Page 23 of The Thirteenth Count

Ashford Cross fell away in slow, sickening inches—the little market square, the birch groves behind her home, the winding streets she’d walked all her life. With every pull of the line, more of the world vanished beneath a dense red haze, swallowing everything familiar. Soon, only the dapple of torchlight and wardcandles remained.

Fern pressed herself against the back wall, clutching her travel bag while Sprout flitted about, his yellow eyes darting between the rising landscape and Sturgis’ impatient expression.

“I’ve allowed this creature to remain with you, but I trust it won’t be causing any disruptions,” Sturgis said, the distant toll of timing bells vibrating faintly through the compartment. “Familiars are not permitted inside the administrative hall.” When Fern’s brow knit in confusion, he added, “Your elevation must be entered into the High’s books. A formality.”

Fern shifted her weight from one foot to the other as Sprout beat his wings faster, letting out a sharp hiss that echoed throughout the compartment.

“He stays with me,” Fern said firmly, surprised by her own boldness.

Sturgis finally looked at her, eyes devoid of emotion. “We shall see about that.”

The climb felt endless. Every creak of the carriage scraped at her nerves, until, at last, it shuddered to a stop.

“It appears we’ve arrived,” Sturgis said.

As they stepped off the platform, Sturgis paused to consult a narrow scroll, giving Fern a moment to steady herself. The red haze was thinner on the second tier, but that didn’t help; the world below looked wrong, flattened like a painted map. Streets she’d walked her whole life were only pale lines. People were nothing more than moving flecks of color. It didn’t feel like her home anymore.

A large, smooth road—far different from the cracked cobbles below—divided the tier into two sections. Stemblood residences were carved directly into the mountain, while elegant dark-wood buildings rimmed the man-made platform. A high stone wall reaching Fern’s shoulders enclosed everything, likely to keep anyone from plummeting to their death.

Sturgis placed the scroll inside the jetted pocket of his jacket and cut left. They walked the tier until they reached a large building with carved black columns.

“Don’t dawdle—Registrar Praxis is waiting.”

The Registrar’s office felt more like a judgement room than an administrative hall—all dark wood and stern portraits of previous Thornwardens glaring down from the walls. Sturgis deposited her there with only a clipped nod before disappearing, leaving her alone with her travel bag and growing dread. Sprout remained perched on her shoulder.

Fern stood in the suffocating quiet. A draft slipped through the floorboards, cold enough to raise gooseflesh. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, each packed with gilded leather volumes—the kind she’d only ever seen locked behind display cases.

Once, she’d seen a blacksmithing tome priced at two full crowns. Rootfolk would need years to save that much, yet the knowledge inside could change a life. She hadn’t dared lift it from the shelf then, and she didn’t dare move now. Not in this place. Not with the portraits watching.

She stayed rooted to the spot by the door, travel bag clutched in both hands, as if stepping farther inside might trigger something she couldn’t take back.

The door behind the large desk swung open, and Registrar Praxis swept in. Her posture was sharp, heavy navy eyes going straight to Sprout before she even acknowledged Fern.

“I see Sturgis failed to enforce policy,” Praxis said as she took her seat. “No matter.” She gestured across from her at the stiff-looking wooden chair.

“Ms. Grovekeeper, while your father is an esteemed man in his own right, when one achieves elevation, precepts must be obeyed.” She steepled her fingers and narrowed her gaze. “One must cast aside their old name and take on a new—something befitting their appointed station. This is an honor seldom granted.” Her stare drifted to Sprout, then to the ancestral clock on the wall. “Stembloods and Highbloods are proud pillars of Thornvale. Your name must reflect that. Under normal circumstances, I would allow you a full day to choose.” Her lips thinned. “However… we are on borrowed time. High Blackwell expects your arrival shortly. I will give you a brief while to decide.”

“My… name?” Fern managed.

“Yes.” Praxis folded her hands atop the desk. “Your current surname carries certain… connotations. Connotations that are unbecoming of those who reside in the upper tiers.”

“You cannot expect me to abandon my name,” Fern whispered.

Praxis blinked once, slowly. “It is the least of what will be required. You would do well not to resist it.”

Fern swallowed. “I’m sorry. I—this is rather sudden.”

“You’d do well to set your feelings aside and do as you are bidden.”

Fern was gripping the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles were grey as she watched Registrar Praxis leave her alone in the room. A new name? They really expected her to give up her family name without being Bonded? How utterly insulting.

How long did she have to decide? Minutes? An hour? She didn’t even know any Stembloods—or Highbloods, for that matter, save for the Blackwells—to know what kind of name to choose. Her fingers tapped along the wood. Elmwood? Bloomington? Taft? If only the Mother could guide me in this, but even with all her infinite wisdom, I don’t think she’ll provide an answer.

By the time Registrar Praxis had returned, Fern had her head in her hands.

Praxis cleared her throat, getting Fern’s attention. “Before we proceed—your family. Both parents are Rootfolk, yes? No Stemblood ancestry at all?”

Fern gripped the fabric of her dress. “None that I know of.”