Bastian wakes us when the sun is still rising.

‘If you want to come,’ he says, ‘we’d best get started. It’s a damn long walk to the spires.’

I’m still a little groggy as we clamber down to the forest floor. Teddy mutters something hopeful about breakfast, but Bastian refuses to waste time in the kitchen. I scan the trees, left and right. No sign of movement.

No sign of the hunter.

Despite myself, I begin to relax. It’s been over a day since we saw the hunter. If he were lurking nearby, surely he would have made a move by now? Either he’s scampered back to Taladia, or he died at midnight. The most dangerous thing on this mountain is probably Teddy’s rumbling stomach.

Even so, I’m relieved when Bastian leads us to a well-worn path up the mountainside. It’s nothing like the Central Mountains in Taladia, where we stumbled blindly through bracken and snow.

‘The market will be busy, I’d say,’ Bastian says. ‘The Ball of No Faces is tomorrow night, so folks’ll be in a hurry to buy their masks.’

‘The Ball of No Faces?’ I say. The name sounds familiar.

Bastian nods. ‘Biggest party in Víndurn, lass. Once a year, Lord Farran holds a great masked ball; all the folks with high proclivities are invited. They wear masks to hide their eyes, and veils to mask their proclivities.’ He shakes his head. ‘Bunch of nonsense, if you ask me, but it’s a big night for politics.’

‘Why?’ Teddy says. ‘Just cause a bunch of richies are prancing about and scoffing cucumber sandwiches?’

‘Because Lord Farran himself attends,’ Bastian says. ‘It’s his only guaranteed public appearance each year, see? He makes a grand speech an hour before midnight, setting out his agenda for the year ahead.’

‘How do you know?’ I say.

Bastian hesitates. ‘A few folks in our clan were born to parents with ethereal powers, see, so they attended the ball themselves each year. Until their own proclivities developed, at least.’

I stare at him, taken aback. Until now, my only concern about Víndurn’s segregation was its effect on my crew. But how must it feel for a Víndurnic teenager to be banished from home and family? After a childhood of luxury in the spires, to be sent down into the cold of a village, to scavenge for firestones and peel potatoes …

‘But surely people must protest?’ Clementine says. ‘I mean, if families are forced to separate because of –’

Bastian cuts her off. ‘We respect Lord Farran, and the wisdom and justice of his laws.’

‘But –’

‘If a family’s desperate enough, they can choose to live together in the lower villages. To make the same choice you made, lass,’ he says, looking at me. ‘Lord Farran’s a hero, see? Not a tyrant. Not like your Morrigans.’

His expression tightens. ‘But such a choice is almost unheard of. It would be considered blasphemy, an insult to the wisdom of Lord Farran. If someone made that choice, all right-thinking Víndurnics would shun them. No patriot could betray his nation’s values in such a way.’

Bastian hesitates, as though he’s fighting the urge to say something else. I eye the others, frowning. Most Víndurnics seem to genuinely adore their ruler, and to view him as the saviour of their nation. But I don’t think Bastian is one of them. I think he has doubts – and that those doubts fuel the fervour of his outward loyalty. There’s a fine line between respect and fear.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘The sooner we sell this firestone, the sooner we’ll return to the village.’

The air is crisp and biting this morning, so I pinch my nose shut to keep out the sting. Even so, my eyes start to water.

I glance at Maisy, who never copes well in the cold. Sure enough, she’s wrapped her fingers deep inside her sleeves. I almost suggest she should go back to the cabins, but the resolve in her eyes makes me bite my tongue. She might look like a flighty little bird, but Maisy Pembroke knows all about determination. If she wants to see this city, she’ll damn well make it there.

‘How long till we get there?’ Teddy says.

Bastian shrugs. ‘An hour, I’d say.’

‘Great.’ Teddy gives a satisfied smile and pats his stomach, as though he’s about to enjoy a long-awaited meal. ‘Way too long since I’ve seen a decent city. I mean, the countryside’s nice and scenic and all that, but there’s not enough gambling or coin purses for my liking.’

Bastian stops walking. When he speaks, his voice is lower than ever. ‘Don’t even think about it. You won’t be an equal in the city, son. Your proclivity is low. Don’t ever forget it.’

‘Oh, come off it,’ Teddy says. ‘There’s gotta be some poor people there, some criminals …’

Bastian shakes his head. ‘We respect the laws of the Eternal Lord.’

Teddy’s features settle into a scowl, but he doesn’t argue. He’s probably plotting to sneak off anyway and find an illicit gambling match. Knowing Teddy Nort, he’d manage it too – and fleece half the locals while he’s at it.

‘You call him the Eternal Lord,’ I say, trying to change the subject. ‘Lord Farran, I mean. And Hinrik called him “eternal” too. What do you mean?’

Bastian pauses. ‘Lord Farran’s … different.’

‘Different how?’

‘His powers go beyond those of mere mortals. He has strong magic. Wondrous magic. Magic the rest of us can’t hope to grasp.’

‘Hang on,’ Teddy says. ‘Beyond mortals? You mean he’s not mortal? He can’t be killed?’

‘Of course he can be killed, son,’ Bastian says. ‘He’ll die from a blade in the throat as quick as any other man. But he doesn’t age, see? He is eternal.’

I stop walking. ‘Wait, what?’

‘He doesn’t age,’ Bastian says again. ‘He’s ruled us for three hundred years.’

‘Um …’

‘The bloke’s gotta be tricking you,’ Teddy says, waving his hand. ‘I mean, it’s a con. I bet it’s father and son, passing down this ruse over the generations or something.’

Bastian shakes his head. ‘It’s the same man. There can be no doubt. His proclivity’s the rarest of them all, and he’s kept that proclivity for three centuries.’ He looks at us, his eyes hard. ‘Never speak doubt of Lord Farran’s word in front of others. That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is he like the Timekeeper, then?’ I say. ‘You know, stealing time from other people and –’

‘No!’ Bastian snaps. ‘The Timekeeper was evil, corrupted. She used her proclivity to destroy this land. Lord Farran is a hero, see? His proclivity is not temporal. He uses alchemy to extend his life, and his great experiments will save us all.’

Teddy lets out an impressed whistle. ‘This has gotta be the longest con ever. I mean, I reckoned I was pretty good when I pretended to be that richie socialite’s butler for a week to nick her rubies. Three centuries is a serious effort.’

Bastian grabs Teddy’s arms, his expression furious. ‘Do not doubt!’

Teddy’s eyes widen a little, as though the older man’s grip is painfully tight. ‘All right, all right! No doubting. Got it.’

‘The magic of Lord Farran is beyond imagining,’ Bastian says. ‘He was the first to divide our society into low and high proclivities. He protects our people from our enemies. He rules Víndurn with hundreds of years of experience, and our people will not tolerate words of treason. Got it?’

‘Yeah, all right! The bloke’s three centuries old. Whatever you say.’

Bastian releases Teddy’s arm. Teddy stumbles back, swearing a little under his breath, and massages his wrist. I wince at the fingermarks upon his skin; he’ll have a serious bruise tomorrow.

We wait for Bastian to head off again, taking the lead up the mountainside. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Teddy turns to the rest of us with a scowl. ‘Blimey,’ he says. ‘I thought we left Taladia to get away from crazy tyrants.’

No one responds.

The spires rise from the peak of the mountain: high and arching, glimmering like glass.

I’ve never seen buildings like these before. Compared to the grime of Rourton – with its dark streets and stink of rubbish – this city seems something from a song. As the sun shines off their skins, the spires look almost like lanterns planted upright in a bed of frost.

‘Wow,’ Teddy says. For once, he doesn’t add a punchline.

The path melts from scrub onto cobblestone streets. This city is reserved for the highest echelons of Víndurnic society: those with ethereal proclivities. It has to be perfect. No mud and bracken for those Lord Farran deems worthy.

From a distance, the spires looked like frosted glass. Up close, though, I realise they’re built from strangely glinting stone. To complete their grandeur, each tower rests upon a circlet of tall stone columns. I suppose even city-dwellers fear the earth at midnight.

‘The spires were built a thousand years ago,’ Bastian says. ‘From the stone of Skyfire Peak.’

‘That’s the second mountain, right?’ I say. ‘The one reserved for Lord Farran’s experiments?’

Bastian nods. ‘A geyser runs up through its core. It erupts every midnight – not with water and steam, but with alchemical juices. Folks say that mountain is imbued with magic.’

I think of the fire that erupts from the peak of the mountain and lights up the sky at night. The idea that it begins in the depths of the earth, in a whorl of alchemy …

‘And the stone of the mountain is flecked with silver too, see?’ Bastian says. ‘That’s what they used to build this city. It gives the spires their shine.’

We pass a group of locals and I drop my face respectfully to avoid their gaze. I don’t even notice I’m doing it until it’s too late: this symbol of inferiority, of obedience. Perhaps it’s their ethereal cloaks – grey, light blue and rippling black. The haughtiness in their upturned noses, or the jewels that dangle from the women’s earlobes.

Or perhaps it’s the way they look at us. Like we’re scum, or dirt, or fleas beneath their shoes. The same look richies would give me if I ever dared trespass in the wealthy parts of Rourton.

‘Don’t like us much, huh?’ says Teddy. He winks at a pretty girl in a pale blue cloak. She gives a little huff of disgust and hurries away, glancing back over her shoulder to ensure he isn’t following her. ‘Haven’t got a response that bad since the grocer’s niece chucked a cabbage at my head.’

‘She thinks you’re dirty, son,’ says Bastian.

‘Fair enough,’ Teddy says. ‘All that clambering up a mountainside – really gets some grime under your fingernails.’

‘I meant your proclivity,’ Bastian says. ‘To connect with beasts is filthy and low.’

Teddy shrugs. ‘Her loss.’

Bastian frowns. ‘If you hope to stay here, you’d better start observing our ways. You must show respect to those with ethereal proclivities.’

Teddy opens his mouth to retort, so I cut in before he can get himself into any more trouble. ‘You said something about silver in the spires?’

Bastian pauses, taken aback by the change in topic. Then his expression clears and he nods, looking as relieved as I am to steer the conversation away from Teddy’s grimy fingernails.

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘Flecks of silver, all through the stone. Imbued with alchemy when the towers were built, see?’

‘But …’ Maisy hesitates, looking nervous, when we all turn to stare at her. Even now, after all we’ve been through, she doesn’t cope well with the limelight.

‘But what?’ Clementine prompts.

‘But that would have been during the Dark Ages!’ Maisy says. ‘People had lost all knowledge of alchemy – it only started developing again a few centuries ago, during the Alchemical Renaissance …’

Bastian shakes his head. ‘Perhaps that’s true in Taladia, lass, but here in Víndurn, we never lost our knowledge. Dying souls have been casting their powers into silver since our records began.’

I peer back up at the towers. They look so unlikely, like something from a children’s story. If someone imbued their stones with flecks of silver, like a thousand tiny alchemy charms …

‘The silver holds the power of the Wind, see?’ Bastian says. ‘And the Air, and the Dark. That alchemy lets the towers survive up here. It lets them bend with the wind and the earthquakes, instead of shattering under their force.’

Lukas nods slowly. ‘That’s why you worship people with ethereal proclivities. That’s why they live in the towers.’

We pass beneath the shadow of another spire. Shining above us, it resembles a blade of pale green grass. As we pass, I risk brushing my finger across a stone column at the tower’s base. I can’t feel anything special, but it’s not my proclivity that’s imbued into the stone. If these towers held Night, instead of Air or Shadow, perhaps I’d feel a spark of alchemy on my fingertips.

‘That’s right, son,’ Bastian says. ‘But here’s the thing. No spell can last forever – not without something to renew it. We’re just lucky Lord Farran taught us how to keep the city standing.’

‘How?’

‘Fill it only with folks with ethereal proclivities,’ Bastian says. ‘Their powers seep into the spires, see, to uphold the city’s majesty for another generation. Ethereal souls keep the spires strong.’

This last bit sounds like a prepared speech, or a soundbite from a propaganda poster. I’ve been fed enough similar screeds from King Morrigan’s council to recognise the sound of doctrine when I hear it.

‘But why can’t other people live here?’ I say. ‘I mean, just because you need ethereal people in the towers doesn’t mean you can’t have other people too, right?’

Bastian pulls me close with an urgent yank of my cloak. When he speaks, he sounds almost afraid. ‘Never speak such thoughts! Not here. That’s blasphemy. Got it?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

He nods, his breath still close to my ear. ‘Lord Farran says that other proclivities will … dilute … those of purity. Our powers would contaminate the spires, see? If we spent too much time in the city, we’d taint its magic with our filthy earthbound ways.’

Bastian pulls away and straightens his cloak, then takes the lead again with a more deliberate step. ‘The Eternal Lord knows what’s best for this land,’ he says, his voice a little calmer. ‘He came to us from the heathen Valley, three hundred years ago. He led us into the light.’

We stare at each other, stunned. Out of the Valley?

‘You mean Lord Farran isn’t a native Víndurnic?’ Lukas says. ‘He came here from the west? From … Taladia?’

‘Oh yes.’ Bastian’s voice changes again, as though reciting a poem. ‘He came to us from a land of misery and terror, and he brought wisdom and light to Víndurn.’

There is a long pause.

‘You may have heard of him,’ Bastian says. ‘I believe he still lingers in your own country’s history. He’s also known as the prisoner of the Pit.’

And with that, we all stop walking.