Jahmir sat in the storage room, tucked near the storage table, glasses sliding down his nose as he whispered, "This doesn't add up."
Navir leaned in, red eyes scanning the thin sheets. "What's that?"
"Three youths reassigned last cycle," Jahmir murmured. "Same charges. 'Disruptive conduct.' No hearings."
Ardavan tapped the page with nimble fingers. "Look at the punishments. They double every quarter."
Torin frowned, arms folded.
"Coincidence?"
"No," Ardavan said quietly. "Design."
Navir's scarred forearm brushed the table as he shifted closer. "And the gifted?"
Jahmir swallowed. "They vanish faster. Records stop mid-sentence."
Torin's grin faded. "Erased."
Jahmir nodded. "Obviously."
Ardavan exhaled. "Systematic suppression."
Footsteps echoed outside. Everyone stilled.
Navir straightened as the door creaked open.
_______________________
The morning sun beat down on the dirt road, alleys lined with shuttered homes and rusted carts.
The Argathe adults threaded through the streets, rigid and watchful, their gaze sharp, voices sharp as they corrected every misstep of the youths.
Torin stepped forward, voice loud enough to carry over the chatter of neighbors. "Forgive me, elders," he said, bowing theatrically.
"I must have tripped over the invisible rules of our streets. My crime? Breathing too freely, perhaps?"
An adult snapped, "Enough jokes! Get on your knees!" The older woman said pointing her cane downwards.
"Ah," Torin said, tipping his head, "then I shall apologize… profusely, for smiling without permission." Laughter bubbled from the younger ones, stifled but defiant.
Navir's scarred forearm brushed the stone wall as he muttered to himself, "They tighten control… but it's obvious what they fear."
A small voice trembled from behind a crate. "Mother… why are the smartest ones always treated harshly?"
His mother's hand tightened over his shoulder, her eyes darting nervously at the adults nearby. "Shh… some things are not for us to question," she whispered, her voice low but firm, almost as if the words themselves could shield him.
Navir felt a chill crawl up his spine as he overheard them.
______________________
The street fell silent. The child's question hung in the air, unbroken.
"Woman," one man barked, "you will correct the boy now. Publicly."
The boy's small hand clenched, eyes wide, searching.
"What? He didn't say anything," the younger woman whispered, forcing a smile, voice trembling.
"Do you imply that I am lying?" The older man asked.
"What? No." The young woman responded almost immediately, fear etched in her eyes.
"Then you must!" another snapped, handing her the cane.
The crowd of youths shifted nervously, some biting lips, others glancing away.
The young woman, barely in her mid-twenties trembled, her gaze, wavered between the boy and the looming figures.
"I… I understand," she murmured, though her heart raced.
Navir's chest tightened, clenching his fists, every muscle coiled as he stepped forward.
Sorvan's hand pressed briefly to his shoulder.
"Don't… brother." Sorvan hissed, eyes scanning the street. "If you move now, it'll backfire. Trust me."
"The boy, " Navir's jaw tightened. "They'll… "
"Exactly," Sorvan interrupted, voice sharp.
"You act? We all get into trouble. And them?" He paused, shifting his gaze to the woman and her son. "You'll only make their punishment worse."
Navir turned his gaze to the ground, "Why?" He said, restraining anger behind gnashing teeth and clenched fist.
"It's our tradition. Remember?" Sorvan replied, his calm smooth voice etched with composure.
Navir's breath hitched.
Sorvan continued, removing his arm from his brother's shoulder, "The others have seen it all. The punishments, disappearances… and the records?"
"The adults can't deny it if the right questions get asked. You act, you make it worse. They'll twist it." he added.
Navir swallowed, tension knotting his gut. "So we wait… and let them, "
Whack!
The rod smacked the child.
A hitched breath escaped both Navir and the child.
Navir's internal conflict blocked out the child's cries.
Whack!
The youths gasped.
They watched, unable to intervene.
He could only hear the sound of the rod descending.
His veins taut behind his clenched fists.
The crescent beneath his left bicep darkened.
Sorvan noticed it.
His gaze, cold and unreadable.
The child's small voice echoed in Navir's mind, fragile but sharp: "Why are the smartest ones always treated harshly?"