Page 24 of The Thirteenth Count

“No uncle or grandparent of unusual talent? No incidents of inherited magic?” Praxis’ quill hovered, poised to strike through something.

Fern shook her head. “My family’s ordinary.”

Praxis hummed, unconvinced. “We will verify. Now…” She sifted through a small stack of parchment, selecting one with clerical efficiency and laying it flat between them. “Have you chosen?”

“I—” The timing bells outside began to toll, and Fern’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Bell. Fern Bell.”

“Bell.” Praxis deadpanned. “You truly believe Bell is a good enough surname for an elevated individual?”

Beads of sweat rolled down Fern’s spine. She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on the silver pitcher sitting on top of a small table.

“No, no,” Fern began nervously. “You’re absolutely right. Silverbell. Fern Silverbell.”

Registrar Praxis cocked a bushy grey brow but started writing. “Well, I cannot say it is what I’d have chosen, but I suppose it will have to do.”

She slid a thick sheet of parchment in front of Fern, followed by a knife. “This binds you to the name until you Bond. It must be signed in blood.”

Fern stared at the knife.

“Go on,” Praxis said, pushing the instrument closer.

With a shaky hand, Fern pricked her index finger. Her hand hovered over the document; a glob of blood fell from the tip, soaking into the fibers. Registrar Praxis huffed.

Fern swallowed, closed her eyes, and signed her new name. Oathblight crept around her neck.

Signing away her name was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Do I even belong to my family anymore?

The registrar tutted. “Your penmanship could use some work. I will include that in my notes to High Blackwell. No matter.” She rolled up the parchment, tying it together with a thin piece of twine before sealing it with black wax. She handed it to Fern. “Take this and let the guard outside know you’re ready to go to the Keep. They will escort you.”

Registrar Praxis didn’t wait for Fern to get up before leaving. Alone in the room, Fern knew she should find the guard, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Instead, she untied the twine and broke the seal on the parchment. She didn’t care if opening something meant for someone above her station would bring consequences. She had to see it.

And just like that, Fern stared at her new name written in her own blood. Silverbell. It looked wrong—foreign, like it belonged to someone else entirely. Twenty years of being a Grovekeeper, of carrying her father’s name with pride, reduced to a panicked glance at a pitcher and the sound of timing bells. Her throat tightened.

Who was Fern Silverbell? She didn’t know.

Sprout chirped softly, reminding her she couldn’t stay there forever. She forced herself to stand and opened the door to find a guard wearing Blackwell blue, waiting.

He bowed deeply and then held the door for her to exit. “Miss…”

“Silverbell,” Fern told him.

“Miss Silverbell.” His voice was more respectful than Sturgis had probably ever been in his life, but it didn’t stop the ache of losing her name from settling in her stomach. “I’ll be your escort.”

She followed him to yet another platform. As they stepped inside the waiting carriage, Fern sucked in a sharp breath. This one was even more luxurious than the first, with velvet cushions and gleaming brass fixtures.

As they climbed higher up Ashford Peak, Fern watched the Stemblood tier shrink below them. The administrative buildings looked like toys from this height. Minutes dragged. The cables groaned. Even Sprout’s wings fell silent. Mother, I’m starving… but there was no room for weakness now.

Too soon. The carriage shuddered to a stop.

Fern’s legs felt unsteady as she stepped onto polished stone. She marveled at how different the third tier was even from the second. Highbloods lived in grandeur—huge manors carved from black marble, adorned with statues of weeping women and men pouring jugs of water. Between each manor there were fountains and manicured gardens. An ornate black marble wall surrounded the area, keeping them safe from the deadly drop beyond.

A pair of Highbloods sat on an iron bench wearing finery Fern had never even seen in person, save for the Blackwells at the Count. They watched her pass, their sneers unmistakable.

“This way,” the guard said as he gently guided her toward a tall set of stairs.

As they reached the top landing, Blackwell Keep loomed before her. The paintings hadn’t lied—gargoyles jutted from the dark stone façade, their grotesque faces frozen in eternal screams, while dying statues flanked the entrance. Carved blood pooled around their bare feet. If anything, the paintings had been kind. This close, the Keep didn’t only look threatening, it felt hungry with pointed spires reaching for the fog above.

Sprout pressed closer to her neck as the guard led them toward a massive wrought-iron gate watched by stoic Watchers gripping runic swords.