Page 22 of The Thirteenth Count

Sprout followed Fern as she ran upstairs and started throwing her things into a travel bag. Everything she owned, everything she was, reduced to nothing more than a bag and the magic coursing through her veins.

Behind her closed door, she finally cried, sinking to her knees. Sprout lapped at the tears on her cheeks and nudged her with his head.

There’s no time for this.

She sniffled and got back up, forcing herself to choose carefully what mattered most. The black dress her mother passed down to her was a must. But what really choked her up was the pressed flower she received from her father, which he had sandwiched between two panes of glass. He’d given it to her on her fifteenth birthday. And she couldn’t forget Sprout’s brush. After throwing a few more dresses into her bag, she took a moment to look around her room one last time. Many cherished memories were made in that very space. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply before turning her back on all she knew.

Downstairs, her mother was a wreck. She flung her arms around Fern, whispering into her ear. “Remember who you are, no matter what they tell you.”

Her father handed her his old Book of the Mother before embracing her. She clutched it to her chest as he spoke, his voice low enough Sturgis couldn’t hear. “We love you, no matter what happens.”

Sturgis was waiting impatiently by the door, tapping his polished shoe. “Time waits for no man.”

Fern wiped her eyes and walked toward the door with Sprout on her shoulder. She turned around to look at her parents one last time. Her father held her mother as she silently broke down, threatening to cleave Fern’s chest in two.

“I love you both so much,” she choked out. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

But Elise… will I ever see her again?

Sturgis opened the door and looked at Sprout. “You’re not bringing that thing.”

Fern gave Sturgis a death stare. “You’ll pry him from my dead hands before you take him from me.”

Sprout purred as he rubbed his head against Fern’s chin.

Hushed whispers followed Fern as Sturgis led her through Ashford Cross’ winding roads. Passersby stopped in their tracks to watch, but no one dared interrupt their procession. The curious stares that followed, however, were grating on her last nerve. Heat prickled under her skin. Mother, I despise this.

Sprout was anxiously circling above, and she felt as though she was slowly dying. And Sturgis? Sturgis was a lizard. Being forced to go directly to the Keep was an awful, terrible thing. She didn’t want to be any closer to the Blackwells than necessary, but the only thing she could do was obey the Stemblood, unless she wanted to make things worse for herself and her parents.

At least Sprout was still allowed to stay with her. If they had tried to take him… she didn’t know what she would have done.

So, she followed him to the mountain’s base, where the cliff face swallowed what little crimson light filtered through the fog and cast long shadows across the stones. A lone platform waited, guarded by four Stembloods armed with runic swords. The blood carriage would arrive soon to carry her up Ashford Peak—away from everything she’d ever known.

“While convenient,” Sturgis began as he looked up the mountain face, “these blasted things are slower than oak resin.”

Fern rolled her eyes. I doubt he’s ever needed to harvest resin.

As they waited to board, Fern’s nerves grew more frayed. Sturgis stood rigid at her side, his dark Stemblood coat fitted so tightly it looked like it could hold him upright on its own, polished silver buttons gleaming even in the gloom. His lapels held a curious detail she hadn’t seen before—the Blackwell rose, stitched in dark thread along the edge, its thorns curling like claws. An emblem only worn by those who served the High directly. A cold prickle gathered at her hairline. Whatever awaited her at the top of the mountain would not be kind.

She’d never thought she was afraid of heights, but the absolute terror at the thought of being dragged up to Ashford Peak made her stomach churn. Sprout nuzzled against her neck as she watched the carriage slowly move down from the second tier along a cable. It finally settled onto the platform with a thud that made her jump.

She bit her bottom lip. “Is… is it safe?”

“Very.” Sturgis sniffed and held open the carriage door. “Come. I’ll show you how it works.”

The carriage did look safer than she thought it would. Black iron with brass fittings housed them like a cage, while waist-high dark wood panels gave the illusion that they were simply on a veranda, overlooking the vista.

Mounted in front of Sturgis was a hand-shaped receptacle lined with tiny spikes. He jerked his head toward it, and Fern moved closer.

“Do you know how blood allows for carriage movement?” Sturgis asked.

Fern squinted at the runes etched into the black iron and wood, then let her gaze trail upward toward the thick chain connected to a pulley system.

“I’m assuming blood runs through the runes, which activates the mechanism?”

He nodded. “Very good. Now sit tight,” he added as he pressed his hand against the mold without even a wince. The Oathblight already on the back of his hand darkened. “We’ve a long trip.”

The blood carriage lurched as it began its ascent, powered by thick crimson that flowed through mechanical veins carved into the platform.