Klara Koskova fought for balance on a narrow steel beam. She tried to ignore the thirty-foot drop to the arena floor—a fall certain to end with at least a broken neck. And back. And arms. And legs…

  Her family would have little more than a shattered body to present at her funeral. Though probably she’d bear more resemblance to a yutzi turd.

  After someone had stepped on it.

  Not at all fitting to be displayed to loved ones.

  Focus! Klara shook her head and wobbled, sending her hearts skittering in her chest. Idiot. She took a deep breath and focused on things more at her level.

  Gaslamps hissed and sizzled around her—she could almost reach out and touch the ceiling from which they hung. Her objective, a small brass platform, lay only feet away. She’d make it. Her fear would not conquer her. Again.

  She crept forwards, sweat slicking her cheeks beneath her hardened leather half-mask. Her breath ran hot against her skin, a small burst of warmth quickly stolen by the chill air of the arena. She wore the heavy grey coat of the Warrior Guild. Though, with any luck, that coat would be exchanged for the green of the Sentinels soon.

  If she passed this test.

  She risked another glance down. Three high-ranking Sentinels, a keeper and two hawk-eye guardians, watched her. Occasionally one looked down to scribble a note on their clipboard. Their judging gazes bored into Klara as they studied her every move, waiting for her to fail and show fear.

  Despite her coat, Klara shuddered. Then her boot touched the marginally more stable platform and she let out a sigh.

  No two evaluations were the same. The Sentinels customised the course to force the hopefuls to face their deepest fears. Yutzi muckers, Klara thought as she hurried across the platform to a long row of bars each mounted a foot apart in the ceiling. She rubbed her gloved hands together. The soft leather was damp from sweat. Two paths were available. One set of bars led to the middle of the arena before looping around to a wide platform backing onto the arena’s wall. A long-bladed knife hung in a sheath at the centre of the path. Her weapon of choice.

  The second set of bars led straight to the wide platform, on which a tall man stood, his muscles straining against his Sentinel coat. A black band with two silver stars side by side wrapped around his immense right bicep and marked him as a guardian. The hood of his coat cast deep shadows over his face and the brown, predatory half-mask he wore. A wooden staff hung loosely from his right hand.

  Her choice was simple: spend less time hanging over a fall to certain death and fight bare-handed, or retrieve a weapon she could wield with confidence.

  Klara took hold of the first bar and swung out, her feet hanging in the open air. Her stomach lurched, and she swallowed the bile in her throat. One misplaced swing, and it was a long drop with a sharp stop for her. Even healing extracts would struggle to mend her after a fall like that.

  After a moment of hesitation, she chose the second path. She didn’t need to beat the guardian, all she needed to do was hold her own and prove her skill. Indeed, even with the knife, her chances of beating him were slimmer than surviving a night outside Kosgrad without shelter. Who knew how many monsters he’d slain from beyond the gates? Dozens, no doubt, to have earned the rank of guardian.

  He watched her, his gaze impassive as she swung towards him, weaponless. Did he judge her for that? Consider her weak for not going after the knife? Or was it a sign of bravery? Bravery, I hope.

  She reached the halfway mark and grabbed the next bar.

  Crack!

  Klara let out a strangled cry as the bar dropped away, ripped straight from the concrete ceiling. Her hearts thundered in her chest as it clattered to the stone floor. The dirty yutzi muckers must have loosened it, a penalty for taking the short route. How many more were loose?

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  Forearms burning, Klara surveyed the path ahead. Only eight bars between her and safety—yet any one could fail when she put her weight on it. To carry on? Or go for the knife?

  Klara released the bar with her left hand and seized the next.

  It shifted, grinding as it pulled from the concrete. Dust showered to the floor, and Klara cursed. Dead end. She should’ve just gone for the knife. They were testing her willingness to face her fears, and she had just failed.

  Frustration ebbed into anger, and, without pause, Klara turned and swung back to the first platform. Fool! You let them see your fear. Anger seethed in her gut, burning away her trepidation as she swung out to the knife.

  Klara reached the knife and, hanging one handed from the nearest bar, yanked it from the hook. After a brief struggle, she managed to get it into her pocket and continued towards the second platform and the Sentinel guardian.

  She reached the last bar and her throat constricted as she realised the platform was still a yard away. She’d have to jump. Klara backed up, then ensured the knife was secure. Sovereign Sculptor, please let me live.

  Klara charged, picking up speed with every bar. She clenched her teeth as her muscles screamed at her.

  Three bars, two bars, one bar.

  Leap.

  Klara sailed through the air, legs bent and ready to land. She hit the platform feet first and rolled. As she rolled, she retrieved the knife from its sheath and held it, thumb on pommel, blade extended behind her. She continued to her feet and sprinted at the guardian.

  The guardian’s stance widened, and he spun the staff up to grip with both hands.

  The two fighters collided.

  Klara’s blade bit deep into the middle of the staff, and she clung to the knife as the guardian tried to wrench it from her hand with a deft twist.

  A chunk of wood flew from the staff as the blade ripped out.

  Both fighters retreated, circling. No emotion showed in the guardian’s pale blue eyes, and Klara could feel him weighing her skill, assessing her strengths and weaknesses. A tinge of jealousy tugged at her as she admired his control.

  Then he was on her, his staff a blur.

  Klara dodged the first swing and collected a blow to her left shoulder as a reward. Her leather coat partially absorbed the hit, but it still left her fingers tingling. She hissed in pain and brought her knife up in response, slicing at the weakened point on the staff. Once again, her blade sank into the wood, and she yanked it away, notching another piece from the staff.

  The guardian grunted, and Klara swore she saw a hint of respect in his eyes.

  She lunged at him, feinting for the staff. In a flash, he swung for her hand, but too late. Klara twitched the weapon back and instead brought her left fist up in a powerful uppercut.

  The guardian saw it and jerked away, though Klara’s fist still grazed his half-mask. The movement left his neck exposed, and Klara threw a punch with her knife hand, aiming to hit his jugular with her knuckles—she wasn’t here to kill.

  Instead of moving back, the guardian dropped the staff and stepped forwards, weaving left of Klara’s punch. His hands snaked behind her head and he tugged her into his ascending knee.

  Stars dotted her vision as his knee smashed into her face. Her half-mask took the brunt of the blow, saving her nose from a break. Barely.

  Her first instinct was to wrestle free of his grip—which he doubtless expected. Instead, she slammed the knife into his thigh as he brought his leg up to knee her again.

  “Argh!” The guardian released her and staggered away, the knife still buried in his leg.

  Klara lifted her fists and stood, swaying, waiting for him to approach again. Her vision swam. The knee to her face had done more damage than she’d anticipated.

  The guardian pulled the knife out, a glitter of fury reflecting in his eyes as he launched at Klara.

  Klara darted back, wishing she’d kept hold of the blade.

  “Hold!” a woman’s voice echoed through the arena.

  The guardian and Klara froze.

  “That will be all.” The keeper from below stepped onto the platform from a doorway in the wall.

  Klara and the guardian saluted and said, “Yes, Keeper!”

  “Guardian,” the keeper said, “go get a healing extract for your leg.” To Klara, she said, “We will call you for your interview soon. You’re dismissed.”

  Klara saluted again and followed the guardian from the arena. By the time she crossed the door’s threshold, the adrenaline had left her system and an avalanche of nausea and fatigue swept over her.

  All she could do was hope her decision to go the short route hadn’t jeopardised her chances. She’d find out when they interviewed her whether she’d failed. Utterly drained, Klara drew a long, shuddering breath. Unbidden tears stung her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away, aware she was in public. She glanced around and sighed with relief; no one had witnessed her display of weakness. Emotions had no place in the Sentinels. Her father made sure she never forgot that.