A City Divided

Prologue

In the middle of the desert which spans the eastern regions, an unmoving point in the waves of sand and the countless caravan trails, is a city. It thrives in this land of barrenness, though none could tell you how. In a place such as this, it almost seems best not to question the Gods' decisions. Indeed, though strange, the oasis city is a blessing.

At the edge of the city is a towering gate of diamond. It catches the glaring sunlight and twists it into soft beams of different colours, studded with dust motes like diamonds on a satin dress, dappling the ground with rainbows. Walking in, the smell of spices is unmistakeable, but it is quickly joined by scents of all manner; rich, sweet, fresh and strong. Cobbled streets run through the city, carefully planned out to spread the cool air. In the centre, past the marble buildings with their rooves of agate, their windows of crystal and elegant balcony gardens, is the market where foreign merchants, clothed in vibrant tunics and turbans, sell their wares: clothing of all colours and materials; fragrant perfumes in delicate bottles; ancient books; graceful writing pens; elaborate ornaments and many more beautiful oddities. Voices call out in all languages, chimes ring, and somewhere across the square a busker is fiddling. If you listen closely enough, you may even hear it faintly, far off.

Does this seem like a paradise to you? It may well do. A trick of the light, no more. Just wait until dusk settles like a graceful but suffocating fall of snow onto the desert.

The city turns evil at night.

Smiling statues become leering villains, released from the enchantment that keeps them presentable during daylight. Overweight, amiable pigeons make themselves scarce, anticipating the arrival of the ravens that force their way into the bolted market stalls to extract meagre crumbs of stale bread. Malnourished strays stalk the shadows, lurking in alleyways. Vanished are the perfect citizens, gone is the façade of virtue, and onto this stage enter the outlaws. Cutthroats, body-snatchers, kidnappers, bounty-hunters, the like. They emerge from the gloom like worms from the apple that is the city. Some are not from this country. Many are not from this world. But they have one thing in common; their destination. They approach as a body, towards the man-hole covers. For below the city, unbeknown to all who have never been on the wrong side of the law, is a whole new metropolis.

And what is this labyrinthine network like? 'As above, so below.' I hear you venture, still holding tight to your fragile beliefs. But I am the narrator of this dark tale, and you are the reader; just as well, for I know all the secrets of this world that you could never imagine.

The Underworld, as it is so charmingly nicknamed, is a haven.

Not for the likes of the Overs, though. One is more likely to be stabbed in the back than given a fair deal. Exquisite murals are painted in blood on the walls of the tunnels and the stone floors. But how safe it is compared to the Overworld. There are no Wanted posters plastered up, to be constantly checked against. No King's Soldiers ride in to capture you; their powdered noses are unable to stand the stench of urine. Light spools out of pubs like silk, along with songs so rich with colour that your well-to-do ears would shrivel up and fall off after hearing but one verse.

A story started here. Of course, hundreds of stories have started here. But this one is special in that it is the one told in these very pages. Have you yet decided whether or not you will continue reading? It makes no difference to me. I will keep relating the events of this time, no matter if no one cares to give it a second glance. I am not an Over author, who writes for money and the pleasure of moving up in society whilst smiling patronisingly at those who belong beneath them. I will write for my own reasons and I'll thank you not to pry, for it would be terribly Over of you.

We start on a night like any other. Brawls were executed with drunken ease, the usual round of songs were chanted rowdily, tankards were refilled again and again in a clockwork motion. But there was a new criminal in the midst of the outlaws who knew the Underworld better than they knew the rewards for their own captures. He was Kuyunlu, and he was here not to drink away his life sentence, but to deliver a letter upon which this story depended.

And so he did not stay at the pub through to the small hours of the night. He drank, he dropped a few coins on the table, and he left, his dark cloak billowing out behind him like a thundercloud, an omen.

Only one person in the pub saw him for what he was; a messenger. Soon after he left, a girl stepped past the drunk slumped on the table and collected the money he had placed next to his empty tankard. The pub didn't need it, she reasoned. But on the seat where he had been just moments ago, there was a folded sheet of parchment. In dark ink on the front it was addressed to The Unders. Strange, she thought, that a single letter could be for so many people. She was an Under. This thought pleased the girl, who was named Aaliyah if you had wondered. She had never been sent a letter. Quickly, she unfolded it.

Aaliyah screamed, all of her previous cheerfulness forgotten, and dropped the letter to the floor as if it were poisoned. On its rough surface was written, in rushed, spidery writing:

The King is dead. They are coming. Get out.