Page 17 of The Order: Rise of the New Empire

Unlike the chips used in New Haven, the Precipice's citizens all wear films over their eyes. They are thin lenses meant to keep track of every citizen, giving each citizen a direct look into the social status of their peers. As helpful as it is to have a constant reminder of where you rank amongst these people, the film can turn deadly, breaching the mind through the eyes, activatingcode with something as simple as a verbal command, rather than the Re-Regulation Devices we see back home.

Along with the films, Veils, as they call them, their Marked are advanced, -like marks coating their skin, making them a sight for sore eyes if spotted in public. Due to the varying climates across the continent caused by the fallout of war, Marked took on varying traits, some harboring scars like my people, others decorated with dark swirls, sticking out in ways that would have gotten me killed well before I reached my first year at the academy.

Shackled and bound, the few Marked allowed to live in the Precipice are used as crowd control. Mind-numbingly subservient, each one was forced to participate in a lobotomy well before they had found the drive to fight.

Dragging along as empty shells, they hastily dictate the crowd, making a clear path for our vehicle. Elyon's eyes are observantly looking over the city.

I know he wishes he could lay claim to it.

"Jealous?" I question, knowing his answer well before he has spoken.

Despite his ability to hide what he is thinking, some of his larger emotions seem to stay plastered across his expression.

"Jealous? Of this?" he questions, unable to hide his envy. "Perhaps I have failed to industrialize New Haven as much as I would have liked."

Cold and bitter, he remains closed off. He keeps a safe distance from me despite the blood we share.

The past nine months have been nothing short of hell.

Bending at Elyon's every whim, day in and day out, I awake to a new form of mental torture, ready to submit to the man's every word.

Barely able to keep down food, I force down my meals with him. My room is uncomfortably empty. The cold hallways ofElyon's home are worse than the cells I was forced into during the Lottery.

Wearing a large cloak, the material seems to hug my figure.

My stomach is filled to the brim with nausea from the bumpy car ride.

Barely able to look down, I run my hand along the surface of my stomach, feeling a slight bump in the places my torso used to nearly concave.

Chalking up the slight weight gain as nothing more than a product of stress and full meals, I hold back the urge to dig deeper, the plausibility that it is anything more fading away.

It's been nine months.

There's nothing there.

Despite the quiet efforts we have tried to make with our people, the whispers of a father-daughter duo bringing a new form of reform to their hub spread quickly, rapidly expanding with the help of Elyon's arrogant need to be on top.

Fanning the flames of our new empire, the Precipice's governing council reached out, inviting us with thrill despite the Marked blood rolling through our veins.

It would seem Marked are only vile, so long as their power remains lesser.

"Power is the only thing that matters," Elyon mutters, his presence creeping into my mind. "Do not discredit the fear you have created in those unknowing of your gifts. Marked or not, we were both invited here for what we can provide," he whispers, gripping the wheel a tad harder. "So use their greed."

Keeping my head down, I give him a nod, letting my head settle into the glass of the vehicle. My only focus is on the bumpy road ahead and the rolling nerves in my stomach, ready to bring up breakfast.

Taking a seat around the large table, eyes of varying colors watch over us, each face varying in age. Staring at the glass of water resting before me, I question how many of these fuckers I could kill with its broken edge. I allow Elyon to take the lead on starting this horrid conversation.

Surrounded by the governing council running this city, every person in the space is wary, watching us as if we are blatantly unaware of the guards ready to put a bullet in our heads the minute we make a wrong move. Squeezing my leg beneath the large granite table, Elyon's nails dig into my thigh, his only way to ease anxiety is to replace the nerves with pain.

Keeping my focus on the bubbles rolling through the water, Elyon taps his foot. His brows raise with confusion.

"Can't say we have ever had Marked sit at this table," one of the older gentlemen mutters.

The irony in what kind of Marked he is speaking to is almost comedic.

Biting back a smile at the idea of how easily he could kill all of these people, Elyon rolls his shoulders back. His confidence washes over his expression.

"No Marked have had any of the gifts that my daughter and I have," Elyon says.

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