Dunskar does not demand much.
At least… not at first glance.
Taxes exist, but they are not burdensome. The streets are safe, the systems efficient, and no one appears to be starving in the open.
It almost feels… fair.
Until you understand the rule that governs everything:
No one is allowed to be idle.
Every citizen must work. Those without occupation are required to report themselves to state offices, where their abilities are assessed and assigned accordingly. Refusal is not tolerated.
To contribute is to exist.
To refuse… is to disappear.
But the system begins much earlier.
At the age of fourteen, every child is brought to the Church of Solus.
There, they undergo what the locals call an initiation.
They place their hands upon something sacred—
the Soul of Solus.
A crystalline structure, radiant and silent.
It does not speak.
It does not explain.
It simply reveals.
A path. A role. A direction deemed “suitable” for the individual.
From that moment onward, their future is no longer uncertain.
It is decided.
They are trained. Shaped. Refined into what the system believes they should become.
Producer. Merchant. Soldier. Adventurer.
Each role, a function.
Each life, a purpose.
And for many… this is enough.
But not for all.
There are those whose “abilities” are judged insufficient.
Those whose paths are unclear, or worse—undesirable.
The system does not imprison them.
It does something quieter.
It excludes them.
Opportunities vanish. Doors remain closed. Voices grow distant.
They are still alive.
But no longer seen.
Some of them turn to the Guild—taking the lowest roles. Porters, carriers… expendable bodies in dangerous expeditions.
Others descend further.
Into the lower layers of Dunskar.
Where the system no longer reaches…
and no longer pretends to care.
I once believed a kingdom built on order would be stable.
Now I am beginning to understand—
Order, when taken too far,
does not break people.
It erases them.
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