Two Worlds Apart

CHAPTER I - CHEVERIE

Cheverie stands at the enormous window of her room, staring out at the city stretching beneath her. It's a view she knows by heart: glass buildings as far as her eyes can see, their sleek edges catching the sun, reflecting beams of light that look almost like stars from up here. Far below, people in dark, pressed suits weave through the streets, their footsteps soundless behind thick glass, their expressions still and tight.

"Cheverie, please step away from the window."
Her mother's voice is smooth, as refined as everything else in the Upper Slate. Cheverie flinches and takes a quick, deep breath, smoothing down the pleats of her dress before she turns. "Yes, Mother," she says, smiling as though she hadn't been lingering too long by the glass.

She always smiles. It's something she's practiced, like her penmanship and her posture. Her mother says it's important for girls in the Upper Slate to smile just right, so that they look happy and well-mannered, but never careless.

Mother is holding her tablet, scrolling through something important. Without lifting her gaze, she says, "Your tutors have updated me on your progress. They say you've improved in mathematics, though I'd still like to see perfect scores across the board."

Cheverie nods. "Yes, Mother. I'll keep studying." She forces her smile to stay in place, even as her stomach twists. Perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect manners - sometimes it feels like she's a porcelain doll, set up on a shelf, polished and admired but never quite allowed to move freely.

"Good." Her mother finally looks up, her expression softening by the smallest degree. "If you perform well this month, I'll allow you one treat from the confectioner's. But only if your performance merits it."

The thought of sweets, the thick and honeyed kind she loves, sends a spark of excitement through her. But it's quickly swallowed up by the weight of her mother's expectations, by the knowledge that even a single wrong answer could strip the reward away. "Thank you, Mother. I'll do my best."

Her mother's gaze hardens slightly. "Your best should mean perfection, Cheverie."

She nods again, biting her lip. "Yes, Mother. I understand."

Her mother strides out of the room, leaving her alone. Cheverie's hands unclench, her shoulders slumping the second she's left to herself. She glances around her room - pristine and elegant, decorated in soft silver and white, everything perfectly in its place. There are no crayons scattered on her desk, no bits of paper from her drawings. Everything is spotless, untouched, as if it doesn't really belong to her at all.

She edges back to the window, pressing her face close to the glass, close enough that her breath fogs a tiny circle. From here, she can almost see the edge of the border where the Upper Slate meets the Dark Slate. She's heard so much about that place, about how different it is, how the people there are careless and crude, loud and dangerous.

"People from the Dark Slate are unrefined," her tutor says, her voice repeating in Cheverie's mind. "They don't care about order or decency. They're content with filth, and they cause trouble simply for the thrill of it."

But sometimes, Cheverie wonders if that's true. From up here, she can see a patchwork of warm lights, colors that look so alive, so free, a stark contrast to the cool, controlled silver and blue of her own world. Once, she overheard her father tell someone at a dinner party that people in the Dark Slate waste their lives singing and dancing, laughing in the streets. He had said it with a curl to his lips, as if those were terrible things, but Cheverie had felt something stir in her chest - a small, unfamiliar spark of longing.

What must it feel like to laugh loudly, to move without worrying about each little step, each little word? She tries to imagine it, to picture herself laughing with no restraint, dancing without being perfect. It feels as far away as the stars.