Mikhail’s world shattered as two of the Sentinel watchers grabbed him by the arms and hauled him away from his stunned squad. He glanced over his shoulder at Klara. She stared back at him, eyes blank above her half-mask.

  Ten minutes later, Mikhail found himself once again residing in a small, cramped, and damp cell. Why are they always damp?

  He collapsed on the hard, narrow bed—plank—shoved against the back wall and shut his eyes. How long had he really expected to remain undiscovered? Long enough to discover my mother’s fate. Telling Klara definitely ranked amongst his slightly-less-than-brilliant ideas. Her loose tongue had betrayed him to the Alchemist Guild, and, it seemed, their father, too.

  “Hey.”

  Mikhail’s eyes snapped open, and he sat. Klara stood outside the barred cell door.

  “What’re you doing here, traitor?” he asked, pushing himself from the “bed” and stomping to the door.

  “Wait, you think I told him you were here?”

  “You don’t seem to have a problem telling everyone about me—even the people who want to kill me.”

  Klara gaped at him. “You have got to be joking.”

  “I’m afraid this cell has drained me of a sense of humour,” Mikhail said, pressing his face against the bars and glaring at Klara.

  “Well, I actually know who told Father you were here, and I came to tell you. But since you already have your conclusion…” Klara turned to go.

  Great. Mikhail bit back a groan. “All right, Klara. Sorry, just…” He flailed. “Stuck in a cell because I tried to find out what happened to Mother.”

  “Did you just say sorry?”

  “Um.” Mikhail blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

  Klara chortled. “Did it hurt much to say? Do I need to get you a healing extract?”

  “Oh quiet, you. I’ve said sorry before.”

  “No, you haven’t. Not to me.”

  Mikhail clenched his fists, his gloved fingers pressing against the still tender flesh of his palms. He focused on the throbbing ache and channelled his frustration through it.

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  “What are you sorry for?” Klara asked.

  “Enough, Klara. Who told Father I was here?”

  Klara stared at him, a glint in her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  “Please stop. This is getting ridiculous.”

  “Not until I get a full apology.”

  “For what?”

  “You know what, Mikhail.”

  Mikhail threw up his hands and stalked to the back of the cell where he pivoted and glared at Klara. “That wasn’t even my fault. I don’t see why I should be apologising.”

  “No apology, no information.”

  Mikhail marched back to the door and slammed his fists against the steel bars, rattling the door on its hinges. “Fine. You want an apology? I’ll give you one. I’m sorry I listened to Father when he said I was ready for strength extract training. I’m sorry I agreed to let you spar me. I’m sorry…” Mikhail’s voice cracked, and he took a breath, surprised at the sudden tightness in his chest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t control the rage and nearly killed you. Sorry I couldn’t bear how much I hurt you, or the idea of hurting anyone else like that again.”

  Mikhail retreated from the door and sank onto the bed. “I couldn’t stay any longer,” he said softly. “No matter how much it broke Father’s heart to see his only son turn his back on the Warrior Guild and the Sentinels.”

  Silence fell between them, and Mikhail stared at his hands, at the holes in his gloves from the pronzat. The fight last night had left his palms raw and smarting, but there’d been no time to treat them.

  “I know that put all the pressure on you,” Mikhail continued. “For what it’s worth, I joined the Alchemist Guild because I wanted to create better weapons and extracts to keep you safe.” He looked up, locking eyes with his sister. “I am sorry for hurting you, Klara. But I’m not sorry for doing everything in my power now to discover what happened to my mother, and if she’s even still alive.”

  Klara maintained eye contact for a few seconds more before dropping her gaze. “Yefimova was suspicious from the first day. She sent word to Father. Uncle Yuri had a flight here, so Father came with him.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for not betraying me—to Father, at least,” Mikhail said. “I suppose whatever the Sentinels do to me won’t be any worse than what the Alchemist Guild doubtless have planned.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Klara hesitated a moment. “May the Sovereign Sculptor be with you, Mikhail,” she said and left, her receding footfalls echoing down the corridor.

  Mikhail slumped against the wall, his stomach churning as long-buried emotions clawed their way to the surface. Hatred and loathing all directed at him, at his weakness.

  Two years on and he was no different. Klara’s life had been in danger because of his presence. Worse, Alarick and Irmina were dead because of him. In the silence of the cell, his bravado about doing everything in his power to find the truth rang hollow. The ashen faces and lifeless eyes of the deceased declared their verdict: guilty.

  It was time for him to accept responsibility for his actions.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” he whispered, “I failed.”

  Hot tears of bitter frustration stung his eyes as he drew a shuddering breath. He hadn’t done enough, hadn’t tried hard enough. Mikhail squeezed his eyes shut and smacked his head against the wall. All he could do now was await the judgement of the Sentinel council.

  No… He sat up and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Klara’s future with the Sentinels hung on a balance—a balance he controlled. The council would condemn him for his actions, but he’d be cursed to the depths before he took Klara with him. The council would never find out she’d known his true identity.