I have the second part done. For some reason I can't seem to paste the next part to my original thread (I write it in Word), so I'm creating a new thread. Hopefully a mod can combine the two together. However, I'm not planning on posting my entire story, so I won't be posting 100 threads containing this story... I'm just hoping for some feedback. At any rate, we begin with the character Prince Micah, who introduces the governmental issues that are happening in the city. One of the major themes is the idea that a monarchy or an oligarchy is an unjust form of government, and Prince Micah's inquisitive nature shows that off. At any rate, here it is:

"Prince Micah, we have word that Prince Garlan is returning from the South front tomorrow. The army's messenger reported this to us, as the Lavestines have agreed to give the southern country of Relsha back to its people. We have won this vicious war!"

   Prince Micah, third son of King Beshar, smiled at the short squire who'd just spoken. "That is good news! Go and tell my brothers."

   "Yes, sire." The oddly-dressed man, in his colorful camoflage tunic, nodded to the prince and backed out the door.

   "Such silly formality," Micah said to himself, and turned to the palace's window. His room overlooked the Eastern quadrant, a vibrant place of wealth and diversity. The inhabitants always seemed to be smiling, and they all greeted him when he walked out to visit, but he'd never gone further than a tenth of a mile from the castle gates, so the conflicting reports of gang violence to the southern portion of that Quadrant always intriqued him. Gang activity was alive and well in the Western and Southern Quadrant, but the wealthy Eastern and Northern Quadrants would seem to have no reason for gang violence.

   Often, his informants would tell him differing stories about the happenings of the districts; those who were out of touch with reality would describe perfect harmony, but Micah knew better. Power corrupted people, and Michah saw it first hand with two of his brothers and his uncles. It did not matter if there was considerable wealth; those who craved power always wanted more, and money was their tool of destruction.

   It pained Micah to keep these inner thoughts inside, but he'd always avoided the conflict for the throne. The oldest, Garlan, had abdicated his throne, desiring to stay in charge of the army and bypass the politics of the throne, and Micah seriously considered doing the same. Micah preferred the scholarly life, reading about the history of the world, studying differing styles of reigning. He never found a style that he liked, because he felt there was always a cap on the greatness of nations. The land of Chrydia was no different. His father was a splendid ruler, fair to his people and swift to meet his enemies, but there was something that kept Chrydia from exponentially progressing, and Micah's determination was to find out what.

   Someone lightly knocked on the door, and Micah said nothing. If it was important, they'd let themself in, was his philosophy. His brothers always called him guarded, and perhaps this was true, but he did not want his studies to be tainted by trivial matters. Still, all he craved was...

   "Micah!" Micah's older brother, the second of the four, Emile, barged into the room. "Our brother's returning! He'll be here in two days! Tonight and tomorrow, we feast and dine with the concubines!"

   "Uh, no. You know I don't play that game, Emile."

   "Lighten up, brother." Emile, a ruggedly handsome young man, walked towards Micah and patted him on the back. "We are ROYALTY. We're supposed to have fun, be lavish and all that."

   "We're supposed to set an example for our people," Micah retorted.

   "And I am! Our people will be stress-free, they'll do as they please and everyone will be happy."

   "Hardly. Concubines  are not my idea of governance, Emile."

   "What IS your idea of governance, then? Do you agree with Henry that we should have a tighter reign on our people? You've never expressed your own idea of how to rule; you just reject and criticize our own," Emile said with a frown. "Second in line for the throne and you have no idea how you want to run this country. It's sad, really."

   Micah said nothing as Emile turned away and exited his room, snapping his fingers at a woman waiting for him at the exit. "That's what I'm trying to figure out, brother," he said under his breath, and closed the door.
----

   Tarvin awoke from his slumber earlier than normal; the sun had not yet shone its light through the window, and the moon was in full view. He checked the mechanical clock on the wall: 4:30. "That's early," he said to himself, and kicked his legs over the side of his small bed, putting his bare feet on the floor. He looked around the room at the sleeping children. His regiment was the smallest; only six of them were active members of the gang. The others were too young, too small, and two of them were too disabled to be of any service. Still, Tarvin took them under his wing and formed the 12th Regiment of the Southern Quadrant Gang. They were the smallest, youngest, and most underfunded of all the regiments, but Tarvin believed they had the best intentions out of the entire gang.

   When he signed on to the gang, its leader, Mercedes, was a caring and compassionate young woman who set greed aside and tried to strike up peace with the other gangs. She believed that the gangs working together could accomplish good for all the people who relied on them for their livelihoods, but others in the leadership did not believe it. Tarvin had only met the woman once, when he was twelve, but the meeting had a resounding impact in his life. When she was assassinated, supposedly by a rival gang, the old ways of gang violence reared its ugly head, and war raged amongst the different factions.

   He looked at Sally sleeping peacefully in her bed. The room was small, but all fifteen could fit inside. Because Tarvin was the leader, he had a bed of his own, but he often gave it up to other members in his group. Most of the young girls and boys slept in tattered blankets on the floor, but Tarvin had saved up enough money for two beds: one for Sally and one for a boy name Cole, who was missing a leg and never spoke. He admired both children; both were orphans who had suffered severely in their lives, but they trudged forth. Sally always smiled, and Cole, eight, always read books.

   Tarvin stepped over one of the thieves in the gang, Jonny, one of the fiew black boys in the town, and exited their abode. The cool air refreshed his aching body, and he walked around to the other side of the fountain, sitting down below the outstretched hand of the small boy. He spread his arms out, kicked his legs forward, and rested on the stone.

   "I am not deserving of this life," he said to himself.

   "I'll say you aren't."

   Tarvin jumped up and grasped his knife, but at the sight of Dyllon, he sheathed it.

   "Dyllon, you startled me."

   "You should be more aware of your surroundings, Tarvin."

   "Why the hostility?" Tarvin asked, tilting his head to the side.

   "No hostility. Just pointing out facts," Dyllon retorted.

   "That sounds like a loaded statement."

   "Whatever you want to call it. Listen, I am leaving this regiment." Dyllon smirked at Tarvin, who stared in disbelief.

   "What? Why?"

   "Your command, that's why. We're soft. We don't fight. We just steal, and we're not even good at that. We have nine kids in our gang who are too young to fight, and two of those kids will never be able to be of use. You allow dead-weight to keep us weak, Tarvin. If only you listened to me, we'd be better off."

   Tarvin simply stared at Dyllon, choosing his words carefully.

   "We need progression, Tarvin. We need to recruit. We're not baby-sitters, we aren't shepards. We're warriors in the Southern Quadrant Gang. As far as I'm concerned, you and I are the only two physically worth anything. The others are scrawny and inexperienced. Your weakness is your unwillingness to fight and your overconcern for those who can't help us."

   "Dyllon," Tarvin began. "From the beginning, I've understood that you wanted command of the regiment. They gave it to me, instead, because I exhibited leadership qualities that surpassed yours at the time. Maybe it's true I've faltered, but I will not go back on what I've started now. I am finally seeing good things fall into place. Two months ago I was able to purchase those beds for Sally and Cole; yesterday I hit the jackpot with gold pieces. We may be in a gang, Dyllon, but we're not thugs."

   "These 'good things' have come too little, too late. How do you expect to withstand a charge from the West Quadrant's army? We are even poorer than they are, and they're the largest of the four gangs. What are you going to do when they're on your doorstep? You can't take those beds with you, and you certainly can't take those worthless children with you." Dyllon spat on the ground at Tarvin's feet.

   "You may disrespect me, but do not disrespect the children, Dyllon."

   "You've disrespected the whole gang by allowing them to drag us down."

   "Dyllon, I've heard enough. If you are going to go, go. I hate to see it; we were such good friends before."

   "Before you gave in to weakness."

   "No, before you gave in to jealousy."

   Dyllon stared hard at Tarvin, who was sure he could see murder in Dyllon's eyes. After a tense moment, Dyllon turned and walked away.

   "Wait," Tarvin called out, prompting Dyllon to turn. "Take this with you." He tossed a piece of gold to Dyllon, who let it hit the ground.

   "I'll be funded in Regiment Six; I don't need charity from the likes of you." He left Tarvin alone in the square.