The hour-and-a-half hike felt like an eternity, every noise stealing years off her life. She had shifted her skin to transparent, figuring her still-visible clothes would be less of an outline against the night. All the same, she figured Markus had something for that. Looking back in the darkness, she saw only the blue-white arcanoleum flames consuming her house. Part of her yearned for a plan to materialize during the hike through the countryside and terraformed forest, while another part wished Markus would hasten the inevitable and end her life. Fate, bitch that it was, gave her neither.

  Waiting at the rail station was the same agony. Nadia whipped her neck at every newcomer, convinced they were Markus or one of his Third Order comrades. They are masters of disguise and assassination. If they were here, I would be dead, Nadia told herself repeatedly.

  I suppose he thought the arcanoleum would deal with me, Nadia reasoned, finding no solace in such thoughts or her chewed up dress. Stained with dirt, only the belt of thorns remained unblemished, and Nadia thought for a fleeting moment that Fried had played a prank on her. Die Mystischen Orden did say Fried was a jokester. Is it too much to ask that I not be the joke?

  Nadia scolded herself for these thoughts. My family was just murdered and all I care about is my dress? Fried give your servant guidance so that her thoughts do not stray and that your will ma—

  A heavy gust of wind down blew the platform as a tram came to a stop on the rails below the waiting platform. The tram—a mutilated grey pyramid with engines strapped to each end—could have hosted 200 people comfortably if it weren't filthy and filled with less fortunate souls. The air around it shimmered as the magnetic-fields that had carried it from city to station fell away and were reclaimed by engine.

  While in use, it would project an electric rail below it, and its iron 9.8 base use the resulting repulsion to sail through the air; genius technology, unfortunately wasted on bussing the empire’s labor around. Nadia had always thought company dorms would be a less expensive solution, but she supposed there must be something she hadn’t considered.

  “23 through 45,” a stilted voice rang out from one of the attached speakers. Nadia wouldn’t be caught dead on any floor less than 100, but since she was fleeing from Markus and who knows how many of his krieger friends, Nadia boarded, deciding she’d get off at 45.

  Entering the tram, Nadia reconsidered her decision. Ratty bundles of clothing occupied every fourth seat, pulsating rhythmically. Below, discarded papers, bottles, and—is that a needle? Vomit climbed up Nadia’s throat, and she barely swallowed the cold, lumpen mass before moving to a different spot on the tram.

  She found the nicest seat she could find, which happened to be near one of the clothing bundles. People piled into the tram, choking it with their odor. Oh, that is a person, Nadia thought as she noticed a shoe connected to the bundle next to her. She tucked her elbows and knees in tighter, lest she get something from the person inside. Fried may you protect your servant from harm and bless these people so that they may know your will.

  Less fortunate people crowded into the tram and grabbed at the overhead handholds, cutting Nadia off from any light except from the strip directly above her. Then they just kept piling in. 200 was fine, but 300? 400? Someone is going to get sick! Nadia thought as she tucked herself into a ball, hoping to generate her own gravity and suck herself away from this hideous nightmare. This did not happen as the number reached 500 and Nadia began to mumble every prayer she could think of to Fried and his saints, save for the Saint of Discernment.

  The engine ignited with a deafening boom, sending Nadia into the clothing bundle who merely adjusted itself to avoid her. Peering out from her sanctuary, Nadia saw the other passengers grabbing the rail and leaning forward as if it was just a slight wind that would die down soon. I suppose Fired blessed them with some grace, Nadia thought before ducking back into her shell.

  After two full Vater von Allems and three smaller prayers, the magneto-gravity arms of the city’s tram station caught the tram, filling the cabin with a droning whirr as it stabilized. Once stabilized, the sound abated as the tram moved to the next set of magneto-gravity arms that would deliver the crowded pyramid to the next floor and hopefully—Fried willing—unload some of its passengers.

  When there was enough space, Nadia stood, balling her hand into a fist inside her sleeve before tapping the clothing bundle next to her. The man—as he turned out to be—had a thick and unkept grey beard and a face marked with dirt. Oh, he definitely has something. “This is floor 38, in case you need to get off,” she said, only earning a scoff for her effort as the man went back to sleep. How rude. “Fine. Your loss.”

  Nadia bolted from the tram at 45 before looking to the large holographic screen projected above the tram’s ramp. Nothing soon. I should find shelter for now, Nadia reasoned before searching her dex for hotels on the floor. She selected one from Twelve Saints Inn.

  She and Tobias had used the chain in the past, on higher floors, but Nadia felt her fingers numb with dread as she clicked route. Would Markus know and be waiting for her? There were tens of thousands of hotels on the city-floor, millions in the entire spire. there was no way the demigod assassin could know which one she had decided to stop at, right?

  Nadia trudged to the inn, head constantly swiveling between the street and the grim buildings. Much nof the lower floors’ space was dedicated to storage and heavy industry, and shipping containers had been stacked and welded together for housing, eating, and limited recreation; hard to play football in a metal tube, after all. Spiral staircases of repurposed grating and sheet metal ran their length, and crude walkways connected the shanty spires. I did not know the lower floors were this bad. Someone is going to get hurt! Nadia thought as the traffic of shuttles—metal barges with rockets attached—continued their dirty ballet above her without issue.

  Turning her gaze from the worrying shutles, Nadia found little comfort in the cramped spaces between alleyways. The denizens of the floor didn’t seem to mind, however, as classes of students hovered around a single holo-projector, arm-to-arm stalls peddled their wares, and entire restaurants operated out of the backs and seats of shuttle trucks. Everyone was at work, for there were no beggars in Atlas— Fried’s hands did not beg.

  Nadia expected gunshots to sound off at any moment—from the denizens or the polizei first, she could only guess—only to be pulled from these worries by her rapidly watering mouth. A smoky and caramel scent wafted between two alleyways, catching Nadia in its invisible lure and dragging her to a shuttle truck. A grill spanned the width of the back section and another man took orders from the tailgate. He had a small table in front of him, plastic poles rising from the front corners to display skewers of cooked meat.

  Nadia pointed at one of the skewers. “What is this?”

  “Beef,” the man tending the line said.

  “Is it synth-beef or real beef?”

  The man scoffed and looked around to see if he was on camera and getting pranked. “Synth. What do you think I am, fucking rich?” Nadia grasped at her pendant. The man saw the offended look on Nadia’s face and quickly spoke, “but we do use only natural additives like digesto-stims so the cows can eat more. We don’t touch the grass itself.”

  That is so clearly bullshit! Digesto-stims? Everyone knows that the primary beef additives are Beef-Boost, Mootant, and BovBulk, pumped into the meat with a hose or sufficiently large syringe. This was a mistake, I should have gone straight to the inn.

  But the meat called to Nadia, sang to her, even. It was a bawdy song the beef sang, like a troupe of three strongmen singing in a bar, making the patrons first think oh this will be funny followed by hey, they can actually sing followed by the trio being immortalized with a plaque.

  Nadia handed over ten notes in exchange for a skewer and ate it as she trekked ahead. She had expected a firm and juicy red center, not a flaccid and pale piece of flesh. It was chewy and juiceless, as if a wad of leather had been dunked in a jar labeled beef tasting sauce, forgotten, and then grilled months later. Nadia felt like she had been hit by a very sick cow that she would pet once out of pity before blowing its brains out as a mercy. Lucky it was only ten marks—pocket change. Fried, my lord, have mercy on your animal servants so that their suffering may be short, Nadia thought as she arrived at the hotel.

  Money was less of an issue now than the last time Nadia had stayed at a hotel, and Nadia got the most expensive room available. It was still cheaper than anything she might normally have stayed in, but Nadia forced herself to sing a small tune as she proceeded through the checkout kiosk. She was a single lady, away from home, and many a grand adventure had started with small tunes, or so she told herself. Time to see what awaits, Nadia thought as she nervously took the key-card from its dispenser.

  The room had two beds separated by a nightstand and a holo-projector opposite them. Like most hotels, the spine of the lamp was a model of Fried holding the bulb above him. Clicking it, the light trudged through the bulb’s winding shape before casting yellow light around the room. Could they not at least get a white bulb so this place does not look infected? Nadia thought before rummaging through her bag for clothes. She grabbed the portrait on top of the pile before placing it so that it would look upon her as she slept. She laid her clothes and toiletries along the other bed, finishing with Tobias’ laptop, hers now.

  The laptop sat on her bed, staring at her like an eye of cold, dead metal. Whatever had led to Markus killing her family was on that laptop. It didn’t sing like the beef did, and it didn’t need to. It was her future.

  Later, Nadia thought before stripping of her dress and heels. A small bath-shower, toilet, and a vanity had been crammed into the bathroom, leaving little room for Nadia to do…anything else. The room’s yellow glow made her skin crawl, not dissuading her in the slightest that something wasn’t going to kill her and wear her skin like a coat. Would I make a good coat? Nadia thought briefly as the shower sputtered to life and poured lukewarm water at her. Nadia hoped it was hot enough, not trusting the synth brand cleaners to touch her skin.

  What now? she thought as the water ran over her. I died tonight. I cannot go back. The shop is gone and the lights in my life are shattered.

  But am I going to die? Here? In this shitty hotel? Nadia knew she could call room service for a knife and easily slit her wrists. Her skin crawled at the thought. She was still a lady and the idea of dying in a bathtub, in a gutter of a floor was unacceptable. Ladies did not kill themselves when things got hard, and when they did, they used opiates out of courtesy to room service.

  So, what is there? I have Tobias’ money and my own, Nadia reasoned, and the children’s college funds. I could disappear. Start anew. Marry another man and have…

  No. My heart belonged to Tobias and my children. That void can never be filled.

  I could disappear on my own.

  Like a forest hermit? Nadia’s skin tingled at the thought. Markus was still out there, and a forest would only get his shoes dirty as he hunted her. No. That will not do, Nadia thought as the shower ceased entirely.

  “Damnit,” she cursed as she tried futilely to turn it back on. Dejected, Nadia stepped out of the shower and hastily dried herself before leaving the bathroom; best to leave the haunted shower before anything else failed. I will not be anybody but Nadia Luftreiniger and I cannot do that with Markus still hunting me the moment I step back into the land of the living.

  Do I make peace with him? Would he even accept that or would he just kill me to save a headache? Where would I even find h—

  Natalia sat on the bed beside her mother, eyes still plucked and throat still leaking. Nadia had thought she had wasted all of her tears back at the estate, but she had been wrong. Perhaps this was where the water for the shower had gone. Fried always was a jokester. Natalia put her cold hand on Nadia’s shoulder. “Don’t let him get away with this,” Natalia said.

  Jan put his hand on Nadia’s other shoulder, eyes reduced to oily black spheres. “He is not a knight. He is a murderer with no honor.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “You aren’t real!” Nadia screeched pushing herself from the bed, through Jan’s image, and into the wall adjacent to the bed. Fried, spare your servant from these nightmares and let your will be known!

  Konrad appeared beside his siblings. “Don’t let us be forgotten mother.” The children turned to face her. “Put us to rest.”

  Nadia knelt and stroked Konrad’s cheek, her hand passing through the cold mirage. “I could never forget you, my love,” Nadia choked out as Tobias appeared behind Konrad.

  Tobias ruffled Konrad’s hair as he moved to Nadia before cupping her chin lightly with warm hands. “I could not protect them, but you can avenge them, my love.”

  “Are you here? Truly? How?” Nadia reached out to touch Tobias’ face, finding the void warm as an oven. What did I expect?

  Tobias looked to the lamp. “I think he has arranged this for us. A final goodbye.” At these words, the children lost all signs of their scarring and became as perfect as they were before.

  Nadia chuckled weakly. “I was going to rock your world tonight,” she said before a sob racked her. “Your tomatoes, they were coming in so well.”

  Tobias chuckled. “What a salad they would have made. Sleep and make your plan tomorrow,” Tobias said before he leaned in and kissed Nadia on the forehead, leaving a wet mark as he parted. “Be strong. We will be watching over you, my love, always,” Tobias said before the images faded into the yellow glow of the room.

  “Do not go,” Nadia sobbed before throwing herself onto her knees in front of the nightstand. “Please, send them back, only for a minute more!” she pleaded, mind racing with what she could say in that time. “Bless your servant with that mercy, please,” Nadia continued, taking in every detail of the statue as if that would help her prayer.

  The statue shook its head. “You know that’s not how this works.” She heard the words in her head, each syllable helped along by her pounding temples.

  Nadia pounded the nightstand. “Damn how it works! Your children, your most exalted children, are not supposed to murder your citizens. Please, my lord, let your will be known so that I may know peace and continue to serve you.”

  The statue scoffed. “I have.”

  Does he want me to kill Markus? Nadia thought after a moment, looking to the statue once more for a nod or any sign of confirmation. Fried, being a jokester, did no such thing. Markus is a demigod, I could never so much as raise a hand to him. If his most exalted children should never harm the citizens of Atlas, the children should most certainly never harm the knights. This is heresy. Heresy leads only to death, as it should.

  But for my children, and their memory, I will. Our lord is just and his will is iron. The flesh wavers, but iron is strong, Nadia remembered from sermons. Dressing into simple clothes, Nadia searched for the nearest church. She had prayed until her throat was hoarse, glass-skin flaking, and she still had not a clue. Fried allowed his children the gift of prayer and his liturgy, but there were other gifts still that he had left to his empire. She needed a priest, badly.

  A short while later, Nadia had ducked and weaved through the dirty streets to the church, a gem in a crown long since faded away. Like all Atlasian churches, it had 12 sides, each corner housing a spire bearing a gold symbol of a saint. A series of six arches extended from the church towards the street, connecting at the towers of the first saint on the left of the entryway and the twelfth saint on the right. In the junction between each arch was a life-size statue of each saint, with the first six on the left and the latter six on the right. In between each tower was a sprawling mosaic, usually of Fried or one of the saints, but sometimes featuring a great general or saint candidate.

  But the capstone—in case that wasn’t enough—lay at the center of the church. A golden statue of Fried rose from the convex roof, easily double the height of the spire. Snow-white armor encased his golden form as he stepped triumphantly on the throats of three Ventracarii snake statues, like he had done at the founding of the empire. Outside of the beautifully crafted armor, Fried’s eyes hosted two large search lights inside their sockets, while the hair had strings of LEDs strewn about to create the same radiant effect.

  Taking a deep breath, Nadia stepped across the entryway, preparing to be smote by the statue of Elizabeth Skarbek, Most Holy Saint of Discernment, Spy-mother of Atlas, and the woman giving Markus Richter his marching orders. When she was not smote, Nadia took another step and another, taking care to scurry past the third and tenth saints

  Four rings of pews sprawled out in the center of the hall, a raised dais at its center. Additional rooms lay beyond the liturgy area, and beneath the towers were large iron statues of the corresponding saints, all looking down on the congregants. Painted onto each of the roof’s stony faces, were images of Fried in either mystical or martial glory, with the latter taking precedence in this church.

  He was a man with glassy skin and wavy blond hair, and his amor was always snow-white between the images, a color that no branch of the Volkswaffen or Krieger Orders were allowed to use. Sometimes he carried a sword, other times a hammer or pure elemental energy, and in some images his triple-headed, ruby-hearted eagle would join him, but in all of them he was victorious.

  Nadia ducked into a pew and clasped her hands tight before thrusting them above her head, as if she might touch her god and know his will. My lord whose will is iron, your daughter has brought herself to you, hands raised in supplication. She begs of you not for her children, already departed, but for the clarity to see your will and the strength to make it true. My lord whose will is virtuous and true, your daughter has brought herself before you, head bowed and awaiting your judgement. Find her acceptable, and her will be your own, and her heart will beat only for you. Deine Wille ist unser, es wird gesechen.

  Nadia glanced along the ceiling, hoping that Fried or any of his generals would grace her with a nod of approval. None of them did, and she was sure that Wilhelm B?renwald—the Waffenvater and progenitor of Atlas’ Volkswaffen brigades—had frowned at her. She would have ducked her head had she not spent the last hour doing so, instead bunching her face like a rag and sticking her tongue at the dead general.

  A pudgy priest in gun-metal grey robes with gold accents tidied up the dais. His head was lumpy like dropped dough, but his brown eyes burned with a gentle warmth like hot chocolate. “Yes, my daughter?” He asked, blinking as Nadia approached. “Are you new to this house of the Ironclad? I don’t remember you, but my eyes and mind are no longer what Fried and the saints first blessed them with”—he chuckled—“our lord still sees to it that I can read his text and know his will.”

  “I am, Father,” Nadia said. “I am traveling and need the services of the church. somewhere more private, perhaps?”

  “Of course,” he said, lighting one final candle before walking through the pews to another ring of the church. “I am Father Gershwin.”

  “Nadia.”

  “Well, Nadia,” Gershwin opened the door to a small office before sitting on one end of the desk at the center. “How can I help you? Guidance? Confession? A good joke, perhaps?” He giggled jovially. “I’ve used that for 40 years as a priest and only a month ago did a little girl share a joke with me.”

  The words little girl brought back images of Natalia, which Nadia stomped back to whatever hell they had come from. “I suppose we shall see if I have a joke by the end of this.”

  Gershwin brought his hands together. “Excellent! Our lord is a happy one and he wants us to revel in his glory and his creations.”

  “I have come to you for guidance and insight, Father,” Nadia said with stone-faced curtness. “My children have been killed, and I am strongly tempted to hunt down their killer.”

  Gershwin was silent for several moments. Understandable. “Well,” Gershwin started cautiously, like a man stalking up to an animal. “Is this person, I assume you know who they are”—Nadia nodded—“is this person a child of Fried?” Another nod. “The Ironclad calls upon us to not harm our brothers. Have you prayed on these emotions? Sought the Ironclad’s will?”

  “Extensively,” Nadia lied. Not nearly enough. “He came to me, Fried, in the form of my dead children, and spoke through their voices.”

  Gershwin’s eyes widened. “Well,” he said, retrieving a copy of the Die Mystischen Orden, “there are certainly stories in the book of such things, visions and auditory hallucinations. Have you considered this was not Fried and was instead a creation of your own?”

  Nadia would have grasped pearls, but her jewelry had been set ablaze. “Are you doubting me?”

  Gershwin waved his hands defensively. “Not at all, but what you want is very serious. We must, I must, ensure it is truly from Fried before you proceed, and not from grief which often tempts us from our lord.”

  The lamp on the table glowed faintly, the head moreso than the body as if nodding at Gershwin. “Don’t harm Gershwin, he’s one of the good ones.”

  “If you kill this man, murder him, it will be as if I have killed him. I am your accomplice, not just in silence and guidance, but in deeds,” Gershwin continued. “Because of this, we must make sure that this is what Fried wants of us, and even then, we should proceed with caution.”

  “Is his will not iron?”

  Gershwin waved his hand again, irritating tugging at his brows. “Semantics, and not the matter at hand. Fried decreed we shall not kill each other long before he appeared to you, Nadia,” he said, voice and his posture relaxed, breathing even. Gone was the jovial man from before, replaced with a crusader who had waded through sin and was not trifled with a little murder. Nadia examined him closer, finding a litany of fading scars on his face, track marks on his hands and an oily, black drop bleeding from his pupil and into his brown sclera.

  “I believe, the Ironclad sent you to me,” Gershwin continued. “One of his trillion children helping another. But, if you say he wants to you kill another of his children, I cannot turn away. He will not let me.”

  Was I expecting him to okay this? “I came to you because this man is a krieger knight,” Nadia said. “He will hunt me if he knows that I live. They are demigods, and I am but a grieving mother. It’s just”—a tear rolled from Nadia’s eye—“our lord is a just lord, is he not?”

  Gershwin put a doughy hand on Nadia’s shoulder. “The Ironclad is just, the most just, but even still, I cannot condone what you ask of me. I am sorry, Nadia.”

  “I understand. Thank you, father,” Nadia lied before she moved to the door.

  “Nadia, glaube jenseits der priester, glaube jenseits der buches,” Gershwin said. “Fried exists beyond us priests, and beyond our books. You must find him for yourself and make his will your own and”—Gershwin paused for a moment—“I wish you luck and I wish you peace.”

  Nadia nodded and left the church, lest her tears swallow her up.

  Nadia arrived in the hotel lobby, exhausted and in need of both sleep and some of the cookies she had brought. As if it knew exactly what she needed, Fate—ever the bitch—tempted Nadia with one of the holo-projectors.

  A muscular blond man—roided out freak would be more apt— wearing a black plate carrier and carrying a matching machine gun ran on a treadmill before the footage cut to him shooting his gun down range. The plate carrier looked like a string tank top on him, and he carried the rifle—as long as Konrad was tall—like a babe. The newscast cut again to a petite little anchor—by Fried, she looked so tiny—interviewing the man. “Here I am with lieutenant Alec Schmidt of the 1023rd army. Alec, having just come back from another successful campaign in the north, what is it like to start training for the krieger trials in six months?”

  “It certainly is different,” Alec said, “but no less busy. When I’m not training one thing, I’m training another. Stamina, guns, live exercises, vehicles. I feel like I’m going through a boot camp every week. It is nice to not be getting shot at by fucking northmen, though. Although”—Alec chuckled—“my captain makes sure I don’t forget what it feels like, sim-munitions and all that.” Alec turned his shoulder to the camera to show a large purple welt. “A little gift from Fried, my captain says.”

  The newscast cut to a montage of other recruits training. “With six months to go, Alec is one of many seeking the Ironclad’s favor in joining the 13154th class of krieger initiates. The bounty this year is high, with over one million hopefuls, but in the end only some 30,000 will succeed in becoming knights.”

  Six months. I have six months to prepare, Nadia reasoned as the broadcast changed to another interview with another knight-hopeful.

  But can I become that? The knight-hopeful was larger than the one before, arms choked by bulging blue-white veins. She looked to her own hands, the tiniest of veins visible between the ridges of her fingers. She couldn’t do that; she was a flower seller for Fried’s sake, and half of the work there was done by fertilizer!

  Something moved in the corner of her vision and her head swiveled. One of Markus’ friends maybe, or the assassin himself checking in for the night? Maybe he’d book the room besides hers, drawing up all the ways he’d kill her and rolling a dice in the morning to choose which.

  It was just a hotel guest tapping the vending machine, and he didn’t look like Markus. That didn’t ease the leaden weight in Nadia; Third Order knights were the infiltrators, spies, and assassins of the Orders, and a hotel was surely not beyond them.

  She glanced back to the broadcast, finding the montage had subsided in favor of late night talking heads. Her blood chilled when she recognized who all of the guests around the round table segment were. Two of them were the token progressive and conservative voices, but opposite them was a blonde woman in a sharp blazer and suit, and beside her was none other than the spoiler of the night’s activities.

  “It’s rather simple, Anne,” the recording of Markus from three nights ago said. He could have cut onions with his smug grin. “Sometimes there exists threats to the Reichstag and the rest of the empire that need to be dealt with before they are a problem. You can question the methods, but you sleep safe at night because hard, brutal men do not. The methods employed led to valuable information being extracted, saving countless of lives.”

  The woman in the blazer narrowed her eyes at him. “Must be nice when you’re the one in the shadows.”

  Markus chuckled rolling his eyes. “Ill commend the work of the Reichstag’s people, but if you’re implying that I helped the Reichstag with spontaneous relocation and advanced interrogation, I am duty bound to remind that such conduct would violate the non-partisan nature of the Krieger Orders. No, as always, we help only in the augmenting of forces, and the sharing of information and material.”

  The woman’s scow didn’t fall. “And never services?”

  Markus shrugged. “If it helps you sleep at night to believe that, then yes, services as well.”

  Nadia’s hands had curled tighter into fists as Markus spoke, but only when she heard her jaw grind against her teeth did she realize her fists were hawking and angry sweat had started down her brow. Her eyes drifted back to the vending machine; some water or a soda would calm her down. The table besides the vending machine sat another lamp, with Fried again holding the bulb. Its eyes flicked to the holo-projection and it nodded, once.

  And Nadia supposed that was enough. Lesser Atlasians have risen to the call, she reasoned. And I have all of mine and Tobias’ funds left to spend. It is my best chance at finding Markus. It is not like I, a civilian, can just look up where the kriegers are, especially the spies amongst them, are.

  I might die.

  I am already dead, Nadia reasoned before she went to her room and quickly fell into a deep sleep.