Mikhail trailed behind the wardens as they trudged down the tunnel from the northern training ground, Borovsk III. His head felt like someone was trying to push his eyes out through his skull. Yefimova was insane. Insane, cruel and twisted. What kind of person chose to go through this punishment just so they could call themself a Sentinel?

  Yefimova led them into the cavernous Central Circle. In the middle of the manmade chamber, a thick pillar of stone rose. The biggest gaslamp Mikhail had ever seen burned in the centre of the pillar. It lit the entire cavern with warm white light. Smaller gaslamps protruded from the two-story buildings that lined the street running from the tunnel to the pillar. Signs hung above the buildings’ doors, announcing an Armoury, Alchemist Surgery, and more. Despite the hour, dozens of Sentinels and Alchemists hurried to and fro.

  Mikhail and the wardens followed Yefimova as she marched down the street. He could feel people gazing at them, some sympathetic, some amused by the haggard new recruits.

  They emerged into a large square surrounding the pillar—which Mikhail now saw sat atop a building oozing with classic Sentinel architecture: flat walls of grey, unpainted concrete, no windows, and the odd door. He cast a glance down the five streets branching off from the square—each leading to a tunnel—and noted with disappointment that everything here had been styled in much the same way. Utilitarian.

  Sentinels had no sense of style.

  Yefimova circled the building, which Mikhail realised housed the council chambers, and escorted them down the southern street. Eventually, they reached a building marked Barracks. She stepped to the side. “All right, you guildless muckers, hoods and masks off and get in.”

  The line of wardens staggered to a halt, and Mikhail frowned. What’s the delay? he wondered, as he pulled his hood back and unhooked his half-mask, fastening it to its clip on his left sleeve.

  He tried to peer ahead and saw one recruit take a big step to avoid a white towel lying across the doorway.

  You’re joking. They’re mocking what we just had to go through? Anger bubbled inside Mikhail. His cheeks burned as blood rushed to them. He scowled as the wardens continued to hop over the towel.

  The Sentinel Code boasted about protecting one’s family, and Mikhail had assumed Sentinels considered each other family. Today, all they had shown was a desire to reduce people to less than dirt. And for what purpose?

  The warden ahead of Mikhail stumbled over the towel and trotted into the barracks to join the others huddled in the centre. Only Klara held her head high. Stoic as she waited for their next command.

  Bunks lined the barrack’s walls. The top bunks were all taken by stariki—wardens nearing the end of training. They watched the fresh-faced new recruits in silence.

  So you’re the muckers who put the towel there. Mikhail narrowed his eyes. Well, life was going to be miserable here, he might as well be miserable and clean.

  He stooped and plucked the pristine white towel off the floor.

  With careful precision, he wiped his face, then wiped his coat down, and finally his boots. Once he’d reduced the towel to a black, sodden mess, he folded it and dropped it on the floor by the door, aware of the intense scrutiny he was under. How many Sentinel traditions had he just flaunted? They’d probably find his body floating in a puddle outside in the morning.

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  The door clicked shut behind him, shutting off any chance of escape.

  Klara stared at him, mouth agape, her expression screaming, “Are you stupid?”

  As one, the stariki rolled off their bunks and approached him.

  A giant starik took front and centre. An auburn beard three inches thick masked his blocky face while his hair was clipped short.

  No way he could fit a half-mask over that beard…

  The starik halted a foot from Mikhail and glowered at him.

  Mikhail had to crane his neck to look at the man. Sovereign Sculptor, what do they feed them here?

  The other stariki encircled Mikhail, and he regretted his decision to trash the towel.

  Suddenly, a grin spread across the giant’s face, and he clapped Mikhail on the shoulder with a huge, meaty hand.

  A cheer erupted from the stariki, and a dozen hands smacked his back and shook his shoulders as he stared around, baffled. What on Vlanovia?

  “Welcome to Borovsk! Nikolay Ivakin, at your service,” the giant said, his voice a deep rumble that reverberated through Mikhail’s chest. Nikolay grasped Mikhail’s hand in his and shook it.

  “Borislav Avilov,” Mikhail said, struggling to come to grips with the situation. Mad. They’re all mad.

  “It is rare a salaga will accept our humble welcome. Most”—Nikolay turned, scowling, to the new recruits—“ignore our gesture of fellowship. Instead, they track mud into our clean barracks.”

  Mikhail stared past Nikolay at Klara and grimaced at the sour frown masking her face.

  “What’ll happen to them?” Mikhail asked.

  “Do not worry about them,” Nikolay said, “they will be taught to have gratitude for acts of kindness. For you, however, there is a bunk. After you’ve cleaned up properly, of course. Just leave your muddy clothes with the ungrateful salagi,” Nikolay raised his voice and looked back at the new wardens. “They’ll be delighted to clean the filth off your clothes for you.”

  Fantastic. Avoided tonight’s punishment by the stariki, but set myself up for some serious repercussions from the new wardens. Mikhail forced a smile on his face as it occurred to him that winning was not an option here. No matter what he did, he’d lose.

  Just stay alive.

  “Let me show you around,” Nikolay said, steering Mikhail from the barracks.

  Mikhail spared one last glance at Klara and saw dozens of stariki converging on her and the other wardens. Good luck, Klara.

  As Nikolay led Mikhail through Borovsk, Mikhail noticed many wardens giving Nikolay a nod of respect. The mountain was without a doubt at the top of this steaming pile of muck. So perhaps he had information?

  Testing that theory, Mikhail asked, “Do you know many of the Alchemists at Borovsk?”

  Nikolay’s brow furrowed as he cast a sidelong look at Mikhail. “Why?”

  “An old family friend, Dominik Pozharsky, said he was working at one of the Sentinel forts, I just can’t remember which. I’d like to see him again—if I can find him.”

  “You are wise to ask Nikolay, I will find this Dominik Pozharsky for you. But do not concern yourself with that now, here are the showers. Clean and refresh yourself, you will join us for dinner.” Nikolay stopped by an open door and indicated Mikhail should enter.

  “Thank you,” Mikhail said. “Your kindness is greatly appreciated.” He stepped through the door and breathed a sigh of relief to be out of Nikolay’s shadow. He didn’t doubt for a second that one wrong step would place him firmly in the mountain’s bad graces. But if he could at least wrangle Dominik’s location out of Nikolay before he fell from grace, he would count himself lucky.