms tightly around the little one's shoulders. A baker, flour dusting his apron, glared as the patrol passed, his knuckles whitening around a rolling pin. The air was no longer just hot—it was suffocating.
From behind barrels, carts, and crates came murmurs of resentment. Then, a shout: "Oppressors!" A tomato sailed through the air and burst against a soldier's breastplate. Others followed—cabbages, onions, eggs—hurled with desperation and fury.
The soldiers raised their shields, but not all were fast enough. A particularly well-aimed cucumber struck a younger soldier square on the helmet, causing him to stumble. Enraged, another soldier lunged into the crowd. He grabbed a thin man, barely older than a boy, by the collar and dragged him forward.
The scene turned grisly. Without hesitation, the soldier struck the man, again and again, until he crumpled to the ground. Blood ran from a cut on his temple. The soldier then tied him to a wooden post in the center of the square, a chilling warning to all who dared to resist.
The crowd fell silent. Mothers wept. Fathers turned their heads in shame. No one moved. No one dared.
Overhead, the sun blazed on, indifferent.
Just a few blocks away, the mood inside a local alehouse stood in stark contrast. The tavern was alive with the clinking of mugs, hearty laughter, and the smell of sizzling meat. A group of lively, rough-edged men and women sat gathered at a long wooden table, their clothes dusty from travel, their faces flushed from ale and joy. These were the Veritas Knights — rebels to some, heroes to others.
A young boy named Toby sat quietly in a corner, watching them intently. His wide eyes scanned their faces, filled with admiration and confusion. He tugged on the sleeve of one of them, a large man with a crooked grin.
"Hey! Lior! Someday, I will become a paladin of the Nasyonalista," Toby declared with fire in his eyes. "And I'll capture you and your band of rebels!"
Lior, the leader of the Veritas Knights, paused mid-sip and looked at the boy with a calm, knowing smile. "I cannot wait for that moment, Toby. Let's see who captures who."
Beau, second-in-command and always quick with a joke, leaned in. "I know someday you'll become a strong warrior, Toby — right after you stop tripping over your own feet."
"Stop teasing me, Beau!" Toby puffed out his chest. "I'll tell the paladins that the Veritas are here!"
With that, Toby sprinted outside, his sandals slapping the cobblestones. Standing in the street, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Nasyonalistas! The Veritas are here! They're inside! Hurry!"
But no one responded. The townsfolk merely glanced at him and returned to their business.
From inside, Beau's voice rang out, laughing, "Maybe you should go fetch them yourself, Toby!"
Laughter erupted from within. Toby's face turned red with frustration. He darted off toward the town square, determined to find a patrol.
As he reached the square, he pushed his way through a growing crowd. Cries of anguish pierced the air. What Toby saw stopped him cold.
A paladin, broad-shouldered and clad in ornate silver armor, was pummeling an elderly man who lay curled over his basket of vegetables. The old man's groans were muffled by the thud of boots and fists. Around them, some screamed in protest while others laughed cruelly. A few brave souls tried to step forward but were shoved back with threats and punches.
Toby's heart pounded. Paladins were supposed to protect, not harm.
Then, the crowd shifted. Murmurs turned to gasps. Lior was walking through the mass of bodies, his expression carved in stone. Without a word, he raised a fist and delivered a crushing blow to the abusive paladin's face, sending him crashing to the ground.
The remaining paladins reached for their weapons, but the Veritas Knights materialized beside their leader, steel drawn and eyes sharp.
"Yo, man," Beau said casually to one of the paladins, spinning a dagger in his fingers. "If you love your life, don't waste it on this."
The paladins hesitated. Then, recognizing they were outnumbered and outmatched, they scooped up their unconscious comrade and retreated down the alley.
The square erupted in cheers. "Veritas! Veritas!" they chanted.
Toby stood frozen, his world shaken. Everything he believed about the Nasyonalistas and the Ashkins — the rebels — was crumbling.
Lior turned to Beau. "Chief Lior," Beau said, cracking his knuckles. "I think I can handle the rest of them."
"Not today, Beau," Lior said calmly. "We have a caravan to catch. Mount up."
As the Veritas Knights mounted their horses, Lior paused beside Toby.
"You see, kid," he said, meeting the boy's eyes. "Things aren't always what they seem. Sometimes you have to crack open the stone to find the diamond inside."
Toby looked up, voice trembling, "Someday... I'll lead my own group of Ashkins. Ones who protect people."
Lior smiled and nodded. "Then make sure you never forget this moment."
The Veritas rode off, their banners fluttering behind them as the dust of the square settled. The rhythmic clatter of their horses' hooves gradually faded into the distance, leaving behind an almost surreal silence. A few onlookers remained frozen in place, still processing the whirlwind of justice and rebellion they had just witnessed. Children peeked out from behind carts, eyes wide with awe, while elders whispered tales of old uprisings to those willing to listen.
Minutes later, the paladins returned, this time with reinforcements. Their polished armor gleamed under the sun, and their presence was intended to reclaim the fear and control they had just lost. But the square was no longer theirs to command. The crowd had dissipated like smoke in the wind. Market vendors pretended to busy themselves with arranging produce. Shutters were drawn. Doors quietly closed. An invisible wall of resistance met the paladins — silent, passive, but unyielding.
They moved about, questioning a few bystanders, but all responses were vague and laced with feigned ignorance. "I didn't see anything." "Just tending to my apples." "Must have been a misunderstanding."
One commander cursed under his breath. "They protect them. They cheer for them. These rebels are becoming heroes."
But the townspeople said nothing. In their silence was strength, and in that strength, the seeds of change were being sown.
Toby wandered back to the alehouse, lost in thought.
He pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside — only to be met with a sharp tug on his ear.
"You brat!" Berta scolded. "Running off like that — do you want me to worry myself into an early grave?"
"Ouch! Ouch! I'm sorry, Berta! They made fun of me!"
"Toby," she said more gently, "Lior is a good man. The Veritas are good people."
"I know," he whispered. "And the paladins... they're not what I thought."
"There are Ashkins who are cruel, and there are Paladins who are kind," Berta said, her voice steady and full of wisdom. "Just because someone wears a badge or armor doesn't mean their heart is righteous. The uniform doesn't define the soul. It's what you do with the power you have that matters. You want to be a paladin? Then be the one who protects the weak, uplifts the broken, and shields the innocent. Not one who punishes out of pride or fear."
Toby's eyes lit up with a flicker of hope. "So... I can still be a paladin and be good? Even if I don't agree with everything they do?"
"That's exactly what makes a good one," Berta replied, ruffling his hair gently. "Having the courage to do what's right, even when others don't. But don't think it's easy. The world is full of noise and confusion. You'll need to listen to your heart and stay true to it."
Then her voice turned sharp, motherly instincts kicking in. "And if you want to start that journey, young man, then begin by washing those mugs before I clobber you with one!"
"Berta! Come on! Stop pulling my ear!"
"Berta! Stop pulling my ear!"
She laughed and went back behind the counter.
Toby scrubbed mugs with a newfound purpose. In his heart, he vowed: Someday, he would become a paladin — but not just any paladin. He would be the kind who cracked open the stone, to reveal the diamond within.