Skyfire by Skye Melki-Wegner

your generosity, sir,’ I say. ‘And I thank you for your kind welcome. But …’
    I glance across at my friends, waiting by the door. Teddy. Clementine. Maisy. Lukas. The thought of leaving them, of heading off alone into the spires of that unknown city …
    â€˜If it’s permitted, sir,’ I say. ‘I’d like to stay here.’
    Hinrik looks as though I’ve slapped him. Hishands have fallen low again, and I have a terrible feeling that he’s reconsidering the pistol. But then he takes a slow breath and raises an eyebrow.
    â€˜Despite your foreign birth, you are being offered a position of great honour and luxury among our people. You shall live in our spires. Feast at our banquets. This very week, you may even attend the Ball of No Faces. Do you dare to turn it down – to reject our generosity?’
    I swallow. ‘I didn’t mean any offence, sir. I’m deeply honoured by your offer. But my friends …’
    â€˜You would choose a bunch of commoners with low proclivities over the honour and prestige of life in the spires?’ Hinrik’s stare is now a glare, and I hear the tightness beneath each word.
    I bow my head. ‘If it’s permitted, sir.’
    Hinrik is silent for a long moment. I risk raising my eyes a little to check his expression. His lips are pursed and his eyes are narrowed. No matter how this decision goes, I’ve deeply insulted the magistrate.
    Good going, Danika. My first few minutes as an official Víndurnic, and I’ve already made an enemy of one of the most important men in the land.
    I can’t bring myself to look at my friends. Instead, I stare at my feet and strain to keep my breathing steady. Why doesn’t Hinrik say anything? Why is he just standing there, silent, as though waiting for –
    â€˜Very well.’ Hinrik’s tone is so sharp you could use it as a climbing pick. ‘If you wish to denigrate yourself, and insult the honour of the high proclivities …’
    I look up just in time to see him turn away, clicking his fingers for the guards to follow. My friends scurry aside as they stride through the doorway, Hinrik bringing up the rear.
    As he reaches the door, the magistrate pauses. He spins back around to face me, silhouetted against the pale morning light.
    â€˜Your ingratitude has been … noted.’
    And then he’s gone: a swirl of cloak into the grey.
    I stare after him, a little shaky. I have made an enemy. An enemy who considers it demeaning to reject his offer. Not just demeaning for myself, but for all those with ethereal proclivities. A rejection. An insult. An affront to Hinrik himself.
    Perhaps he’ll seek to stop me living in the village.
    Or to stop me living at all.

We’re each allotted a coloured cloak: brown for Teddy, crimson for Maisy, tan for Lukas and white for Clementine. Thanks to my supposed ‘Darkness’ proclivity, my own cloak is black. When I slip it on, pockets of warmth rub like fingers down my spine.
    â€˜Once your proclivities are tested,’ Bastian says, ‘keep your cloaks with you. The law says you’ve got to wear your colours. Got it?’
    Clementine scowls at her cloak’s stark white, and I hear her mutter something to Maisy about it ‘washing her out’. But Bastian is already striding from the cabin, so we stumble into our boots in an effort to follow him.
    We cross rickety chain bridges, balance upon platforms, and poke our noses into various cabins.The grain stores, the blacksmith’s cabin, the kitchen. I can’t help but peep over the railing, scouring the forest below for signs of movement. But the trees are still, and the undergrowth is silent. No sign of the hunter.
    â€˜Danika, he’s dead,’ Lukas says gently, noticing my tension. ‘He couldn’t have known to climb into the trees at midnight.’
    I nod. He’s right, of course, but still I’m