A girl travels the alleys of the Hive. A thousand levels below her, the city tears into the earth, stretching and mining low. A thousand above, it batters the sky. Hundreds of kilometers in any direction. The Hive is the world. Her grandparents told her of when the Hive was small, and there were deserts and grasslands all about it. But that might as well be children's fictions. It may well be.
The girl is on the cusp of womanhood, and knows all the dangers this brings. She carries a knife up her sleeve, a cruelly serrated blade. Her grandfather's grandfather used it in the Miner Rebellions. Its weight deadens her arm. A cloak hides her face, tucked about her. The hood forms a silhouette of an eagle's crown, bringing a tapered beak low over her face. Such is the fashion, and the girl knows advantage when she sees it.
Every tale-abiding child in the Hive knows how to find the Ravens. Every constable too, but they would never. The Ravens would not forgive them, or their families. The girl