Every muscle in Mikhail’s body ached as he trudged down Kosgrad’s streets the following morning. He shrugged deeper into Klara’s Warrior coat; it was far too big for him, but he didn’t particularly care. It still protected him from the pre-dawn chill. The sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon, so a thick layer of frost covered the street. Ice crunched beneath Mikhail’s heavy boots, the only sound to break the silence. Kosgrad wouldn’t rise until the sun had melted most of the frost.

  Mikhail had managed to talk his way into being given a bunk at one of the Warrior Guild’s buildings out in Expansion IV. The Warrior Guild itself resided in Expansion I while the Alchemist Guild took up most of Kosgrad Central. Kosgrad had begun life as a glorified fort, built by the Alchemists after the Exodus. In the two hundred years since its founding, the Alchemists had moved its walls four times.

  Mikhail passed through the residual wall that marked the border between Expansion III and II. His destination, the Merchant Quarter, also lay in Expansion I, taking up, well, a quarter of it.

  After a night of tossing and turning, Mikhail had formed a plan. The first step was to change his hair and appearance as much as possible. His white hair—a gift from his mother—marked him as a foreigner, even though he’d grown up in Kosgrad. Once he’d changed his hair, he would brazenly walk into the Market Hall and find the records counter buried in the back. Every Alchemist who’d ever worked for the Guild had their name and current location stored there.

  The Guild liked to keep track of its Alchemists.

  Mikhail knew the plan was far from ideal, but as Klara had refused to help, his options were hazardous at best. Most would get him killed in minutes. The only way he could think of locating his mother lay first in finding Dominik Pozharsky. With any luck, he’d be in Kosgrad, and Mikhail could find some way of getting to him—or asking him to meet.

  All while Voronin and his private army hunted him down.

  Easy.

  By the time Mikhail arrived in the Merchant Quarter, shops were slowly opening as the sun licked the rooftops of the two-story buildings lining the sidewalks. He found a Fashion Guild barber and pushed the door open.

  A bell overhead jingled cheerfully as a tall, thin man in a purple Fashion Guild coat swept from a back room. “Welcome to Hair Today!” he said. A black, sharply styled goatee framed the toothy smile that gleamed amidst his dark features as he bowed. “My name is Pankov, how may I serve the venerated Warrior this new day?”

  Mikhail held back a smile. “I feel like a new look is in order,” he said as he pulled his hood back.

  “Certainly, certainly.” Pankov ushered Mikhail to one of the many chairs that ran along the two mirror-lined walls. Once Pankov had him seated, he draped a cloth around Mikhail’s neck and fluffed his wavy white hair. “Did you have a style in mind, my good sir?”

  “I’d like my hair shorter and darker. And I’d like a beard.”

  Pankov nodded, his lips pursed. “Colour?”

  “Dark brown I think.”

  “Excellent. I shall return presently.” Pankov disappeared into the back room, leaving Mikhail sitting alone in the quiet shop, gazing around at the mirrors in their brass frames, and at the polished wooden counters—Pankov clearly did well for himself to afford wooden counters. Mikhail vaguely wondered at Pankov’s clientele before his thoughts drifted to his mother.

  He desperately wished he could get his hands on her journal. She must have hidden it in his lab for him, had the Grand Master known that? Or just deduced that was the most likely hiding place?

  Pankov returned, pushing a cart ladened with phials, scissors, and a razor. He unscrewed the lid of one phial and handed it to Mikhail. “This will grow your beard and hair. Once we reach the desired length, you take this one”—he proffered another phial—“to stop the growth.”

  The idea of taking an extract that contained pronzat made Mikhail’s skin crawl, especially after yesterday’s display of its growth potential. But the extract was safe. He should know, his mother created it.

  Mikhail took the phial from Pankov and smiled as he swallowed the contents. Mother had worked hard to get the extract tasting as nice as possible, but to Mikhail, it still tasted like sour berries. He suppressed a shudder as the skin on his face and head tingled. Not taking his eyes off his reflection, Mikhail watched his hair and beard grow. Already his sideburns and sparse stubble had turned into a short beard.

  “Ten minutes should suffice,” Pankov said, taking the empty phial from Mikhail.

  Mikhail slumped in the chair while Pankov rambled cheerfully as he tidied the shop.

  The bell over the door jingled, and a flash of azure caught Mikhail’s eyes. He glanced over and his hearts stuttered to a stop. A woman in an Alchemist coat pulled her hood back and unclipped her mask, revealing greying hair and wrinkled face. She scanned the room as Pankov rushed over to her.

  “Larisa!” Pankov said. “It has been too long, my darling!”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Mikhail’s stomach tried to make a hasty exit as Larisa’s gaze fell on him, and their eyes locked. Oh no, she recognises me! He braced, ready to run.

  Then her gaze switched to Pankov, who gestured to a chair opposite Mikhail.

  “Yes. Yes it has. The usual, Pankov,” Larisa said, taking the proffered chair.

  “Certainly,” Pankov said, his gleaming teeth once again lighting his face. “Anything for my favourite customer.” He hurried off, abandoning Mikhail to the Alchemist.

  Larisa may not have recognised him, but sitting in a room with an Alchemist left his gut in a twisted knot. Mikhail turned his attention back to his reflection. Was it his imagination, or was his complexion attempting to out-white his hair?

  Pankov returned and stopped by Mikhail, eying his hair critically. “We have enough length, my good sir.” He handed Mikhail the second extract.

  Afraid to talk, Mikhail nodded and swallowed the extract. He shuddered. So sour.

  A soft laugh sounded from behind him, and Mikhail glanced at Larisa in the reflection. She watched him with a twinkle in her slate grey eyes.

  “I apologise on behalf of the Alchemists for the taste,” she said, smiling. “We try to make our extracts as pleasant as possible, but some just don’t cooperate.”

  Mikhail gave her a strained smile as the prickling sensation on his head calmed.

  Pankov handed Mikhail another extract. “This is for the colour, sir.”

  “What colour are you getting today?” Larisa asked.

  “He’s getting the delightful deep brown you made me,” Pankov said.

  “Oh, excellent choice!”

  How soon can I leave? Mikhail took the extract as Pankov strutted over to Larisa and the two chatted while Pankov trimmed her hair.

  Who else might walk in? How many more Alchemists might show up? One who would recognise him? Drumming his fingers on his leg, Mikhail counted the seconds while his hair darkened.

  By the time he reached two thousand, his hair had stopped changing, settling on a rich, dark brown. Mikhail glanced at Pankov. He could see where Larisa got the inspiration for the colour from.

  The barber looked up from Larisa. “I’ll be right with you, sir,” he said. “Larisa, my darling, I shall return to wash your hair in but a moment.”

  “Please, take your time, Pankov. I wish to make the most of my freedom from work.”

  Pankov tipped his head back and laughed, playfully swatting Larisa’s arm before he crossed to Mikhail and ran his hands through Mikhail’s now shaggy brown hair. “How would you like it cut?”

  Mikhail blinked. Half an hour of sitting there and he hadn’t decided how he wanted his hair cut? “Er… I trust you.”

  “Smart man,” Larisa said. “You know, the white was quite striking on you. I don’t understand why you’d change it.”

  Pankov picked up his scissors. “Neither do I, there aren’t many in Serovnya with white hair. I say embrace your differences, don’t hide who you are.”

  Mikhail shrugged.

  “I knew an Alchemist from South Serovnya with white hair,” Larisa said. “A young lady.”

  “Oh?” Mikhail asked, his palms suddenly slick with sweat that stung the pronzat punctures. So far as he recalled, there were only a handful of white-haired Alchemists in Kosgrad’s Alchemist Guild, even fewer actually from South Serovnya. His mother was one. Though she wasn’t young. Perhaps to someone like Larisa she was?

  “I’ve not seen her around in a couple of years though. Last I did, I recommended she come here for a haircut.”

  Mikhail nodded, his mouth dry.

  “By the way,” Larisa said, turning to Pankov, “that reminds me. Did Pozharsky ever come see you?”

  Pozharsky? Mikhail couldn’t believe his ears.

  Pankov shrugged. “I’m not certain. But you know me, I’m terrible with names!”

  “You would remember him, his hair was out of control. I have seen neater hair on a wild mountain slavock. I insisted he see you before he left for the Sentinels, make a good impression with those…” She glanced at Mikhail. “People.”

  “I’ve not trimmed the hair of any slavocks of late,” Pankov said with a laugh.

  Mikhail’s hearts thundered in his chest. Dominik was with the Sentinels? But which fort? There were only three nearby, Borovsk, Ledavsk, and Katavsk. None of them would be easy to gain access to—not unless you were a Sentinel. Mikhail dared not ask Larisa about Dominik, lest he make her suspicious, but at least he had a direction to pursue. He offered up a quick prayer of thanks for his good fortune and tried to relax as Pankov snipped away at his hair.

  With a final flourish, Pankov stepped back. “Perfection!” He brushed the trimmed hair off the towel slung around Mikhail’s neck.

  Turning his head from side to side, Mikhail eyed his reflection. Gone was the clean-shaven and young look, a mature face now stared back at him. The beard highlighted his sharp jawline, and the swept back hair took the emphasis off his angular nose. Even he barely recognised himself, he looked as old as Klara now.

  “It’s good,” he said, standing.

  “Good?” Larisa said. “Boy, that’s the finest haircut you can get in Kosgrad.”

  “You’re too kind,” Pankov said as he took the towel from Mikhail.

  Mikhail paid and left, breathing a sigh of relief when he crossed the shop’s threshold. The city had woken, and the street was now filled with people. He flipped his hood up and stepped into the throng. Life flowed around him, a vibrant array of coats, and though he knew he was unrecognisable, every flash of azure sent Mikhail’s hearts to his throat as he pushed through the crowd.

  His mind turned back to Dominik. Somehow he needed access to the Sentinel forts, but how? Only two years of training at the Warrior Guild left him under-qualified. A Sentinel recruit needed to be at least twenty-five with seven years of prior military experience—but his father was the head of Sentinel recruitment in Kosgrad. He wouldn’t lift a finger to help, of course, however… all Mikhail really needed was the piece of paper every Sentinel warden carried when they stepped off the coil train at Borovsk. A document detailing their name, age, military record, and the date of their successful testing, all signed by Sergei Koskov.

  Mikhail tried to calm his twitching nerves as he returned to the Warrior Guild to break into his father’s office. If his father still loathed paperwork as much as Mikhail remembered, a little forgery should easily do the trick.

  He chuckled. Klara might be seeing him again sooner than she’d like.