Chapter One
Adrian
“And they built for them a place of order, classes built one on top of the other, families of old honored with marble and gold, dissidents shamed with wood and stone. Yet, one need not suffer endlessly for the sins of their ancestors. Indeed, it is only in facing tribulation that one finds salvation.”
Ihissed as I slammed my shoulder into the broad wooden door at the bottom of the stairs. I rubbed the soon-to-be bruise already prickling my skin before bounding up the steps two at a time to the fourth floor.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered. “I’m late. I’m so late.”
I rounded the corner at a brisk pace and almost stumbled over Rosemary Marin’s fat orange tabby. He’d settled into the singular sunbeam from the one window in the dark, crumbling stairwell and had the audacity to stretch with a soft purr instead of getting out of my way.
I half-jogged through the narrow corridor, shifting the shirt I was holding into one hand while the other plunged into my pocket for my keys.
I yanked them out as I reached the door to 401B only to fumble with them in the dark whilst uttering a string of profanities that had Mr. Stone from down the hall loudly clearing his throat.
Of course the nosy neighbor would peek his head out into the hall to see what all the commotion was about.
Ignoring the elderly grouch, I pushed into my apartment and darted to my room as the front door crashed shut behind me.
“You’re going to be late,” Darius warned from the living room.
I threw a middle finger over my shoulder just as the bedroom swallowed me.
My best friend’s bright, booming laugh vibrated through the shoddy walls of the living room.
I closed my door and reached for the ludicrously tight black skirt and blazer combination I’d set out on my bed that morning, already pulling on the shirt clamped in my hand—the reason I was running late.
I found a set of sheer tights and my black leather pumps after a bit of haphazard searching.
Blowing loose strands of hazel curls from my face, I quickly undressed and bent over to roll on the tights.
The white dress shirt I’d carried all the way from my family’s apartment was in desperate need of ironing but I hid the excessive creases by tucking the tail into my skirt and buttoning my blazer so only the slightly bent collar peeked out at my neckline.
I slid my feet into the pumps and grabbed a few bobby pins from the container by the door, already wrestling my hair into some semblance of an elegant updo as I strode back into the living room.
“Things ran long with your mom again?” Darius asked from further into the shared space, somewhere near the kitchen. “I thought you were just stopping by for your shirt.”
“More like Maurice.” I made my way toward him and gestured at the shirt in question, tucked beneath my blazer. My mother’s precise stitches ran up the right-side seam where I’d ripped through the thin fabric during my last shift. “I swear my brother thinks it’s his job to make me late—”
I cut myself off with a low whistle. Darius rolled his eyes and lifted the beer bottle he’d been removing from the refrigerator to his lips.
He took a sip and leaned back against the counter.
On a good day, my best friend wore one of the few t-shirts he owned that didn’t have holes and a pair of faded jeans in the same state.
I looked him up and down with a raised brow and a mischievous grin and whistled again.
“Alright, enough,” he groaned, waving me off.
I beamed while continuing to pin my hair.
I’d never seen Darius in a suit before. It was cut to his lean form, obviously tailored to stretch to his full height, a whole towering foot over my head. He frowned as he looked down at the black fabric, his sapphire eyes dimming and his coiffed red hair flopping forward.
“Don’t forget us little guys when you make it big, Reed.” I shot him a wink as I finished fiddling with my hair, then reached down to adjust my heels.
“If Dahlia moves up, I’ll still stay here with you,” he promised, not for the first time.
“If your gods-blessed sister passes the fourth Trial, I’ll move up to the Second Ring with you,” I countered with a mocking grin.
“They’d never let you unless we were married.”
“Is that a proposal, Darius?”
“Not on your life, Adrian.”
He reached out and tousled my precariously pinned hair with calloused knuckles. I growled and gnashed my teeth as he passed, chuckling, into the living room.
Adjusting my hair once more, I headed back toward the door.
“Will I see you tonight?” he called out as I gripped the handle.
It was a simple enough question but apprehension lined his tone. I swallowed and plastered on my best wicked grin before turning to face my best friend. He stood halfway between me and the living room, hands in his pockets.
“If you’re lucky, Reed.”
His answering laughter followed me out into the hallway.
I sprinted down the stairs and shoved through the wooden door at the bottom. The street was flooded with throngs of Third Ringers either returning from or heading to work for the next shift. I straightened my collar and slipped into the fray.
My feet ached by the time I reached the eastern gate and joined the queue waiting to be granted access to the upper levels for their duties of servitude.
The guards at the base of the stairs that led up to the Second Ring were stoic and solemn faced as they checked the identification of each Lower Ringer seeking access to the unrestricted luxury above.
“Name?” the guard grunted as I approached.
“Adrian Bexley, Third Ringer, for House Valin.”
He glanced down at the book in his hands, eyes scanning it in a bored fashion.
“Move along.”
I shuffled on, allowing myself to be herded into the Second Ring with the rest of those deemed tolerable enough to serve the elite.
Looking around at the night’s crowd, I spotted a Decker wiping his nose with the front of his shirt, adding to an already impressive grouping of smudges and stains.
Either the party was set to be substantial or more Third Ringers than I had expected had decided to take the night off in preparation for what was coming in the morning.
Sanctuary was a walled city divided into three concentric circles known as the Rings which towered over a twelve-sided field derisively referred to as the Deck.
Littered across the Deck were the hastily constructed and increasingly precarious homes of Sanctuary’s poorest inhabitants.
As societal outcasts, the Deckers grouped together in small communities, subsisting on the mercies of the church and the humanitarian inclinations of any Upper Ringer that dared to venture so far down.
They spent most of their days begging for work and doing their best to survive when they couldn’t get it.
Directly above the Deck was my ring, the Third Ring.
As the most populous region of Sanctuary by far, we pitied the Deckers from a distance even though we weren’t much better off.
As Third Ringers, we had one distinct advantage: proximity.
Living closer to the upper rings meant that the wealthy didn’t have to stoop so far to compensate us for our labors.
Instead, we received food and occasional luxuries that could be traded in the markets in exchange for our efforts.
Working when we could and starving when we couldn’t made life difficult but not unbearable.
At least it wasn’t a constant fight for survival like on the Deck.
The Second Ring, rising from the center of my own, encompassed the residences of the five minor houses and some others that had been lucky enough to advance that far. It was the ring that gave out the most work and housed the residence of my employer, the House of Valin.
Bathing all of us in its shadow, however, was the First Ring.
Whether its construction was a pious attempt at communion with the gods or a defiant specimen of human achievement, I didn’t know.
A towering monument of gleaming white marble which doubled as a temple in its center, the First Ring contained only the three original major houses, their descendants, and the order of the priesthood.
Only the best served there. I’d never been there myself, but I’d heard rumors they sometimes hired Second Ringers.
Making my way deeper into the Second Ring, I turned right, stepping carefully on the cobbled roads.
As I passed, I couldn’t help but admire the rows of immaculate estates carved into the stone of the ring itself.
The ornate slate marble structures erected millennia ago to accommodate the minor houses were a marvel, no matter how many times I passed them.
First came the House of Harlowe which stretched three times farther than any of the others.
The newer houses mimicked its design, though smaller and built using brick instead of marble.
Rumors claimed its mass was due to the amount of books held within.
Veritable libraries full of forgotten knowledge and ancient secrets dating back to the founding of Sanctuary.
Libraries that Saint Harlowe’s descendants had kept to themselves over the years, if they were even real.
Not that it mattered. Reading was a luxury afforded only to the wealthy.