As Mikhail’s comrades charged into the control room, he lounged against the wall of the dining room, arms folded as he glared at the spiral stairway heading down in the centre of the room. Several battered wooden tables were scattered in a ring around the stairway, six chairs sat at each. Against the walls, comfortable looking but worn leather couches sat. He half thought about occupying one, but opted to remain on his feet.

  Above, by the sound of it, the battle for the control room hadn’t lasted long. A few broken windows, a couple of screams, and the fight was over.

  He wondered briefly if he should join them—then saw the brass railing of the stairway wobble.

  Mikhail pushed off from the wall, his hearts stuttering in his chest. The other soldier was returning. Quickly, judging by the clatter of boots on the steps.

  He hesitated, torn. Should he get Klara? Or fight the man himself? He nearly laughed, realising he’d just contemplated proving Klara right—that he was of no use to the squad.

  Pulling his short sword from its sheath, he slunk up to the stairs, keeping out of sight from below.

  The boots grew closer, louder with every step.

  Suddenly, the soldier blasted from the stairwell into the room at impossible speed.

  Mikhail grimaced. The man was on Trinity. This would hurt.

  Mikhail swung as hard as he could, speed extract fuelling the movement, ripping the blade through the air towards the Alchemists’ back. But already the man was turning, looking for danger. And he found it.

  The soldier saw the blade, and his reflex triggered.

  Out of nowhere a fist slammed into Mikhail’s ribs and he grunted, reflex triggering as he staggered back and crashed into the table behind him. He got his sword up—for all the good it did—as the man rushed him.

  Then he was flying, the room crawling beneath his warped senses. He passed over the stairway, twisting, flopping. Briefly he glimpsed Klara seeming to walk down the stairs, her perpetual glower in place.

  Crack.

  Mikhail hit the far wall with excruciating slowness, his thick leather coat and hardened muscles absorbing the brunt of the impact. But he knew his soft skin would carry a nice bruise soon. He fell, slowly, and sank into the couch. Perfect.

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  Springs snapped and pinged beneath him as the couch gave way.

  Everything sped up and Klara reached the base of the stairs, a shiny new blade in her hands, not the blackened and broken blade of Father’s.

  As the soldier turned his attention to Klara and charged, Mikhail pushed off from the couch and also charged, angling in behind the man. No way was he going to leave this fight to his sister.

  The soldier reached Klara.

  Mikhail reached the soldier.

  All three of them crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and flapping coat tails. Mikhail got his arm around the man’s throat and hauled back, wrenching him off Klara.

  With strength boosted muscles, the man launched to his feet and pivoted, slamming Mikhail against the wall by the stairs.

  Air exploded from Mikhail’s lungs, leaving him gasping. But he hung on, wrapping his legs around the man’s legs, trying to at least throw his balance and hinder his movement as Klara stood, her eyes flashing.

  The soldier stepped away from the wall and grabbed Mikhail by his coat at the shoulders. He hauled, dragging Mikhail up.

  Sovereign Sculptor, he’s strong! Mikhail released his hold of the man’s throat and pushed off with his feet. The movement sent Mikhail somersaulting into the air and reflex triggered, slowing everything.

  He tucked his legs in to miss the ceiling as he curved overhead.

  The soldier hadn’t expected the move and teetered, his own reflex kicking in as he fought for balance. But he wasn’t focused on, or even looking at, Mikhail. Rather, his attention was locked on Klara as she removed the broken blade of their father’s knife and darted forwards.

  Mikhail shuddered as the sight of the knife brought back long-repressed memories of training with their father. Including being simultaneously slapped on both ears and losing vision and hearing for a few seconds.

  Huh…

  The soldier still stood behind Mikhail, so he cupped his hands and swung.

  With his attention on Klara, the soldier never saw Mikhail’s hands, never saw them as they slammed onto exposed ears, popping ear drums and temporarily blinding him. The man howled.

  Mikhail continued to fall, the floor crawling toward him, and he turned his attention to it; the soldier was Klara’s responsibility now. He cared more about not landing on his head.

  The soldier’s howl of anger came to a gurgling halt as Mikhail hit the ground shoulder first with a thud. He looked over to see the man slump to the ground, already dead from a knife in the eye. Mikhail gagged and looked away. I guess I blinded him long enough…

  “Did you see that flip?” Mikhail asked, scrambling to his feet, grinning behind his half-mask.

  “Very clever,” Klara said, almost grudging.

  “Thanks. Not so useless after all, hey?” He stretched and groaned. Definitely a few bruises forming. “How did it go upstairs?”

  Klara hesitated. “We’ll see. The signal may have been sent wrong.”

  “Oh…”

  “If it was, we can expect an assault force soon. Come on,” Klara said, taking the steps to the control room two at a time. “Let’s see if the ver-train is on its way yet.”

  Uneasy, Mikhail followed Klara up to the control room, trying to ignore the dead Alchemist soldier she’d left behind.