Stonemire, 1956.

As the final bell rang, Lukas Volkov gathered his worn schoolbooks and shoved them into his fraying bag. The classroom, a cold, sterile room lined with government-approved posters, emptied quickly. His classmates filed out in silence, eyes cast downward to avoid the ever-present cameras that monitored their every move.

Lukas lingered, taking a moment to scan the room. The walls were plastered with portraits of General Severin, each one more imposing than the last, accompanied by slogans that demanded obedience and loyalty. His gaze settled on a corner of one poster, where the edge had begun to peel. He resisted the urge to tear it further, knowing the act of rebellion could easily lead to arrest—or worse.

Stepping into the hallway, Lukas adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder and fell into the flow of students heading toward the exit. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. As he walked, his thoughts churned with frustration and despair. The day had been like any other—dull, repetitive lessons that glorified the regime and twisted history to suit the dictator’s narrative. The teachers, mere mouthpieces of the state, droned on about duty and sacrifice, their eyes as lifeless as the students'.

Lukas knew he should be careful—keep his head down, blend in. But it was getting harder to suppress the growing anger inside him. The lies they were forced to repeat, the fear that clung to every interaction—it was suffocating. He longed for a way out, a way to show the world what was happening in Ironveil. He had heard rumors of others who had tried to send messages beyond the borders, but they had all disappeared, swallowed by the regime’s merciless grip.

As he stepped outside, the cold air bit at his face, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the school. He turned the corner and bumped into a classmate; the one he had a major crush on. "Shit— er. Uh. Sorry." He mumbled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.