Page 10 of The Thirteenth Count

She squinted, trying to get a better look, but the surrounding lights made it difficult to make out the details. From where she stood, neck craned to see past the platform’s edge, the manor hardly looked bigger than a chip. How could something so imposing appear so tiny? The estate’s spires nearly kissed what lay beyond the fog. Looks like nothing more than a child’s toy from here.

Tinkling bells hushed the crowd, and they murmured amongst themselves. It’s starting. Fern’s parents took her hands in theirs and squeezed.

“Look,” her father said. “Here comes the Grove Master.”

An ancient man with no hair and skin like leather hobbled across the dais. White robes billowed behind him. He stood in front of the pedestal with hands clasped together, waiting. Watching.

Behind him stood the reason thousands had gathered. High Blackwell’s presence seemed to bend the surrounding air. His blonde hair, streaked with silver, and his sharp features belonged to a legacy Fern had heard about her whole life—a family ruling Thornvale for generations, untouchable, ever-present. His piercing blue eyes swept over the crowd, scrutinizing the very people who depended on him.

Lady Blackwell stood beside him, elegant in deep crimson with silver-streaked blonde hair curled at the nape of her neck. Her beauty was as cold and perfect as White Season’s frost. Her honey-brown gaze lingered on the youngest Blackwell, Marcus, whose features favored hers. Both had fox-like qualities—narrow faces and long noses.

Marcus sneered down at the Rootfolk below.

Fern leaned into her father and whispered, “How old is the youngest Blackwell?”

“I believe he’s right around your age. Perhaps a year or two older.”

“And the other?” Fern’s gaze moved to Lysander Blackwell, poised on his father’s other side in a fitted Blackwell blue frock coat. He looks quite dapper. He had High Blackwell’s hair and eyes, though something in his expression seemed gentler. “He seems nicer than the others.”

“If I recall correctly, Lysander is twenty-six.”

High Blackwell surveyed his territory like a hawk. A chill crept over Fern’s skin; she had never felt more exposed.

The Grove Master raised his hands, and the crowd went silent.

“I can feel your worries,” he rasped, his voice echoing across the square. “Excitement. The trepidation coursing through your veins.” He rested his palms flat against the pedestal. “Those feelings are natural. Warranted. For something such as the Count to come two years early? Why, there must be a reason. And by the grace of the Mother, there is.”

Quiet whispers raced through the assembly, sending a shiver down Fern’s spine.

She turned to her father. “This is bad, isn’t it?”

He grimaced. “Seems that way.”

“The Mother teaches us that our blood sings,” the Grove Master continued. “That magic flows through us all, though in different measures. Without the Rootfolk, the Stembloods couldn’t survive. And without the Stembloods, the Highbloods would falter.”

High Blackwell wrinkled his nose at that.

“Our valley has been plagued by greed. People who take and take until they become nothing more than a scourge upon our lands.” The Grove Master lowered his voice. “Magic is finite. As we seek and obtain more power, giving nothing in return… our bloodlines diminish. And eventually, when there is nothing left to give… we will all become Deadwoods.”

Gasps and horrified voices erupted from the crowd. Fern’s stomach dropped. The Grove Master opened his mouth to continue, but High Blackwell pushed him aside and commanded the crowd’s attention.

“What I believe our Grove Master was trying to say,” Blackwell shot him a withering look, “is that desperation will lead to corruption.” Cobalt eyes scanned the crowd. “I’m going to level with you. For many years, the valley’s magic has been dwindling. You may have noticed blood tithes happening more and more frequently. Perhaps common goods that were once affordable are now a luxury. Our goal with this Count is to find Stembloods living amongst you in an effort to strengthen bloodlines—to strengthen the valley. To return Thornvale to its former glory.”

The crowd’s murmur started as a low rumble, like distant thunder. Then it grew, voices rising in anger, rising in fear.

“You’re bleeding us dry!” one man shouted in the distance.

High Blackwell’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained controlled. “All those who are to take part, line up. Everyone else, move to the designated waiting area.”

Fern’s father held her closer as the swarm of people dispersed every which way.

“Why should we trust you?” A woman’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “You take our blood, our children, our chips—what do we get in return?”

The crowd pressed forward, and Fern felt her father’s grip tighten protectively around her.

“More promises?” Another voice bellowed. “More lies while we starve?”

High Blackwell’s composure slipped for just a moment—a flicker of disgust twisted his mouth. “All those who are to participate⁠—”