Revels sprawled across Fort Acre, with balls underway in many of its sectors, mandatory for every direct participant in the Crusade, who rotated through the base to celebrate the new year on their scheduled days.

  For the Holy Knights' estate, the grand affair bustled deep in the bowels of the Beachhead, the hulking capital-class flagship of the Thorned Chalice, a beast of rune-etched hulls and sanctified steel.

  The ballroom spanned across three decks, filled with music and the reek of sweat, spilled drink, and heaped platters of roast and spice.

  The lowest level belonged to the first Realm, divided sharp as a bayonet thrust, the dancing space etched with fleur-de-lis.

  Women filled a third of the space, men the rest, with the orchestral ensemble seated between, its strings and brass performing formal minuets along with the stomp of armored boots.

  Outside the ballroom, the men's side spilled through the mess hall, and past that, into an adjoining wardroom, usually the sanctum of leaders, but the extra space was needed.

  Encircling above the first ballroom, a broad balcony girded the second deck, open-railed, letting those above peer down into the froth below.

  That second tier was mid-Realm ground, split by the same unyielding sex segregation, but with neutral buffers midway on both sides of the balconies, cordoned lounges where officers could mingle over crystal-stemmed goblets, those trusted to fraternize while imbibing libations.

  The third and pinnacle deck sat highest, an aerie for the Seraphs, drawn of all the third Realm's anointed, with Knight, Ecclesiastic, and Laity alike.

  Angar kept scanning upward. No segregation split that exalted ring. He counted perhaps eight men there, but assumed not all had gone to the railing, and one lone woman in a gown of midnight damask, her chaste laughter pealing against the vaulted dome.

  The rest? Out warring, covering down to allow this week of celebration, but each had or would cycle through too.

  Crusade protocol demanded full kit for the night, with no formal uniforms, all armor donned, weapons holstered or mag-locked to spines.

  At least for men.

  About half the first-Realm women wore power armor, but the passageways held the others' kits, shed by those eager to dress up and show themselves off, since barring them from doing so for a ball was probably too much of a hassle to enforce.

  Many of the higher Realms flouted protocol as well, men in tailored dress uniforms stiff with bullion, and dames in gowns that caught the light like stars, their heels clicking like castanets over the decking.

  Angar felt great, his body buzzing from his new Ability, Mechanosis, but he didn’t enjoy revelry, and especially disliked dance.

  He’d only done so with Diligence Pelden, the heavyset girl at the victory ball on Lerig Imperial Megastation, out of a sense of obligation, a duty to protect her from cruelty.

  Sure, he’d enjoyed that night plenty, a surprising amount, and if Diligence graced this deck, with protocol bent to let him claim a few turns on the floor with her, he might’ve mustered a grudging joy here too.

  Instead, he lingered at the edge, watching as the four sons of Tribute capered with delight, performing the rigid moves of the quadrille together.

  Watching the women frolic, squealing in wild abandon and glee, was far more pleasing on the eyes, but a few had caught him staring, and he refused to risk a lecher's reputation by giving in to that temptation again.

  He slipped free, threading the armored crush toward the mess hall, but it teemed with bodies worse than a slummer district.

  Past it, the wardroom offered no reprieve. It held fewer bodies, but every seat had been claimed by ruddy-faced Knights knocking back drink.

  And every unblocked passageway choked with knots of Crusaders laughing and spewing tales of glory.

  As he couldn’t leave for a few hours, he clenched his jaw behind the bandages, tasting copper, and pivoted for the stairwell, climbing to the open gantry of the weather deck above.

  He'd greased the palm of the Budget Post clerk with a few credits, tasking the man with rerouting any children looking for him to this ball.

  The Lay guards at the gangway had pocketed a few credits too, ready to ping his comms if kids searching for him appeared.

  A lot of credits spent in the search for Simo, but his absence grew stranger by the hour. And more worrying.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Angar had prowled the Paragon's assigned ball before heading to his own, but the old veteran had skipped that too.

  Where in the Three's name had he disappeared off to?

  Angar crested the final riser to the upper ballroom's fringe, the revels' muffled pulse vibrating through the grating.

  Relief filled his chest as the weather deck lay barren save for one outlier.

  Salvador, technically the ball’s host in name if not in zeal, leaned against the railings in his massive armor.

  Thankfully, the officer of the deck shouldered the true responsibility and oversight, as Angar doubted Sal took this duty seriously.

  The Seraph paid Angar no mind at first, the azure glow of his visor spilling out like cold plasma, turning the shadows around him to sapphire ghosts.

  As the lower rank, the onus of courtesy fell to Angar, so he closed the gap with heavy strides. "Hail, Saint," he ventured, the words muffled through the bandages swaddling his wired jaw. "I've been gifted some tobacco and a pipe, if you'd care to partake."

  The blue gaze swung ponderous as a turret toward him. "I'd counsel you to pitch it over the rail, son. It's no match for the destruction of opiates like mist, but it addicts all the same."

  "I've heeded the warnings, Saint," replied Angar. "But a gift demands its due, for courtesy's sake. If you want none, I plan for a single try after some grand victory."

  “Just mind the snare," Salvador rumbled out. "I drafted pipe for centuries. Breaking free was a siege in itself. If I touch it now, it'd have me by the throat again with full fury. Enjoying the ball?”

  Angar paused, weighing his answer before speaking it. "Truth be told, Saint, not at all.”

  A nod shifted the Seraph's bulk. “I hate this formal shit and despise crowds."

  As Angar prepared to settle in silently, Sal, looking out over the base, added, "I hammered myself to steel just so I could have solitude."

  After a nod, the two stood silently for a time. A few minutes later, Sal said, "They try shoving the yoke of command on you regardless. Your master's the chief offender. When Ash schemed to splinter off from the Knights of the Black, birthing his own chapter, that's how he twisted my arm, promising me the freedom to roam alone, all while still swaddled in a chapter’s benefits.”

  That was news to Angar. “I'd heard Saint Hidetada had been the grand marshal, but not that he'd forged the Black Aegis.”

  Sal kept silent for a long moment before breaking it. “He loathed the Machine, considering him a poor leader, bleeding resources on foolishness. The disdain ran both ways. Ash wasn’t content poaching our lot from just the Black's ranks either, so lured in droves from other chapters, Thryna among them."

  The Machine was Euergetes, also known as ‘the Proud,’ grand marshal of the Knights of the Black for over two millennia now.

  “He’d sworn up and down I'd be unyoked," continued Sal, "but the bastard never quit his puppeteering, always angling to force a command on me. And he’s still at it, even now with Dread Varnok gripping the Shattered Aegis' reins, bribing me until I bent, agreeing to herd you three through this Crusade."

  Angar mulled over those revelations. Seconds bled away in the wind's keening before Salvador stirred again. “How am I faring at it, then?”

  It took a moment for Angar to grasp the Seraph's meaning. “As a leader, Saint? I have few complaints. You don’t hold me back, for the most part, and I'm thankful for that."

  A bark of laughter escaped the helm, rough as breaching charges. "And the few complaints?"

  Angar's pulse kicked like a turret’s recoil, caution warring with truth. He knew tact should keep him silent, but duty won out. “You're a legend, Saint, revered by all, and I hold the utmost respect for your prowess. But the insults you constantly hurl at Saint Garioch? They're unworthy of and diminish you. Why act so small?”

  Salvador wheeled to square off fully, that azure glare pinning Angar like a specimen on a lab table. "You can't mean you truly like that clown.”

  “I do, Saint," Angar shot back, drawing himself up, the bandages drawing taut across his jaw. “He's a good man, and an honorable Knight. My friend too. We’ve bled together. We all have. That means something.”

  Derision coursed through the Seraph’s every word. “The fool claims he’s God's chosen, swearing the Almighty chats to him direct over tea. He’s a clown, unworthy of our estate. By the blessed Mother, he braids his hair. If you count that cretin as a friend, I must wonder if they botched your Discernment of Solomon rite.”

  Angar's resolve hardened like cast iron. "Nevertheless, Saint, the insults sit ill on you. They're beneath the legend you are.”

  Salvador pivoted away, his gauntlets resting on the railings again, his gaze thrusting out into Fort Acre's sprawl, holding his peace, offering no reply.

  Angar relaxed, then mirrored him, leaning on the rail, his own gaze dropping below to the gangways.

  A knot of children caught his eye. These weren't his hunters, the ones out searching, but the same ragged pack he'd given Fella's lumpy, foil-wrapped candies earlier, sticky-fingered and wild-eyed with the illicit thrill of sugar.

  If his jaw weren’t wired, courtesy would’ve forced him to sample one of the sweets. He’d rather not, though, as repentance was his constant shadow.

  Bland and nutrient-dense biobricks that tasted like sawdust sufficed for his needs. No feasts, no drink, as abstemiousness stole no hours from his days, unlike most other penance.

  And though this proved his will was titanic, his inability to purge himself of lust gave many doubts there.

  He'd tested Fella's vitamin already, crushing a D-Surge capsule into a canteen’s water. There’d been no noticeable effect yet, but maybe it took a regimen of days to flood the system, to coax those benefits in full.

  Time would tell.

  But where in the Three's name was Simo?

  The funds Angar and Garioch had poured into the Paragon's ascendancy celebration weren’t trifles, and not a single credit could be recuperated now.

  The veteran seemed to have vanished like smoke.

  This was all very uncharacteristic of him.

  First, skipping a mandatory Mass. Simo never missed service. Then shirking the ball? He'd always been steady, always responsible and dependable. Something was wrong.

  Angar and Saint Salvador hung there in companionable hush, the foul wind's moan and the fort’s revelry filling the silence.

  Surprisingly, no drunken Crusader stumbled out, joining them.

  Then a scrap of a child, all elbows and urgency, darting up to the guards at one of gangways.

  Words were exchanged, and heads nodded. A moment later, the comms crackled in his ear, the guard's voice breaking over the static. “Sir Angar, a child here claims they've found the man you’re after.”

  “Thank you, Layman," he mumbled as reply, then turned to Sal. “May I have permission to depart early, Saint? Simo's been missing all day. Some kids I had out searching just found him.”

  Salvador's helm slowly swiveled. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  here.