Sentinel is small, still. New.

It is a good thing.

It is especially good in the half-gleam of rusted spikes, jutting out of the earth with the grind of an ancient mechanism. It is good because the impaling implements are spaced just so, and the young puck, twisting nimbly, slides in between them, as though his ribs are merely caught between tongs.

Still—his heart thunders.

Sweat flushes his chest and flanks.

The spikes have left twin streaks of rust, running vertically in the grooves of matching intercostals.

"Wow," he chokes. "That was close."

Gargoyle, his sire, leans a dark head and placid eyes over the edge of the pit. "You must watch your step, child."

And Sentinel thinks, You don't have to tell me twice.