Shivers wracked Mikhail’s body as he buried deeper into his sleeping pack and stared through his foggy goggles at the night sky. The dust in the brutal wind obscured all the stars. Only the light of the full moon pierced the raging storm of the Veter. The exposed skin of Mikhail’s face itched from where it’d been hammered by the wind and dust and ice for hours.

  For now, the windbreaker offered some respite from the punishment. Actually, it offered a lot of respite.

  Mikhail glanced at it, a dark shape looming to his right. The wind thrummed over the top, leaving a pocket of stillness after it. In that pocket, 24th Squad lay, huddled close for warmth.

  They’d made camp in one of the hundreds of shallow trenches scouring the bedrock. The trench was roughly three yards wide and a yard deep with sloped walls. The windbreaker stretched nearly the full width of the trench.

  Klara sat on guard by the edge of the trench, a black shape against the pale grey stone.

  Half a day of climbing through the trenches had all but broken the squad. Though Mikhail now understood why Yefimova had assigned them this exercise. It had only taken an hour of trudging—all connected by a rope—for one to stumble and fall. Alarick had caught his foot and nose-dived into a trench. He’d have hit the ground but Yeger, following him, managed to grab his arm and keep him upright. After that, the squad pulled together.

  Mikhail’s mind wandered back to Klara. He didn’t envy her sitting on sentry duty, her head poked above the trench and catching the full force of the wind. He didn’t want to contemplate how frozen she was there instead of huddled with the rest of them.

  His eyelids drooped as he wondered if she could hear anything above that wind—or if she saw anything through the clouds of swirling dust and ice.

  Exhaustion wrapped its arms around Mikhail, and he finally relaxed, his thoughts drifting.

  Crack.

  In a flash, every hint of sleep vanished, and Mikhail sat bolt upright, eyes wide. He strained to hear above the roar of wind as he stared at Klara. She’d heard it too. Moonlight glittered off her drawn sword as she gazed around the Veter.

  Mikhail crawled from his pack and crept up to Klara, barely making a sound as he moved past the sleeping wardens.

  Klara saw him and held a finger to her half-mask, warning him to be quiet. He nodded.

  When he reached her, Klara leaned in close. “Wake Zin and Yeger,” she said, just loud enough for Mikhail to hear over the roaring wind.

  Mikhail retreated as quickly and quietly as he could. He gently shook Zinaida, and her eyes snapped open. Before she reacted, he put a finger to his half-mask then pointed to Klara.

  Zinaida nodded, and as she untangled herself from her sleeping pack, Mikhail moved through the press of bodies to Yeger and repeated the process.

  Soon Yeger and Zin sat with Mikhail and Klara, scanning the Veter.

  Klara leaned over to Yeger and spoke to him. Mikhail couldn’t hear what she said, but after a moment Yeger gave a short nod and pulled the three phials of Trinity from a row of pouches on his belt. He drank the strength, speed, and reflex extracts and shuddered as he returned the empty phials to their homes.

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  Good thinking. In about thirty seconds, the extracts would result in an insanely strong and fast Yeger. The man would be a monster to fight given his already incredible strength. Klara had just primed a serious weapon in case of attack.

  A faint whistling caught Mikhail’s ear, and he turned.

  Thunk!

  Mikhail screamed as an arrow buried itself in his left bicep.

  “Ambush!” Klara roared as Mikhail collapsed amidst the thrashing bodies of a squad now trying to free themselves from the shackles of sleep and sleeping packs.

  Tears stung Mikhail’s eyes, blinding him inside his goggles. He swiped the goggles off, grimacing as the tears froze in the frigid air. He rubbed them away while trying to ignore the searing agony in his arm.

  Dust stung his eyes, and he pulled the goggles back down. Through the misty lenses, Mikhail watched two blurry shapes of white sweep over the rise and collide with Klara and Yeger. Zin had disappeared.

  Yeger bellowed and threw the white figure who’d tackled him off, then turned to Klara and ripped the white figure away from her.

  A foot sank into Mikhail’s stomach, crushing the air from his lungs. He gasped, trying to breathe, as hands gripped his shoulders and hauled him from beneath the thrashing legs of the wardens.

  Mikhail craned his head, trying to see who dragged him. He glimpsed a dark coat. Maybe a friend? The attackers wore white.

  The person dragged him up the opposite side of the trench from the fight, exposing him to the brutish wind.

  “Wait,” Mikhail yelled through gritted teeth.

  The warden ignored him.

  “Wait! It’s not safe up here.”

  “Yes, it is,” a woman yelled back. Mikhail recognised Zinaida’s voice. “Leave the fighting to us, Mikhail, you’ll be fine here.” She dropped Mikhail and disappeared into the fray.

  Icy wind ripped over Mikhail as he lay on top of the trench. The wind numbed his shoulder. Numbed his mind.

  With pain riddled movements, Mikhail reached for the phial of strength extract at his waist. He hesitated. What if he lost control again and raged? The image of his fist descending on Klara’s pulverised face flashed through his mind and bile rose in his throat, accompanied by anguish that made the arrow wound feel like nothing more than a bug bite.

  No! He was stronger than that, his anger was his now. No extract would control it.

  With shaking hands, he unscrewed the cap of the phial and drank.

  The bitter liquid burned as it slipped down his gullet; a fire that warmed him. Seductive rage caressed his mind. Let me in, it murmured in his ear. I will take away all your pain and give it to those who wronged you. I will show them who you truly are.

  “No!” Mikhail squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his head. “You. Will. Not. Control. Me!”

  With a snarl, the rage disappeared, leaving only a trace of the anger behind. A whisper begging him to reconsider.

  Before Mikhail could take a breath, the strength extract ripped every muscle apart and restructured them into an iron-hard mass. A strained whimper escaped Mikhail’s lips as he curled into a ball, lost in an avalanche of blinding white agony.

  The torture concentrated on his left bicep as the muscles repaired themselves, forcing the arrow from his flesh.

  As it clattered to the ground, the pain faded. All the pain. Even the bite of the wind barely registered against the exposed skin around his eyes.

  A grin split Mikhail’s face. He was in control. He was in control!

  Mikhail climbed to his feet, aware of every muscle beneath his skin. What a feeling.

  Turning his attention back to the problem at hand, he tried to find Klara. Mikhail thought he saw four figures tangled in a scuffle on the rise opposite him when a debris-free gust of wind blasted by and movement to his right caught his eye.

  Two figures in white coats approached. One carried a sword, the other, a long, metal staff. They wore no goggles, and cold, dead eyes glared at Mikhail from above red streaked half-masks.

  A chill settled in Mikhail’s gut. He knew that look.

  Voronin’s soldiers had found him.