The Sovereign's Procedure
The dark house sat in the middle of the Upper Slums, one of the most poverty-ridden sectors in the entire City. It was smashed between two other smaller shacks, a dirty hovel in the center of dirtier hovels.
Hard footsteps sounded on the cobbled walkways, tramping up and down, up and down, heading relentlessly towards this particular house. A host of armored and cloaked figures marched through the streets. The Sovereign Guard.
The door to the house burst open, revealing an old woman trembling in a corner with three young adults. What looked to be the oldest son stepped foward defiantly. “You will not hurt us,” he whispered.
“You’re quite correct. There will be no hurt,” a deadly smooth voice crooned from underneath the helmet of the Guard in front. He raised a sphere in his hand.
“No! Shield your eyes!” the old woman cried, but it was too late. Every son was hit with the blast, left with nothing more than a dazed look in their eyes.
“The woman was not hit,” the Guard said. “Take her.”