Mikhail watched the tundra hurtle by fifty feet below them as the coil train thundered along inside its coiled track. They’d left the Gromadnyy range half an hour ago and were quickly approaching Borovsk from the south.

  Most of the recruits stared out the windows at the three circles growing in the distance—the open-air training grounds of Borovsk. A few miles beyond Borovsk, a powerful wind had gouged a massive trench twenty miles wide through the tundra, until it hit the Gromadnyy range, then curved north-east. The Veter River. Ledavsk lay somewhere in the middle of the Veter.

  The coil train did travel to Ledavsk, though the tracks had been lowered to mere feet off the ground and were heavily reinforced. The train itself only travelled east through the wind, so as to not fight it.

  After Ledavsk, the train continued up through the Veter until it left the river and looped around the northern end of the Gromadnyy range. From there, it began a long journey down to a few coastal cities before returning inland to Kosgrad. The entire journey took over a week, and as yet, the Alchemists had only deemed it necessary to have two coil trains run the loop.

  Much to the Sentinels’ frustration.

  The occasional herd of six-legged slavocks ambled across the tundra, while death hawks circled above, riding the currents as they scanned the landscape for careless rodents.

  Mikhail watched as a death hawk tucked in its wings and plummeted from the sky, seeming to defy gravity with the speed of its descent. The coil train flashed past the bird, and Mikhail craned his head back to continue watching.

  A yard above the ground, the death hawk spread its wings. Its talons brushed the rocky surface as it swooped back into the air, a tundra rat secured in its claws.

  Mikhail swallowed. He knew how that tundra rat felt as he scurried into Borovsk, into the dense cloud of circling death hawks just waiting for him to make a mistake so they could eat him alive.

  However, unlike the tundra rat, at least he had a disguise. And so far, it was proving effective. No recruits had questioned him. Klara hadn’t even recognised him—until he’d stupidly told her who he was. Now he could only pray she decided not to tell anyone that a dishonoured Alchemist had forged his way into Borovsk.

  The coils of the track grew tighter as they closed in on Borovsk and the train slowed. The ground rushed to greet them as the track descended to twenty feet.

  A minute later, the whistle howled, and metal screamed as the driver applied the brakes. The carriage practically thrummed as it slowed.

  Mikhail glanced at Klara, and his lips quirked up. Her face was as white as a death hawk’s wings. Still scared of heights, hey?

  The train ground to a halt beside Borovsk’s station—a large concrete building hunkered alone on the tundra. A platform protruded from the third floor and ran alongside the track.

  A mile east, the three circular arenas were spaced at three corners of a square—the fourth arena was buried beneath the surface. At the centre of the arenas lay the Central Circle. Beyond the Central Circle, above the underground arena, seven long, grey airships sat on a wide, cleared expanse. Any hint of the sparse vegetation had been removed from the area.

  The Sentinel wardens all pulled up their hoods and fastened their hardened leather half-masks to their faces. The carriage door opened, and they filed out.

  Mikhail made sure his mask was sitting securely on his face and joined the back of the line. He stepped off the coil train and braced against the howling wind that tried to bite through his coat.

  The coil train doors shut, and the huge wheel wrapped around the engine groaned to life and pulled the train away from the station on its journey north-east to Ledavsk. Mikhail watched it go. The only ways off Borovsk and back to civilisation now were a long hike over mountains, or smuggling onto an airship.

  “Wardens!” a heavyset Sentinel defender yelled. The wardens’ excited chatter gave way to nervous silence as the defender divided them into groups of eighteen.

  Mikhail joined a group with Klara and Zinaida at the south-western end of the platform and waited.

  The defender eyed them all a minute before retreating to the warm underground.

  The sun dropped another few inches towards the mountainous horizon, and long shadows slunk across the tundra. In the shadows, Mikhail could see the ground turning white as frost crept with them. While he watched, several defenders arrived and took the other groups down into Borovsk. Eventually, the group Mikhail stood with were the only ones left.

  Mikhail shivered. The coat did a great job at keeping him warm, but he needed to move, to get his hearts pumping blood to his frosty fingers. Especially as his punctured gloves struggled to keep the chill at bay.

  The sun reached and passed the mountain line before the heavy clang of boots on metal steps echoed from the double doors. A monstrously tall woman in a defender coat emerged from the building and the wardens all snapped to attention. She wore her hood up, but no half-mask to hide the twisted mass of scar tissue on the right side of her face—an injury left too long before healing extract could be administered.

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  “Papers,” the defender said.

  Sweat pricked Mikhail’s forehead as he dug into his coat and pulled out the forged document.

  The defender walked down the line, relieving them of their papers before stopping, back to the wind, as she read over them, checking them against a list.

  Please don’t question me…

  A frown creased the defender’s brow beneath her hood. “Avilov, Borislav?”

  Mikhail saluted, his stomach knotting.

  “Why is your name not on my list?”

  Mikhail swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Defender, I only arrived at Kosgrad this morning, a late send by Novagrad.” Any moment now, Klara would reveal his identity. He was sure of it…

  The defender stalked to Mikhail and halted a foot from him, towering a good six inches above him. Mikhail resisted the urge to look at her face, recalling some past lesson by Sergei about staring straight ahead at all times.

  Mikhail could feel the woman’s gaze taking him apart, looking for a buried lie.

  Finally, she grunted and turned. “You’re here now. You’ll either fail training or you won’t.” She marched down the line.

  Mikhail refused to look at Klara as the defender continued, “My name is Yefimova Defender. I’ve been given the miserable task of training you. You’re here because someone thinks you’re the best. Are you the best?”

  “Yes, Defender!” Mikhail chorused with the wardens.

  Yefimova spun on her heel to face them, an eyebrow arched high on her forehead. “You’re the best? And you’re Sentinels?”

  “Yes, Defender!”

  “Wrong!” Yefimova screamed, her face suffusing with blood. “You are nothing. You are less than guildless muckers. You are less than dishonoured guildless. Even rats are better than you!”

  Mikhail was glad for the half-mask hiding his downturned lips.

  “By the time I’ve finished with you,” Yefimova continued, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper, “you will either be skulking home to your ‘family,’ or you will be among the best. But if I hear any of you dare to take the hallowed name of Sentinel before I give you permission, I will personally drag your sorry hide to the depths.”

  The wardens remained silent as Yefimova glowered at them.

  “All right, get inside.”

  Mikhail joined the dazed Sentinels—wardens as they marched to the double doors.

  “Halt!” Yefimova said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Inside,” Mikhail said, “like you ordered us to.” Ohh, that was stupid…

  Stunned silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

  Yefimova sauntered over to him and pushed her face into his. “Who gave you the right to talk?” she whispered.

  Don’t answer. Don’t answer! “You di—”

  “You have no right to talk!” she screamed, spittle flying from her lips and splattering on Mikhail’s face. “You do not think, you do not even move unless I tell you to. Is that understood?”

  Mikhail held his tongue. Was he supposed to respond? Sovereign Sculptor, this woman is impossible.

  “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Defender,” Mikhail said through clenched teeth.

  Yefimova cupped a hand to her ear. “What was that?”

  “Yes, Defender!”

  Yefimova gave a sharp nod and stepped back. “Now, I know you guildless muckers are cold and just can’t wait to get inside and warm up. But the front door is for Sentinels. And what are you?”

  “Nothing!” the wardens chorused.

  “That’s right. You’re going to take a nice jog to Borovsk III.” Yefimova pointed to the northern arena, over a mile away. “And one more thing… Avilov Warden has kindly volunteered to carry your coats for you, so you’re nice and light for the run.”

  Mikhail’s hearts sank. A death sentence, fantastic. Not only did he have to run a mile, somehow carrying seventeen heavy leather coats, but each of these wardens would now be out for his blood. Sovereign Sculptor, let me live just one night? With every passing second, he expected to hear Klara speak up and condemn him for who he really was.

  “Avilov, you may keep your coat on,” Yefimova said, her voice deadly sweet. “I know you’re cold, and I don’t want you to catch a chill.”

  The hatred emanating from the wardens was palpable.

  “Line up and give your coats to Avilov, then go!”

  The wardens unbuttoned their coats and dumped them in Mikhail’s arms as they walked towards the rickety metal stairs running down the outside of the building. Their glares of loathing paled in comparison to Klara’s. Every visible inch of her face was suffused with malice as she dropped her coat onto the pile. It served to give Mikhail a small glimmer of comfort. If anyone tried to kill him, she’d probably step in and stop them… just so she could kill him later herself.

  “What are you waiting for, Avilov?” Yefimova asked the second Klara—the last in line—passed him.

  Mikhail staggered after the wardens, trying to balance a stack of coats so high he could barely see past.

  By the time his boots broke through the thin layer of frost covering the tundra and sank into the mud, the other wardens were distant specks.

  “Run!” Yefimova yelled from the platform.

  Not daring to look back, he picked up his pace, the mud sucking at his boots as he squelched on. His arms burned from the weight of the coats. A bead of sweat escaped from beneath his hood and rolled down his forehead. It froze before it even reached his eyebrows.

  Each breath came as a ragged gasp, and every muscle ached. He glanced behind him. One hundred yards.

  Only one and a half thousand yards left.

  A shrub caught his foot, and he fell to his knees. By some miracle, he kept hold of the coats, only splattering the bottom one with mud.

  Gritting his teeth, he staggered to his feet. The icy sludge oozed into his boots, and he curled up his nose at the rotten egg-like stench. Just find Dominik, then you can leave this forsaken place.