Zane Atlas spat on mornings.
They were noisy, arrogant things—shoving sunlight in his face like the world still had something worth seeing.
He had stopped believing that a long time ago.
Zane stood at the far end of the Gutterborn line, waiting for his turn.
A long line of wretched, miserable gutterborns, as the Halocrats called them.
Zane was outside the Ironhalo Citadel, a grand slab of white marble pretending to be holy. The line was so long that he wasn't even inside the citadel yet.
Zane took in the scenery with his squinted eyes and wrinkled nose. The place smelled of vomit and rotten blood.
The rich rolled in from everywhere. Chariots. Horses. Even floating mounts with attendants trailing behind like pets. Halocrats from far-off cities, all gathering here like the Citadel belonged only to them.
Their clothes shimmered. Their skin glowed. Zane's eyes hurt looking at them.
Beside the line of Gutterborns, a smaller line of Commoners waited. They didn't share the same notion as Zane.
They stared at the Citadel with stars in their eyes and looked at the Halocrats the way kids look at stage heroes.
Zane shook his head.
They are just gilded trash. And you all are cowards.
The Halocrats walked past the lines, far away from people like Zane, paid the fee of ten Paper Lumens, received tokens for their turn and got an easier entry inside the Citadel. They didn't spare a glance at the people who were worshipping them.
Zane's gaze then caught the banners strangling the Citadel walls. White cloth everywhere, ripped by the wind. In the middle, an orange sun glared down like an eye that never blinked. Under it, the words screamed the same thing over and over:
THE GLORY ORDER.
The church.
They said the First Flame—as they would like to call the sun—kept the rifts from tearing the sky apart, and that the Flame was shrinking. Pray harder or watch the world rot. Simple bargain. Brutal worshipping.
People knelt for different reasons. Some believed. Some feared. Some wanted to be seen believing.
Zane? He prayed the way you tip a guard. Just enough to avoid trouble.
Enforcers and Discipline Sentinels prowled around the Citadel, boots clicking, eyes hungry, reminding everyone exactly where they belonged.
"Are you excited?"
Zane snapped out of his thoughts.
The man standing in front of him asked a question.
Oversized tunic, wide pants with a drawstring instead of a belt around the thin waist to keep the pants from falling off. For a moment Zane thought the man had no feet.
Then he noticed the pants dragging over them. The man was a gutterborn just like Zane. The same type of clothes and starving physique, Zane also had them. Except the drawstring and vanished feet. Zane's pants fit him.
The man scanned Zane as well but with a smile on his face, unlike Zane.
"Are you excited?" the man repeated.
I heard you the first time.
Zane sighed. "It's too early to talk. Try again later."
"Huh? You don't talk in the mornings?"
Zane rolled his eyes. "Look, I have sacrificed my one day's pay for coming here. I am really not in the mood to talk."
The man scowled. "So did I. But I am not biting like you. In fact, I am in a great mood."
"Great mood? For what?" Zane snapped. "Standing in a line for hours just to touch a brick vomited out of the sky—"
Zane stopped.
The corner of his eyes caught something coming.
And before he knew it…
THUD!
He got hit by a cold metallic object.
His nose burned and right away, blood poured out like a faucet turned full.
But no hand reached out for Zane as the gutterborns hung their heads low as if looking up would be an offence worth death.
Zane held his nose afraid it would fall off with the blood. Shame burned hotter than the pain. He bowed, not because he respected what was coming, but because he wanted to live.
Angry, amused footsteps came towards the line of the Gutterborns and it didn't help Zane's thumping heart, knowing those footsteps were directed towards him.
No Gutterborns dared to look towards that direction and a shadow stopped in front of Zane.
Zane only stared at the shadow of a towering man, holding a whip. The shadow itself conveyed cruelty, and Zane could only hope he returned to his home alive.
The shadow reached out its hand.
"Pick it up." The man with the whip spoke and the Gutterborns felt that his voice had teeth.
Zane wasted no time and wiped his palms and picked up that metallic baton, the same thing that decorated his nose and the ground beneath him with red.
Zane handed the man the baton, but the man didn't take it.
"Clean it first. I don't want your blood on it."
Zane curled his toes inside his shoes.
If you don't want my blood on it then why did you hit me in the first place?
But Zane knew better to not say that out loud so he did what the man had asked.
He held his tunic and brought the baton closer.
But…
"I don't want your gutter clothes wrapped around something I would touch often."
Zane bit his lip and with trembling tongue, he uttered:
"Then?"
SNAP!
The man unleashed his whip on Zane's bent back and grinned.
"Use your mouth."