No doubt you’ve heard of me from my vast collection of romance novels that have been making the rounds for the last few years. If you haven’t, you should definitely pick those up, they’re exquisite. The Wilted Machine is my own favorite.

But you’re not here for romance fiction, are you? No, you picked up this particular book because you heard I’m making a foray into romanticized fact; that my books are about to become a lot more action-packed. And that’s true. Oh, how true it is.

You see, because of my enormous talent, I was selected to be the first candidate in a new journalistic program. I, Belkan Candor, of tremendous fame and talent, am about to become an embedded journalist with the Keepers of Tiers, perhaps the most brutal city in all the civilized galaxy. And not just any group of Keepers, mind you, but the First Cell, the ones assigned to the topmost level of society.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. There you sit, all cozy in front of a warm fireplace back on Garden, wondering what in the Lady’s name I’m talking about. “Oh, Belkan,” you ask breathlessly, no doubt clutching this book to your bosom, “tell me about this dangerous place they’re sending our literary hero. Promise me you won’t be in danger. We can’t lose your artistic genius!”

Very well. Allow me to share a bit about the city of Tiers. Be warned, the following are snippets I’ve witnessed here myself on my travels, and are not for the faint of heart.

At this very moment, a man is being robbed. His jaw is broken with a mace and his feet are kicked out from under him. The robbers slam him to the pavement, breaking his neck. No one responds to the snapping of bones, because all the doors and windows on the street are closed and shuttered tight. One boy, almost a man and huddling with his family in their kitchen, decides to do something about it, but his father clamps a hand over the boy’s mouth and holds him, rocking, in silence.

A young woman sits in a doorway with her knees drawn up. Under the dirt, her face is beautiful, all eyes. She reaches out a hand to every man who happens by, but no one is willing to pay today. Her stomach growls. Her hair falls forward to cover her face, and she sighs to herself. She’s going to have to trade it for a place to sleep tonight. Again.

Two ladies sit in front of their marble fireplace, dining from silver plates held by servants. The manor around them echoes with heavy footsteps, scraping chair legs, feigned laughter. The other servants have been instructed to walk through the rooms and engage in conversation, any conversation, to make it seem there’s a large family still living in the residence. It’s been so quiet since the deaths.