Umaric

By Rebeka Porter and Megan McGee

Obedientia Key Prosperethe words that define the land known as Umaric. Starkly divided into the Wealthy District and the Poor District, Umaric is a place of oppression, intimidation, and fear.

Anora Russell, a woman from the Wealthy District, knows Umarics dark side and has worked for years to undermine its deception. Sharp-tongued and cynical, Anora is used to working alone until fate forces her into an unlikely partnership with Ezekiel Thoris, a man from the Poor District.

Ezekiel has experienced Umarics harsh reality firsthand. Striving hard to protect his sixteen-year-old sister, Charity, and keeping his assassin friend, Rell, from falling into despair, its all he can do to survive. But when fate brings them together, Anora and Ezekiel must join forces to destroy Umaric and its corruption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781490780122

Rebeka Porter

Megan McGee earned her BA in History with a minor in Women’s and Gender Studies and French from Quincy University in 2017, but writing has always been one of her greatest passions. Always an avid reader, Megan quickly expanded her hobbies to creative writing as well. Rebeka Porter has earned a BA degree in Public Relations with a minor in Literature at Quincy University in 2017. She’s always had a love for reading and writing. When the pair met their freshman year of college, they found that they had a shared interest in writing and began brainstorming to write Umaric and working to achieve their goals to become published authors.

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Copyright 2017 Rebeka Porter and Megan McGee.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8011-5 (SC)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8013-9 (HC)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8012-2 (E)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017900155

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Contents

Ezekiel 1

Anora 1

Ezekiel 2

Anora 2

Ezekiel 3

Anora 3

Ezekiel 4

Anora 4

Ezekiel and Anora 5

Ezekiel 6

Anora 6

Ezekiel and Anora 7

Ezekiel 8

Anora 8

Ezekiel and Anora 9

Ezekiel 10

Anora 10

Ezekiel and Anora 11

Ezekiel 12

Anora 12

Ezekiel and Anora 13

Ezekiel 14

Anora 14

Ezekiel and Anora 15

Ezekiel 16

Anora 16

Ezekiel and Anora 17

Ezekiel 18

Anora 18

Ezekiel and Anora 19

Ezekiel and Anora 20

Ezekiel and Anora 21

Ezekiel and Anora 22

Ezekiel 23

Anora 23

Ezekiel and Anora 24

Ezekiel and Anora 25

Harold Pennington 26

Ezekiel and Anora 27

Ezekiel and Anora 28

Ezekiel 29

Anora 29

Ezekiel and Anora 30

Ezekiel and Anora 31

Ezekiel 32

Anora 32

Ezekiel and Anora 33

Ezekiel and Anora 34

Rell Echt 35

Ezekiel and Anora 36

Ezekiel and Anora 37

Ezekiel and Anora 38

Ezekiel and Anora 39

Ezekiel

1

Umaric. The one word that must mean joy and happiness in my life whether I like it or not. Umaric—the bane of my existence—the destruction of my youth. The ongoing propaganda that is being shoved down our throats, into our ears.

Ezekiel tried his hardest to keep his sixteen year old sister, Charity, safe. Safe from them. From the ones who ended their happiness.

The ones who never gave Charity a chance to know their parents.

The ones who had stolen their lives away.

They were only children when the Council of Justice ransacked their home and sold it all within the span of forty-eight hours. Charity had been four years old. Ezekiel had been eight. They struggled in the streets of Umaric for two weeks without anyone giving them a second glance. Charity had almost died—something Ezekiel will never forget.

The harsh faces of the Officers as they marched passed them on the streets never left his mind. Anger and rage clouded his judgment. Umaric never had a chance with Ezekiel: he escaped its grasp like smoke eluding the bare hands of greedy humans. He knew that underneath the polished side of the diamond held corruption and abuse.

His parents were right. Umaric was a once-upon-a-time beauty that was slowly fading.

He’ll never forget the Poor House that Charity had to grow up in. The way the older men would leer at her when she was forced to sleep in the main room. Protecting her was all he had left. If he lost Charity, his life would become meaningless—empty.

By law Charity should have been adopted into an occupation, just as Ezekiel had been. The truth was that jobs were becoming scarce for women in the Poor District. It wasn’t what it once was.

A few of the Officers had their eyes on her.

If she wasn’t careful, the Umaric Council would force her into a lifetime of servitude. These are dire times. Men want what is hard to come by. Women are not safe walking alone.

Ezekiel is grateful for the marriage laws even if it means his time is almost up. It still gives Charity a chance at happiness.

A Umaric citizen has a chance to fall in love and marry until the age of twenty-one. At that age, if unmarried, the Umaric Council will assign a spouse to the unmarried person. Ezekiel is almost twenty-one.

Ding—ding—ding. Ding—ding—ding.

The sound of metal on metal. The destruction of an object so in harmony with the blacksmith’s forge. The one who can manipulate something into existence just by a small tilt of the hand.

Ding—ding—ding. Ding—ding—ding.

Ding—ding—ding. Ding—ding—ding.

Ezekiel! a rough voice shouted over the roaring flames and harsh winds.

Ezekiel Thoris set his hammer down and turned to face his superior. He had forgotten how much he could lose himself in his work.

Ezekiel’s superior was a stout and robust man. His face was crude and rough from years of working as a blacksmith and from the hard conditions that came hand-in-hand with living in the Poor District. These were supposed to be delivered an hour ago. To the Manor. His voice was rough and scratchy.

Ezekiel shrugged, It wasn’t my job, sir. I’m still working on the sword order for the Officers. His voice was lazy and arrogant as he responded.

"Hold your tongue, mar! There’ll not be any smart mouths today. The Council of Justice keeps us in work, boy. Learn that and your head won’t be as thick as it is."

A sour taste filled Ezekiel’s mouth at the mere mention of the Council of Justice and at the fact that his superior had used the word mar. It was one thing for a wealthy to use that term. But for one of his fellow members of the Poor District to use it…despicable and disrespectful. His superior should know better than to use the derogatory word of the Wealthy District.

He would never use that word to describe anyone.

As he watched his superior vanish into the dark smoke and confusing marble streets, a shiver ran down his spine. It was his job to deliver those boxes.

He picked up the sword he had been working on and plunged it into the cold, icy water. Charity was the only thing keeping his emotions in check. Without her delicate mind around, he would go mad with Umaric and its never ending rules.

Pity and sadness emerged from his deep green eyes as he watched the people of the Poor District walk to their morning duties. His dark brown hair, almost black, blew freely in the early morning breeze. Ezekiel couldn’t wrap his mind around all of the injustice in his sad, unyielding world.

The wall surrounding the entire country of Umaric always held his attention. It was a never ending reminder of his parents’ tragic deaths and of Umaric’s tyrannical control over himself and his fellow citizens. They were put in charge of building a bridge that connected the outer wall to the main government’s headquarters. Towards the end of its completion, the bridge collapsed, taking with it Kiel and Larissa Thoris.

The main government thought that Ezekiel’s parents had committed treason.

The bridge was never completed.

Instead of taking care of the children, like the law stated, the government had ransacked the house. In an act of defiance for not finding any binding evidence, the house and all its contents were sold. Ezekiel and Charity suffered from Umaric’s rage.

Ezekiel will never forget.

He set down the sword and picked up the boxes that were supposed to have been delivered an hour ago to the Manor House. As he made his way through the dirty, smoky, and crowded marble streets, his thoughts turned toward the things his parents had told him as a child:

*   *   *

Larissa Thoris was a rare person to find amid the streets of Umaric. With deep black hair and intense, cloudy gray eyes, she was the object of everyone’s attention. Raised strictly in the Poor District, the Wealthy District wanted her and her exotic looks to help campaign for the rebuilding of the Manor House which housed all of Umaric’s councils and official business.

When she married Kiel, a strong, fierce and determined man with sandy blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and also from the Poor District; the Wealthy District wanted nothing more to do with her regardless of the fact that she was forced to marry in the first place.

At the age of twenty-one, Kiel already had a bad reputation amongst the Umaric Council. There were rumors of conspiracy with his name plastered right in the middle of it.

Ezekiel was born the day Kiel turned twenty-six. Larissa and Kiel were determined to make sure Ezekiel knew the truth behind Umaric. Both his parents knew things that would shake the very foundations of Umaric if they decided to let something leak.

On Ezekiel’s fifth birthday, Kiel gave him his necklace. Connected to a simple silver chain was a key of sorts. In the middle was a tiny silver ball. Surrounding it were four metal oval circles that created an almost star-like shape.

Larissa didn’t allow Kiel to tell Ezekiel what is was for.

Instead, Larissa told him, Remember, Ezekiel, that these walls are a prison. They are meant to keep us in, not keep others out. The rules that are in place must be followed or else they will kill us. It has been done before, my son. Umaric is a ruthless place. Look at me, Ezekiel.

Larissa gently turned his head toward hers. Locking her eyes on her son’s she said, "Listen to me very carefully. There will come a time when you are asked to do things you do not want to do but you must, Ezekiel. You must or else bad things will happen. Do you understand?"

Ezekiel nodded his head.

There’s a good lad. Now, go read your book for tonight’s lesson.

Kissing his mother on the cheek, Ezekiel hurried to his room and opened his book:

I remember when the wall was built. To be five-and-twenty and ignorant again would be all right with me—we did not see it coming. The wall I mean. Umaric was peaceful and prosperous until the propaganda began: Oboedientia Key Prospere. Obedience is the key to success. That is Umaric’s new motto. The wall was meant to unify everyone. It took ten years to build; ten long, sad years. The lucky ones escaped and created a difficult but freer life. I watched in horror as the occupations were enforced and marriage became a necessity—not a luxury. I helped build the wall in my ignorance. Soon after its completion I wanted it gone. I created a key that moved. The key to leaving Umaric—forever—

Alright son, that’s enough for tonight. Kiel’s rich, thick voice traveled to Ezekiel from the doorframe.

But Daddy, Ezekiel started, I just got to the key! His voice rose in happiness.

Kiel’s eyes were shadowed but they nonetheless expressed a loving happiness toward his son. I know, son. Here, crossing the room, he scooped Ezekiel up and set him on his lap. This necklace I gave you is very important. One day your mother and I will no longer be here to teach you your lessons. Hold on to this for us… Kiel touched Ezekiel’s necklace, …for me, and you will always hear us, son—

*   *   *

Ezekiel was startled out of his reverie when he heard a clay pot breaking. Glancing a few yards ahead of him, he saw one of the Officers pull a young woman from a bakery shop—her clothes torn to ribbons.

He made to intervene but an old, wrinkled hand shot out and stopped him. Don’t, lad. You will only make matters worse for the child. The old man’s voice was hollow and empty but when Ezekiel looked at his shrunken face; his eyes were full of shameful regret, rage, and self-loathing.

"We cannot just stand here and do nothing." Ezekiel’s voice rang with a sharp clarity.

The old man sighed and pulled his hand back. They stated that she does not have the proper papers…

So they’ve decided to take immediate action. Disgust dripped from his voice as he watched one of the Officers bare the poor girl’s shoulders. He could hear her pitiful pleading.

His parents often told him to never meddle in other people’s affairs. Well, he thought, this would not be the first time I disobeyed your wishes.

Looking around the slightly narrow street, he saw his fellow citizens cast frightful looks at the terrifying scene before them. Most were minding their own business at the many different shops that lined the streets. Turning his attention back to the Officers, he saw one of them strike the young woman across her face.

Without realizing what he was doing, Ezekiel strode to the piteous and offensive scene. May I ask what is going on? His voice was crystal clear and loud as he addressed the Officer who had struck the young lady. It had gotten unnervingly quiet.

She refuses to come with us, the Officer replied. She has broken the law.

How? Ezekiel’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

She is pregnant and without papers. The Officer replied in a smug voice.

Ezekiel glanced at the now bloodied and frightened woman. Surely, Officer, there has been some kind of mistake. Have you given the young woman time to find the proper papers or did you see her swollen belly and decide to act on instinct? His voice was none too kind.

The Officer’s eyes were blazing, but Umaric law kept Ezekiel safe.

For now.

With a curt nod of his head, the Officer granted permission to the bleeding woman. Before she could register this turn of events, a strapping young man with cropped black hair raced outside, a stack of papers in his hands.

Another Officer stepped forward and read over the documents. With an indistinct sigh of relief, he handed the documents back. Turning to the Officer who had struck the young woman, he stated, "The next time you tell me someone has broken the law, make sure that they have actually broken the law. This will go on your report for today."

He gave Ezekiel a look of respect mingled with amusement. With a nod at the husband and wife, the Officers turned around and left.

Ezekiel, ignoring the incredulous stares and murmurs from the watching crowd, stepped forward to the young married couple.

Thank you, sir. The woman stated in a timid voice. Blood was running freely from her arms and the right side of her face, and she was leaning heavily against her husband for support.

He nodded once and slipped some coins into her husband’s hands. For the medical cost. With that, Ezekiel left and continued down the road; his steps sure and strong.

It took a minute for talk to start up again. By the time he reached the sixth street over, rumors about him had already spread. Those that knew him stared and whispered behind their hands though none would hold his gaze.

Good job, Ezekiel. a deep voice spoke from his left. You managed to create more tension amongst us and the authorities, and it’s only ten o’clock in the morning. That’s quite a feat, mind you.

Shut up, Rell. It wasn’t my fault. Ezekiel cast an annoyed look at his best friend.

"No, of course not. You only showed up the Officers, saved a fair lady and her unborn child. You didn’t do a thing."

It was wrong. Ezekiel’s voice was tight.

You can’t keep meddling like this, Ezekiel. Eventually they will find an excuse and kill you. Rell’s voice had become entirely serious.

Ezekiel stopped walking and looked at his friend. If I do not do it, who will? I have not forgotten what they have done to me and Charity. I will not let it happen again.

Rell let out a long sigh. It is your choice—

I know. Ezekiel snapped.

Sorry. I’m just trying to look out for you.

With a sigh of his own Ezekiel said, "I know that, too."

In silence, they started walking again.

What’s in the box? Rell’s voice took on a lighter tone.

I would rather not say. Besides, if I told you, you would not believe me. Ezekiel was extremely frustrated.

Rell’s voice took on a somber tone. I most likely would. Switching subjects he asked, How is Charity?

Ezekiel shook his head. I’m worried for her. She has no job and there are too many Officers who have their eye on her. She will have to choose very soon.

What choices have they offered a sixteen year old girl? Rell’s voice shook in suppressed anger. He had a few ideas.

"She can either let an Officer have her or become a…" Disgust and defeat filled Ezekiel’s voice.

Someone like me. Rell finished for him. What would be wrong with that? I could mentor her.

Ezekiel groaned in frustration. "I do not want her killing people, nor do I want her to go with an Officer!"

Rell opened his mouth to speak but remained silent. He knew there was no point in arguing with Ezekiel. Being an Assassin had taken its toll on Rell, but he only killed when and if he had to. He would rather Charity have this life than be a property of an Officer who would use her then kill her. But Rell knew that Ezekiel hated violence. Ezekiel was wicked with a sword, any kind of knife, and a bow and arrow. Rell never understood that about his friend. Why learn the art if he never expected to use it?

Rell glanced at his watch before saying, Three streets more, and we’ll be in the Wealthy District. Fun.

Ezekiel chuckled before saying, I take it this is where you leave me?

With a sly grin, Rell faded into the hustle and bustle of the streets.

It was unnervingly easy to see the very distinct difference between the Poor District and the Wealthy District. Instead of the marble streets falling into disrepair, these streets were immaculate perfection. The buildings were fancier and cleaner. It was an entirely different world. Men and women went from shop to shop that had items worth more than a month’s pay for Ezekiel.

People, mostly the spoiled, rich women, glared at him as he made his way along the shiny marble streets. They avoided meeting his gaze as if his very presence was offensive.

None of them knew how lucky they were to live in a place devoid of poverty and depression. None of them would ever understand how the world could leech a person of their life. How the meaning of life could slowly fade and crumble into nothingness. Ezekiel envied them at times. He had everything to lose, while they had nothing to lose. Umaric law was not bent on destroying their lives.

Tension lined Ezekiel’s shoulders and back. He took a deep breath and calmed his breathing while sliding a mask of disinterest on his face. If he stared too long, one of the annoying young men would start asking questions. Questions were best left unspoken in a world like this.

Keeping to himself, Ezekiel followed the familiar path to the Manor House. His face creased in disgust. That house was nothing more than control seeped in greed. Many good, young souls go into Government with good intentions, but corruption soon latches itself firmly in place, threatening the thin, bleak balance that Umaric sits on.

Shaking his head at the direction of his thoughts, he glanced up and nearly stopped in his tracks. Years of discipline was the only thing keeping his feet moving. Standing in an elegantly framed window on the second story of a deceptively beautiful house was Anora Russell. It fit Anora well, since she was just as deceptively beautiful.

But Ezekiel knew differently.

He frowned in carefully controlled anger. Why should it be such a shock to him to see her after all these years? He could still remember her hypnotizing hazel eyes, her long, wavy chestnut hair, fair skin, and innocent face. She had carried herself with pride and ignorance during their first meeting. He had tried to warn her. His frown increased as the memory of two years ago threatened to overwhelm him. Pushing those dark thoughts aside, he wondered if she still had that same sense of strong, independent will like him. Almost immediately he banished the thought. She was a wealthy and he was a mar.

With one last angry look at Anora Russell, he readjusted his hold on the carefully concealed crates and continued on his way, careful not to give anything away. Her father would have her hide if he ever found out what she was doing. Ezekiel respected her fragile state of mind and wished no more tragedy on her.

Anora…

For a reason he couldn’t fathom, her innocent look of horror haunted his mind. He suddenly wished that he had stayed out of her life. It had been her choices and hers alone that had gotten her where she is at now. He shouldn’t have watched over her the few months after everything had settled down. If it wasn’t for him, her body would have swam with the fish. So many people had wanted her dead. Ezekiel couldn’t bring himself to regret the decisions he had made regarding Anora Russell.

Right now he was regretting the fact that he had seen her. She had opened up a dark past for him.

Picking up his pace, Ezekiel cleared his head and strode purposefully down the street toward the center of Umaric Government. He let the familiar walk numb his mind and tune everything else out.

Half an hour later, Ezekiel was standing on the outskirts of a grand city square, complete with an exquisite fountain, trees, and picturesque walkways. The sheer beauty of it was enough to convince someone of the goodness Umaric had to offer.

Ezekiel will never forget.

He glanced around at the elegantly laid paths surrounding him. Lamp posts and benches lined the walkways; each in perfect symmetry with the other. Keeping his eyes free of emotion, he watched the wealthy people of Umaric go about their important duties without a care in the world. Anger raised its ugly head to sneer at them, but Ezekiel held it firmly at bay.

Ten minutes later, after making his way across the square, he stood in front of a fifteen-story mansion. The elegant curves and crystal cut of the house belied the dangers held within.

Taking a steadying breath, Ezekiel walked up the smooth, dark gray marble steps. Thick oak double doors greeted him. He rang the bell once which sounded shrill in the early afternoon air. Almost immediately, the doors were thrown open. Ezekiel came face to face with a dark eyed, dark haired man. Unnervingly handsome and charismatic, the man appraised Ezekiel with cool eyes. Ezekiel stared back at the man in the same manner. He had no idea who this person was.

State your business. The man’s voice was cold and calculating.

I was ordered by the Council of Justice to deliver these to the Head Officers. Ezekiel’s tone was stiff and formal.

Very well. The man stood his ground. Might I ask what it is you are bringing to the Council?

My apologies, sir. I am under strict orders to keep this delivery private. Ezekiel forced his body to relax. He couldn’t risk any incidents today, not with the ceremony taking place so soon. Anything could be used as an excuse for treason on such a joyous day.

Papers, if you don’t mind? The man’s dark eyes flashed in amusement.

Without missing a beat, Ezekiel deftly handed over the required papers in silence.

After a thorough investigation, the man handed them back with a smirk on his face. "Ezekiel Thoris. My, what a pleasant surprise. Rumors still circulate about your dead-end parents. I see that your younger sister survived. Sixteen, am I correct?"

With a curt nod, Ezekiel met the cold gaze of this man with one of his own. He could not risk losing Charity.

What a pleasure to know. The man held his hand out. My name is Hermin Zeal.

Ezekiel, grateful that he couldn’t shake this man’s hand, nodded. It’s a pleasure, sir.

With that, Hermin Zeal stepped aside and allowed Ezekiel access to the Manor House.

Striding past the foul man, Ezekiel entered a grand foyer complete with five chandeliers and rich, magnificent furniture. White marble floor threatened to overwhelm him with its brightness. The walls were a rich white as well. Everything was white and beautiful…until one entered the other parts of the building that were not meant for the public eye.

Glancing around, Ezekiel met the eyes of the man responsible for this…delivery. Ignoring his urge to glare, Ezekiel briskly made his way toward the man.

Ezekiel, the man started once Ezekiel was in earshot. Follow me. We have much to discuss.

This can’t be good, Ezekiel thought quietly.

Ezekiel was terrible with names and could not, for the life of him, remember this man’s. He followed him down a narrow staircase hidden behind a plain door well away from the grand entrance. As their descent ended, they entered a dimly lit concrete hallway. They walked a good distance from the stairwell until they came to a grim looking metal door.

With a slightly unsteady breath, Ezekiel followed the nameless man inside. The door banged shut with resounding clarity.

Ezekiel glanced around at the brightly lit room. A simple, brown square table sat in the center of it. Surrounding the table sat five broad looking men. Ezekiel’s eyes widened a fraction when he took in Rell’s dusty brown hair and clear blue eyes. Though he shouldn’t really be surprised since Rell was the Head Assassin of the entire affiliation. However, that very man seemed agitated and annoyed.

This couldn’t be good.

Stepping forward, Ezekiel placed the crates on the table with an inaudible sigh of relief. His arms felt both light and heavy after setting down his heavy burden.

The man, Dante was his name, uncovered one of the crates and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. How many? He asked in a grim voice.

Two hundred. One hundred in each box just like you asked. Ezekiel replied in a somber voice. He couldn’t believe this was happening…

"Excellent. Now that that is out of the way, we have business to attend to."

Ezekiel said nothing. He had a feeling about what was going to happen next. Bracing himself, he met the cold and empty stare of Dante.

You are aware, Ezekiel, about the laws of Umaric? Dante asked in a soft voice.

Yes, sir. Ezekiel stated in a clear voice. He had tried getting into Government afterall.

"And you are aware that the Council of Justice enforces these laws, correct?"

Yes, sir.

"Tell me then, why you seem so inclined to hand out justice everywhere you go?" Dante’s voice was sharp and piercing.

Ezekiel felt his body tense all over. He didn’t—he couldn’t explain why he did those things. Not without undergoing a rigorous investigation.

I do not hand out justice, sir. I merely keep people from abusing their power when one has not broken the law. Ezekiel’s voice was cool and neutral.

I see. But from Dante’s tone, he clearly did not see. That would be perfectly fine had each event been hidden from the public’s eye. Instead, you see fit to blindly jump in and save any poor soul who isn’t quick enough from Umaric law.

"You clearly don’t see, sir. I stand up for those who have not broken the law and yet still they are punished because an Officer has the means to do it. I’m keeping the innocent on the streets so the real crooks can get taken off."

Out of nowhere a man’s fist traveled through the air and punched Ezekiel square in the jaw. Ezekiel staggered back, eyes blazing. One of the men from the table tackled him to the ground and put him in a chokehold. Ezekiel slammed his head back and elbowed the man hard in the ribs. The man’s grip slackened and Ezekiel wriggled free, coming back to his feet with ease.

The three other men launched themselves at Ezekiel. Two of them pulled his arms behind his back, holding him in place while the other delivered blow after blow to Ezekiel’s stomach and ribcage.

Through the harsh ringing in his ears, Ezekiel heard Rell shout, That’s enough! It was then that Ezekiel realized Rell had not touched him.

The men let Ezekiel go and watched him stumble to his feet.

That was just a warning. Dante growled. Rell, escort him back home and make sure he does not cause any more trouble today.

Yes, sir.

Ezekiel felt Rell’s strong grip on his arm as he slowly led him outside the room and up into the main lobby of the Manor House. People stared as they walked across the magnificent room and made it outside.

Rell didn’t say anything until they were safely across the square. "How many times must I tell you? Be careful. It was a shock to me when I heard what they had planned for you."

I can’t just stand by and do nothing. Ezekiel growled in a thick voice full of pain.

"For Charity’s sake you can and you will. I overheard Hermin Zeal talking, and he wants her, Ezekiel. He wants Charity. Do whatever you feel necessary, just know that anything you do will come back and affect her." Rell’s voice didn’t have his normal arrogance to it. He sounded genuinely worried and pissed off.

Ezekiel studied his friend’s face as they silently made their way back to the Poor District. An idea had taken hold, and he wasn’t sure if Rell would approve or even consider it. After today’s incident, he knew that Umaric would not grant him any mercy. But Charity still had a chance.

Rell… Ezekiel’s voice was very soft to Rell’s surprise. "What if you asked for Charity’s hand in marriage?"

Rell stopped walking and stared dumbfounded at his friend. "You can’t be serious?"

Keep walking. Ezekiel snapped. "I am serious. It would protect her from—"

Rell put up a hand. Listen, Ezekiel. I understand that you want what’s best for Charity and I don’t think that it’s me. She still has a chance to fall in love, and I can’t and won’t take that away from her. And—

"You don’t understand, Rell! Ezekiel growled. The Umaric Council isn’t giving Charity a chance. Not after what they believe our parents did. After ransacking our home and leaving us for dead, the Umaric Council does not care what happens to us. I have to give Charity something. I’d rather her marry a man I can trust than leave her to the fate of men like Hermin Zeal." Ezekiel turned pleading eyes on his friend.

Rell’s resolve broke under Ezekiel’s pleading stare. He knew his friend; knew that Ezekiel never pleaded for anything. He thought of Charity. Her feather light brown hair, gentle jawline, and piercing gray eyes made her determined personality shine.

He had never entertained the idea of courting Charity. He wasn’t sure if she’d fall for someone like him. It took a lot of courage not to view him as dangerous or mad for what his occupation forced him to do. He hoped it would not matter.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he nodded. I must warn you now, Ezekiel. If Charity does not want me I shall not persevere. She must be the one to decide; not me. Rell could not read Ezekiel’s face.

I understand. You can start today. Ezekiel grinned at the shocked expression on Rell’s face.

Charity would be safe.

Anora

1

I am sitting between Mother and Father, Theo balanced on my knees. Our carriage jounces along the potholed streets of the Poor District, and I lean forward in my seat to look out the window. Wilfred, as well as Father’s friend and bodyguard, Chester, sits across from me; Wilfred is gazing up at the carriage ceiling, and Theo is playing happily with his newest toy. We are going to visit my sister Lena, who gave birth to her first child yesterday.

The excitement I felt at the thought of seeing the new baby has drained from me with the more interesting spectacle set forth by the Poor District. Mother and Father never travel this way, and it is forbidden for me to come here by myself. The driver had called it a shortcut when Chester had inquired suspiciously when we had changed routes. The driver has slowed to avoid breaking an axle or wheel in one of the many potholes, and now I can see the people more clearly. My brow furrows; they are so thin, so frail, their dingy clothing hanging in tatters from their limbs. I can suddenly hear the jeering, the insults that they are hurling at my family.

Zachariah, my Mother says pleadingly, her voice disturbed. A sharp ting resounds against the glass windowpane of our carriage. Then, it comes again, but swifter and harder this time, and the window shatters as the rock impacts. Mother shrieks and presses away from the window, shielding Theo with her body.

Wilfred looks up in surprise, and Father is bellowing orders at Chester, and I can hear him say, This was no shortcut! The driver has stopped the carriage now, and it is amassed among the many poor. Some stare into the windows at us as though we were some rare, inhuman species. Others glare with murderous looks in their eyes, and I feel my blood grow cold in my veins. There is not one kind face among them.

But wait—there! Just as I distantly hear the whistles of officers, and hear the commotion as they beat their way through the crowd to save us, I see a young man, his hair a mess of unruly coal-black curls, straining forward. His eyes, deep green like the velvet brocade my mother is wearing, are not angry or accusing. As I stare into those entrancing eyes, the only thing I can sense is pity. And then a brutish mar pulls open the carriage door, and the pleasant-faced stranger disappears.

Just as I yell, No! a shot from Chester’s pistol rings out. Its sudden loud bang forces its way through the shouts of the mars, and it stuns them to silence. Father pushes around Chester and jumps out of the carriage. The crowd shies away from him, and there is a hole around the body of the fallen mar, a dark red stain puddling on the front of his dirty shirt.

Keep them safe, Chester, Father orders his friend, and shoves the carriage door closed behind him. The sounds from outside the carriage are muffled, but I can still hear Father’s outraged voice. How dare you! he bellows. How dare you assault my family? Have you no decency?

Decency! a man protests belligerently. "What about our families? What gives you the right to parade your pretty little family through our district, showing off your finery and your full bellies, while our families live in dirt and rags and our children starve?"

I hear a scuffle, and I kneel on the carriage floor, daring to peek outside the corner of the window. Two officers have subdued the man who spoke back to my father, and they have forced him to his knees. He only sneers up at my father, though, whom I can see only a few feet away. He stands so bravely, so courageously, his head held high as he faces the mars who hate him, who have threatened his sense of security and the lives of his family.

Take this man into custody, my father haughtily orders the Officers. I will deal with him at the Manor House.

"You can ‘deal’ with me all you want, my lord, the man mocks my father. I stare in disbelief. How does the man have the courage to say such a thing to Chairman Zachariah Russell? But you can never silence what I stand for! Umaric has become nothing more than a shadow of what it once was, thanks to the likes of you!"

My father bears the insults steadfastly, and he does not flinch when one of his Officers clubs the man over the head with his bayonet. My father simply watches with a level gaze. He falls limp in the restraining holds of the Officers, and they begin to drag his body away. The rest of the mars are oddly quiet; they do not retaliate in any way. That is more unnerving to me than anything else. Why don’t they act to protect one of their own?

I hear more scuffling sounds and I watch as some of the Officers drag the driver in front of Father. And you, Father says, disdain and disappointment and betrayal clear in his voice. I trusted you—my family trusted you.

B-but, my lord, the driver says pleadingly. His cap has been knocked off, and his hair is mussed. I swear to you—I—I didn’t know this would happen!

A likely story, Father snaps. You should know you never could have gotten away with it.

Please, my lord! I have a family—children— he begs, his face a mask of terror. I do not understand until I see the glint of a pistol in my father’s hand. Suddenly, my stomach turns, and my hands begin to shake. My mother finally notices that I have been watching all along, and she pulls me roughly back to the seat next to her. I hear the bang as my father executes our driver, a man who has been in our family’s service since before I can remember. I see fear and disbelief cover Mother’s face, and her grip on my shoulder tightens. Theo begins crying softly.

My father barks harsh orders at the Officers, and then he briskly enters the carriage and takes his place next to me. But I do not feel that I know this man anymore—this man who is supposed to be my father.

The carriage takes off again, replaced by an Officer, and we leave the Poor District behind. But I feel in the pit of my stomach that our lives will never be the same.

*   *   *

Anora. The voice brings her from her reverie, and soon after she feels her brother’s hand on her shoulder. You’re daydreaming.

No, she says, turning her face from the open window before her. Just remembering.

She takes in the sight of her brother, dressed crisply in his uniform. She sees the stern expression on his face, the tell-tale sign of his displeasure of her speaking of the past. You look dashing, Wilfred, she says, turning back to the window. Her chamber windows overlook the garden, and, though it is dark and a fog clings to the atmosphere, she can make out the weeping willow in the distance. As she watches, a bird flees from its limbs. Not for the first time, she wishes she could simply fly away.

As I’m sure you will for the festivities this evening.

Anora stands from her chair and goes to her bed, a four-poster mahogany masterpiece. The canopy of ivory tulle, fit for royalty, sways with the small gust of air created by her movement.

You haven’t slept in your bed, Wilfred continues, scrutinizing the neatness of her bed linens.

An astute observation, Willy, she replies, perching on the edge of her bed. She meets his gaze.

Were you out all night? Anora’s older brother looks at her uneasily. Wilfred has known for many months that she sneaks out almost on a nightly bases. She is not quite sure why he has not told their parents, but she is too afraid to ask. Perhaps it is because Anora and Wilfred have always been close. Perhaps he knows that alerting their father to her nocturnal habits will turn the family upside down again.

I scarcely think it’s any of your business, she says sharply, cutting him an icy glare. Anora had indeed been out of her room, out of the Wealthy District itself. Unable to sleep, she had snuck out, her face shrouded beneath the hood of a cloak. She had not caused too much trouble, really, but she can hardly tell her brother any of that. He would be positively livid if he knew she had incapacitated three Officers and left them to sleep off their drunkenness in a wayside alley.

You are my sister, Anora, Wilfred snaps, his blue eyes shining in anger. Of course it is my business.

She exhales slowly, feeling her fists ball together in her frustration. But she knows not to push her brother any further. Today he will be high-strung enough without a fight between them.

Anora looks at Wilfred, who fills out his ceremonial uniform so nicely. The epaulettes gleam in the dim morning light that has begun to filter through the fog. This boy—this man—who used to carry her on his shoulders simply to make her laugh, is truly becoming an adult today. Her brother, not yet twenty-one, will obtain the honor of induction into the Umaric Council. Her brother, still a child really, so much younger than herself, will soon become a man of his own, marrying and leaving the house.

I am sorry, she says, softening her gaze. I did not mean to upset you. I am just tired, I suppose.

Perhaps you should consider that before you spend your nights wandering the streets alone, he says, his voice crackling with disapproval. He turns on his heel quickly and strides towards the door to her chamber, his freshly shined shoes clacking against the hardwood floor. Before he leaves, he pauses; not turning towards her, Wilfred says in a gentler tone, Mother says breakfast will be at a quarter past.

Anora sighs and says, All right. She watches as he exits her room. She stands from her bed and and glances out the window once more.

*   *   *

The way her family quiets as she descends the stairs is neither strange nor troubling to Anora. It is not for the first time that she has been made a topic of conversation. They are seated around the elaborate oak breakfast table, a delicate lace tablecloth laid atop it. The porcelain china tinkles softly as polished silverware gently grazes it. An extensive array of pastries and delectable breakfast foods crowd the middle of the table, and her family is seated picturesquely around the it, sitting primly upon intricately adorned chairs.

So nice of you to join us this morning, daughter, Zachariah Russell says, not bothering to look up from his morning paper. Anora does not mind; she hates the way her father’s electric blue eyes bore into her, seizing upon her every flaw. Her lateness is simply one of many.

Seated next to her father, Anora’s mother sits docilely, subtly nibbling her breakfast. Her chestnut hair is secured in an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, and her dress is immaculately pressed. Margaret Russell has always been one for appearances. Please sit, Anora, her mother says pleasantly. But Anora knows that beneath the gentility, her mother’s tranquil front is simply that: an act. She would never reprimand Anora in front of Zachariah. For one thing, it would disrupt the perfection of breakfast time in the Russell household that the patriarch was entitled to. For another, if Zachariah was present, it was his job to chastise the children.

Yes, her lecture would come later—no doubt for ruining the magnificence of her brother’s most important day with her lack of punctuality, and for showing her impudence in front of her brother-in-law—her mother pacing up and down, nearly unable to control her disdain and rage, her shoes clicking across the floor before Anora, going over again how it was a young woman’s duty to be polite, respectful, and above all, obedient. And Anora would sit quietly, not looking at her mother’s face, but at the way in which she carried herself, so haughtily and proudly, as her resentment for her family and her country grew exponentially.

Here, sister, Lena, Anora’s sister, says imploringly, motioning with her well-manicured hand to the open chair beside her. Anora grudgingly sits beside her sister, who is dressed in her usual silken finery. Anora notices that Lena has not taken more than three bites of the food on her plate, and Anora fills her own plate with several pastries and sausages, feeling her own appetite surge at the scarcity of food on her sister’s plate.

As she reaches to the center of the table to retrieve a biscuit, she catches her younger brother’s, Theodore’s, eye. He is only ten, but he already feels the weight of his father’s expectations. Anora knows the feeling well. Before she fell out of his graces, Zachariah had held Anora in the highest esteem. She had been the favorite.

Theo is everyone’s favorite, but despite this, he is timid and shy. Anora winks at him, and she is rewarded with his smile.

You will ruin your figure with that garbage, Lena hisses.

I am not the one who needs to lose weight from childbirth, Lena, Anora says, only loud enough for her older sister to hear. She knows it is hurtful and uncalled for, but she is tired and Lena is grating on her nerves. Perhaps you should take your own advice.

Anora is rewarded with her sister’s sharp intake of breath at the insult, and Lena’s reply, "It would not have killed you to wear something besides those rags. You look like an urchin," makes Anora want to laugh. Lena had never been the wittiest of girls, and she had not changed since her marriage.

You are no doubt excited for the ball tonight, Anora, Lena’s husband says. There will be many eligible gentlemen there. Perhaps you should consider some of them to court. You are nineteen now.

Thank you for the reminder, Charles, Anora says complacently. But I am not interested in throwing myself at the feet of men who have no value for me other than my prestigious name. It would probably be a nasty trick to play in any case. I am sure they would get much more than they bargained for with me, wouldn’t you agree?

Anora’s voice grows in hostility as she speaks, and she sees color cloud Charles’s cheekbones. She feels a moment of remorse; after all, he is not a bad fellow, other than the fact that he is a chairman of the Council of Marriage. But as such, he constantly reminds Anora that in two short years, she will be forced into marriage—she is already at the age at which most girls in her class are married—and it irks her.

Enough! Zachariah explodes. His newspaper discarded, he stands, knocking his chair backwards onto the floor. The room quiets, and even the servants cease moving. Zachariah’s figure is powerful and commanding. Pride and entitlement glitter in his cold blue eyes, which fixate on Anora, attempting to pin her in place. This is a special day for your brother. A special day for us all. And I will not allow you to make a mockery out of it or out of this family again. Do you understand?

Anora levels her head, and reciprocates her father’s stare. She knows that this infuriates him even more, but she wants him to know that she does not fear him. And she does not respect him. She knows what Chairman Zachariah Russell is capable of. Perfectly, Father, she says crisply.

Anger crackles in Zachariah’s eyes, Perhaps you should spend the day preparing yourself to meet your possible suitors, daughter, he says evenly. In your chambers.

Confine me wherever you like, Anora says, standing herself. She sees the shock wash over her father’s face, and she hears her mother’s intake of breath at her defiance. But you know that you cannot keep me there.

Anora, Wilfred whispers. She sees her brother in the corner of her eye, his face a mask of horror. Please.

She feels her anger begin to subside. As her father had said, it is Wilfred’s day, no matter how much Anora resents it. But I shall go anyway, she says. At any rate, I like my own company much more.

Anora breaks her gaze with her father, and she leaves the breakfast room, feeling their eyes on her back.

*   *   *

Anora stares out her chamber window. People walk amid the polished marble streets; there are the wealthy in all their finery, going about last minute errands in preparation for the ceremony. And there are the poor, scuttling about to their daily tasks, their clothes shabby and worn in comparison to the residents of the Wealthy District.

She sighs, holding her palm to the windowpane as she watches a young man stiffly hurry across the sidewalk in front of her house. His shoulders are hunched against the wind and his dark hair flutters wildly in the breeze, but he seems to easily carry the crates in his arms as he goes along. He glances over his shoulder, up at the house, and Anora feels ice run through her veins.

Ezekiel Thoris, she thinks, though whether it is in fear or anger, she cannot say.

It has been years since she has even thought of him, but seeing him brings unwanted memories to her mind all the same. He had been an unwelcome part of her past, and she wanted him to stay that way. Anora feels her face blanche, and she backs away from the window. Ezekiel’s figure blends into the crowd and disappears.

A knock at her door startles Anora. She turns to find Elise, one of the housemaids. Her white apron crisply starched and starkly bright against her black frock, Elise’s fine blonde hair is neatly confined beneath her cap. She is a small woman, but Anora has often seen glimpses of the maid’s fierceness battling against social propriety.

Now, however, Elise curtsies politely, averting her eyes from Anora. Anora’s stubbornness and high spiritedness do not escape the servants, and they are nearly as careful now with her as they are with Zachariah. I’m to help you bathe, ma’am, Elise says.

I am capable of bathing myself, Elise, Anora says, unable to keep a sharp note from entering her voice. She deplores the way in which so many submit to the will of her father, to the very system Umaric is built upon. And she hates that she is at its privileged epicenter.

Perhaps, ma’am, Elise says. She lets her gaze slide to level with Anora for a fraction of a second before focusing her eyes on the ground again. But it is my job to see that you are gotten ready for tonight, and we both know that is no small task. So if you’d please just make this easier on the both of us. Ma’am.

Anora is slightly taken aback at—and impressed by—Elise’s speech. There again is the glimmering promise of resistance she had witnessed before in Elise, the sort of strength she wishes others of Elise’s station possessed.

Anora walks away from the window and behind the dressing screen. There really is no use arguing with Elise about it; she could hear the obstinate set of Elise’s voice, and besides, Anora’s opposition would only cause problems for Elise with her parents. And really, there was no way Anora’s appearance would meet the qualifications set forth by her family and society in general without Elise’s help.

Anora begins unbuttoning her frock. The buttons, small and covered with coarse brown cloth, wisp across her fingertips, and she hears Elise begin running her bath in the small porcelain tub.

Doesn’t it bother you, Elise? Anora asks as she lets her frock slip around her ankles.

Doesn’t what bother me, ma’am?

Having to deal with me, Anora continues. She slips into the silk bathrobe and cinches it around her waist, walking out from behind the screen and towards the tub. She is met with Elise’s confused look and furrowed brow. Or anyone, really. To take orders without question from people who are only different than you because of their birth. How can you stand it?

For a moment, Anora thinks that Elise will open up to her, to share what she actually thinks, rather than spouting the garbage the government has circulated: Obedience is the key to success. It makes Anora’s blood run hotter simply thinking it. But Elise’s face closes up, and she looks away from Anora, saying, It is my privilege to work for this family, ma’am.

Anora sighs in defeat, removes her robe, and sits in the soapy bathwater as Elise bustles around her room, preparing this and setting out that. She watches as the maid presses Anora’s elaborate gown—an elegantly cut emerald silken masterpiece. It is the first time Anora has seen it. Her mother, no doubt, had ordered the dress made in Anora’s size weeks prior.

She stares at her feet, knowing that soon they will be bound in shoes dyed to match the dress, her hair pulled painfully from her scalp into an arrangement adorned with pearls or flowers and the family’s emerald jewelry hanging from her body like the mark of a cattleman, branding her as a Russell. Though of course everyone knows she is a Russell and has for years, except for a few of her…acquaintances…in the Poor District.

As she thinks of the endless hours of small talk, of pleasantries, of idle praises of Umaric, that she will endure along with the physical torments of being a woman, she sighs. She would do her best to not ruin Wilfred’s day. She had made a promise to herself on his behalf, as well as a vow made to another that prohibited her from endangering herself in any way by speaking of her true thoughts and opinions.

The door to her bedchamber opens once more, and Anora hears the tell-tale signs of her mother’s shoes as she crosses the space between them. Her mother’s face is a mask of anger, and her hands are wrung as an outlet for her fury. But Anora cannot resist saying, Really, Mother, must you come to chastise me when I am helplessly confined to the tub?

That is enough, Margaret Russell says pointedly. Elise, you may leave us.

Elise curtsies, and she hurriedly leaves Anora’s chambers, silently closing the door behind her.

Where do I begin, Anora, her mother says, and her pacing starts. "You disappear for hours—sometimes entire nights to who knows where. You have a blatant disregard for your father, as well as my, orders. You were selfish enough to quarrel with him today of all days. Do you have no consideration for anyone but yourself? For anyone’s feelings but your own? Does none of this cross your mind?"

Need I remind you of a time when you and— Anora begins quietly.

"Don’t you dare bring that up, young lady, if one can indeed even call you that, Margaret spits. You know that is an entirely different matter, and it does not give you the right to act as you have!"

An entirely different matter? Anora explodes. She stands despite her nudity, feeling rivulets of water run down her body. Because it involved the precious Russell reputation, you mean, she spits, venom in her words. We both know very well how shallow the honor runs in this family, Mother.

Fast as lightning, her mother darts forward and slaps Anora, and she immediately feels her cheek begin to sting. Margaret looks shocked at her action for a moment, but then she says, "Do not ever speak of us that way again," before turning on her heel and striding from the room.

And though Anora can feel her eyes begin to burn, and her chest begin to radiate with unadulterated pain, she says in a steady voice to her mother’s back, "I will never forgive you for what you did, Mother, as long as I live. I hope you know that."

Her mother stops for only a moment, her back stiff, but she recovers quickly and hurries away. But once the door has closed and Anora is sure her mother will not hear, she feels her anger subside, her strength diminish, and she sinks back into the tub and begins to cry. Her tears fall freely and mingle with the water, and she feels her body shake with her sobs.

For so long she has forced her weeping back inside, stuffed it away with the rest of her pain, that now there is no way for her to control herself. For more than two years, she has been a stranger among her own family, completely alone. When she saw them for who they truly were, she could feel no more love for them.

She rests her head against the side of the tub, allowing herself to remember and to weep for the past, for all that she had lost.

The door opens again, and then closes quietly, but try as she might, Anora cannot make the tears cease. Through her blurred eyes, Anora sees shabby, though neatly polished shoes come to a stop before the tub. She looks up into Elise’s pitying face. Handing Anora a towel, she says kindly, There now, ma’am. You shouldn’t let your mother get the best of you. She loves you, after all. More than you know, I’m sure. But you mustn’t let them know that you’ve been crying. You’ve got your reputation to uphold, after all.

Elise speaks lightly, and Anora smiles through her tears, thinking that maybe she has finally found an understanding friend afterall.

Ezekiel

2

A person cannot change the past—only dwell upon it. It is unacceptable to remember the past yet it is the only thing keeping me sane. Without it, who would I be? What would I have become? I shall continue to remember because I do not wish to forget. I do not wish to forget who I am.

As they neared Ezekiel’s tiny, one bedroom house, which he had purchased after he turned fifteen and was able to take on an occupation, they spotted a broad, dark haired man banging on the door.

Hermin Zeal. Rell muttered in annoyance.

Both picked up their pace as the door slowly opened and Charity’s sweet face looked out at this handsome stranger. There was caution in her eyes, Ezekiel was happy to see.

Hermin leaned an arm against the doorframe and leaned closer to Charity. He said something to her which caused her eyes to widen and take a step back. Hermin leaned closer and extended a hand to her…

Ezekiel clapped a hand on Hermin’s shoulder, making him jump. Pray tell me, what is your intended business here? His voice held sharp disapproval.

Hermin smiled slyly. "I was inquiring if you were at home, sir." Humor lined his face.

Seeing as how you showed me into the Manor House that should not have been a question you needed to ask. Ezekiel stated in a hard tone.

"One cannot be too certain. Hermin’s eyes glittered. Careful, Thoris." Hermin bowed to Charity then turned and walked away, disappearing in the hustle and bustle of early evening.

Once they were safely inside, Ezekiel demanded to know what Hermin wanted.

Charity’s face flushed but her eyes did not waver from her brother’s. "He introduced himself then asked for my hand in marriage. Of all the odious things out there he asked me that. He cannot expect a well-to-do girl to accept a complete and total stranger." Charity was extremely outraged. She stood in agitation and strode to look out the window, her