Alone and shivering, Klara trudged through the underground streets of the Central Circle. Every muscle ached, and she had collected a few bruises. One, a blow from an over-eager starik keen to show her dominance. The mucker had paid for that. Klara gave her a black eye in return.

  Of course, that was what earned her the rest of her bruises. The other stariki were quick to step in after that. Besides her, only Zin had put up any resistance to the assault. Even Yeger had just taken it—though Klara doubted he really felt any of the blows through his thick hide.

  Down one of the cross streets which connected the main streets together, Klara noticed a sign announcing an Alchemist surgery. Another shiver wracked her body. A nice, warming drink and something for the bruises sounded like a good idea, so she changed direction, heading for the surgery as she tried to decipher how she felt about Borovsk.

  It wasn’t as though the brutal training came as a surprise to her, nor even the strict social order the stariki were so eager to impress upon the new wardens. No. After all the talk of family, she failed to see any sign of it amongst the wardens—stariki and salagi alike. Had Warrior training beaten such individuality into them that despite the trainers’ best efforts, it still crept into the ranks? If so, it made no sense for the Sentinels to require so many years of service in the Warrior Guild before one could apply for the Sentinels.

  For the first time, Klara felt doubt. Doubt in the Sentinel’s ability to achieve all they claimed. Was that the secret to the training? The reason no Sentinel ever spoke of what happened here? Because nothing changed? That on the inside, they were still just the same hard, selfish fighters as in the Warrior Guild? Klara sighed and stepped into the surgery.

  Like every surgery she’d seen, it was a large, clean white room with two dozen uzhasgart framed beds lining the walls. The place smelled of antiseptic mixed with the earthy scent of healing extract.

  A number of the beds were occupied, and Alchemists wearing the white band of healer on their left arms hurried about.

  One—a tall, blonde woman a few years older than Klara—hurried towards her. Klara noted with surprise that her white shirt had no collar. Her neck was completely exposed! The woman’s blue Alchemist coat unbuttoned, revealing a skirt in place of the usual trousers. Not even the Fashion Guild wore skirts or dresses this far north.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked with a lightly accented voice.

  With effort, Klara dragged her eyes from the exposed skin of her neck and tried to focus on the woman’s face. She seemed oblivious to the discomfort her immodesty caused.

  “Um…” Klara coughed. “Yes. Vloysh and something for some bruises.”

  “Vloysh?”

  “Yes, vloysh. Spirits. I’m freezing,” Klara said, suddenly keen to be anywhere other than talking to an Alchemist with no sense of appropriate dress. If they couldn’t even deign to wear a collared shirt, what other social codes did they feel they could flaunt?

  “Alcohol will only make it worse. I can get you a warm drink though.”

  Klara scowled. “Alcohol has served as the perfect remedy for hundreds of years. Vloysh. Please.”

  The healer appeared taken aback by the rebuke, as if amazed a simple Sentinel dared to have an opinion. “I’m afraid hundreds of years of tradition is wrong, ma’am,” she said. “Alcohol destroys your body’s ability to regulate its temperature. A warm cup of tea is exactly what you need.” She flashed Klara a cheerful smile, and, without waiting for a response, took her by the arm and pulled her further into the surgery.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Fuming, Klara allowed the healer to guide her to a spare bed at the back of the room, where she sat. The healer disappeared through a nearby door, one of several along the back wall.

  Why did the Sentinels allow this woman to stay? Perhaps someone in the council insisted she stay for her “skills” but secretly because he enjoyed the free exhibition. Klara shuddered. She knew several Warriors who liked to frequent Kosgrad’s Night Palaces. The perverts were going to enjoy their trips to the surgery.

  The healer returned carrying a tray with a steaming mug on it, and, Klara noted with delight, a bottle of vloysh alongside a squat glass jar filled with a green, sludgy paste.

  “I’m afraid I have been terribly rude,” the healer said. “I failed to introduce myself. My name is Idalie Reinhardt, your friendly Borovsk healer.”

  Reinhardt? Klara flushed and suppressed a groan, kicking herself for not considering the accent. “You’re from Machtvoll, aren’t you?”

  “Machtvoll,” Idalie corrected, sounding like she was choking on the “ch” and pronouncing “voll” as “foll.” Then her smile widened. “But how astute! I arrived in Serovnya six months ago.” She set the tray on the bed. “Now, you don’t appear to be suffering any adverse effects from the cold, so I deemed it necessary to offer an apology for my inexcusable breach of etiquette by way of a drink.” Idalie cast a worried look at Klara. “I understand that is an acceptable practice here?”

  Klara managed a nod, knowing full well her face was bright red. Of course Idalie was new to Serovnya—and from a country so warm, Klara had heard rumours that people actually swam in the ocean for enjoyment.

  “You’re one of the new wardens, correct?” Idalie asked, handing Klara the mug.

  “Yeah.” Klara sipped the tea and smiled as the warm burn of vloysh blended with the heat of the tea.

  Idalie picked up the jar. “I know some of the senior wardens—stariki I believe you call them?—have some strange customs. I’m afraid I can’t give you any healing extract, but this salve will help calm your bruises.”

  “Um. Thank you,” Klara said, taking the jar and pocketing it.

  Idalie smiled brightly.

  “So, what brought you to Serovnya?” Klara asked.

  “Mainly alchemy. The Alchemist Guild in Kosgrad has some of the most advanced extracts in Vlanovia. I desperately wanted to learn more about the uzhas gas and sculpting it into uzhasgart, but Voronin Master…” Idalie’s gaze darted about the surgery, a haunted look in her eyes. After a moment, she smiled and continued, “I applied to work here, it seemed a good place to make a difference, and my request was granted. They said I was a poor fit for Kosgrad, anyway.”

  “You do seem too friendly to be an Alchemist there,” Klara said, joking as she made a mental note to find out more about Voronin Master.

  Idalie raised an eyebrow. “I don’t take your meaning.”

  Oh great. “Well, um…” Klara sighed. “Most Alchemists I’ve met are a sour lot.”

  “I can’t imagine why someone greeted with your warm smile would ever be sour towards you.”

  Klara winced.

  “Perhaps,” Idalie said, her voice icing over, “one day I will understand the hostility and rudeness directed at Alchemists, and be able to change the perception you appear to have of us. Until then, I bid you farewell, ma’am.” With that, she turned and stalked into one of the back rooms.

  It took Klara a moment to realise why Idalie had put so much emphasis on the “ma’am.” Of course… Klara groaned. Well done, offend the one person to show you kindness today. She put the mug down and sank her head into her hands. Idalie had been upset about her own failure to introduce herself, and Klara had failed to return the gesture. How rude does she think I am?

  She stood and clomped out of the surgery, painfully aware of the cold stares from the other Alchemist healers. Sleep, that was what she needed. Tomorrow would be a better day.

  It could hardly be any worse…