Bound.

Protesters. The word was foreign to me; alien. Technically, I knew what it meant -- the definition I had read through my studies and I thought I understood it.

protester – a person who dissents from some established policy.

I pictured one easily: someone part of a small group of people complaining about some certain law or something of the like. Civilly, of course – I mean, some angry words were to be expected after a certain point and maybe some yelling, but never... this.

The sheer number of enraged faces and tense, roiling bodies scared the wits out of me. The crowd shouted and shrieked, pumped their fists and flailed their arms about without a care. White-knuckled hands thrust burning torches into the air and waved them about, possibly singeing the eyebrows and hair of the unfortunately tall in their midst, and with each of those thrusts came an ear-blasting roar from the protesters.

I found the whole scene so bizarre, barbaric and unbelievably shocking. Who could have believed there was so much hatred in the Kingdom directed at my father? I glanced back at him now, where he was quietly – which took him some obvious effort – conversing with his most trusted advisers while making the occasional angry gesture at the screen before us.

His anger was understandable; he was the King, after all. Did those silly little peasants not trust his judgement? Was he not graced with the all-knowing insight that was passed through the royal blood that was now coursing powerfully through his veins?

I wondered for a moment whether all this commotion was caused at his refusal of King Ivan’s proposal. Apparently he had asked to join our warring countries – his being Diatris and ours being Biatona – by binding his son and myself in the ancient tradition of marriage.

Weddings were mostly considered obsolete among the normal folk, though some old-fashioned couples chose to further Bind one-another by uttering vows under the name of whatever god they worshiped. However, among the wealthy, powerful and royal crowds, where Binding was a choosier and, more often than not, failed procedure, matrimony often took the place of the fabricated soulmates.

For some reason, the longer it took someone to be Bound after their birth, the less likely the drug worked. So it was common practise for two newborns to be Bound right after they were taken from their mothers’ wombs to be cleaned and such. Of course, that couldn’t happen with the royalty – I mean, who would ever think of a duke or duchess being Bound to a mere peasant? – since royal babies were hard to come by, and there was a chance of Binding cousins and such, which was frowned upon by nearly everyone.

So instead of using some all-powerful drug that reportedly melded souls together or some other ridiculous story, the Graced and Majestic babies were bound by a simple ring and a few words. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. It was something I would’ve killed for.

Honestly, I would have loved to have married anyone, even though my father wouldn’t go for it – I would have even settled for that barbaric Diatrian prince. All I wanted was something soft and human and masculine to hold on to for the rest of my life, and possibly to lose a few pounds off my thighs. But that was irrelevant and I’m really getting off topic.

Protesters, protesters...

My eyes focused back on the wall-high screen in front of me, depicting the violent protest that took place in the city square, only a terrifying five-hundred metres away from where we were currently. I watched in shock and confusion as small groups within the crowd formed and began to brandish heavy signs above their heads, each needing four or five sets of hands to hold it up. It wasn’t necessarily the size or thickness of each one that surprised me – they were each about the size of a small billboard and twice as thick – but rather what was written on it: my father’s name in big black lettering, clear as day against the bright red background.

And just as I was wondering why they would be holding signs with “King Vladimir” on them, one by one the signs were thrown into the air and broke over the crowd. Glass shards pierced skin, and the crimson fluid contained in each signboard coated hands and faces. The gaggle of protesters then pressed forward, bloody and bleeding, into the line of Imperial Guards with their high-tech guns and hand-held zappers that could send a heart-stopping pulse of electricity that would fell many of the demonstrators in a blink of an eye.

There was the chatter of machine guns, an eerie buzzing sound, and then the screams started. The mass of people shrieked like an enraged beast as bullets tore at flesh and many of them fell, either dead or dying under the trample of angry, frightened feet.

I watched just long enough to see numerous airships drifting over the square, weighed down with heavy artillery that looked capable of taking out a whole army, and not a crowd of angry, frightened and unarmed civilians. Then the screen went blank with a dull "pop", and a stressed silence fell over my father's study.

"Well," tittered Ichabod, one of my father's right-hand-men, "we won't have to worry about those protesters now." The King just frowned, the rage in him only hinted by his tightly clenched fists and the deepening wrinkles on his otherwise smooth brow.

And it was at that moment that I realized how serious the situation was and why I was so shocked. It wasn't a crowd of pissed off deeties who grabbed at any chance to rebel that we saw down there -- but rather the Bonded, the unwaveringly loyal citizens.

This couldn't be good.