Page 40 of The Thirteenth Count

Cassius stared at her. For a second, she thought he might snap. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. “Amusing. Open it.”

Fern opened the book.

The pages were vellum, thick and creamy. They were covered in columns of numbers written in a sharp, spidery hand. Dates. Names. Amounts.

Mercer, J.—4 drams—Structural binding of the West Gate.

Sterling, A.—12 drams—Waterway purification (Sector 4).

Vane, E.—2 drams—Cosmetic preservation.

Fern ran a finger down the list. “What is this? A shopping list?”

“It is a ledger,” Cassius said. He pulled out a chair opposite her and sat, his movements rigid. “You think of magic as a chaotic force, Miss Silverbell. A wild thing to be tamed. That is a child’s view. Magic is a currency. It is a resource. And like any resource, it is finite.”

He pointed a pale finger at the final column. “This is the economy of the Keep. Every spell cast, every ward prepared, every luxurious display of power… it has a cost.”

Fern looked closer. Blackwell, A.—400 drams—Shroud repulsion (Northern Perimeter).

“Four hundred drams,” she read. “What’s a dram? A phial? A cup?”

“It is a measure of power, not volume,” Cassius corrected. “Specifically, a unit of refined potential.”

“Potential what?”

“Blood.”

The word sat between them.

He leaned back. “The quantity of blood required to yield a single dram depends entirely on the potency of the source. For a baseline Rootfolk, a dram might require a pint. For a Stemblood… perhaps a thimbleful. This is the purpose of the Count, Miss Silverbell. To identify the most efficient fuel.”

Fern jerked her hand back from the page.

“Don’t look so horrified,” Cassius said, his voice clinical. “It is the foundation of our society. The crystals you carry? They are batteries. They hold the charge. But the charge must come from somewhere. The tithes. The collection wagons. The ‘taxes’ the valley pays.”

“Wait.” Fern went cold. “When people pay their tithes… we know we’re paying in blood. But for this?”

“They pay in coin for the land,” Cassius corrected. “They pay in blood for the protection. For the wardcandles that afford them some small safety. The Highblood and Stemblood tiers rely on the repulsion wards to keep the Shroud at bay.”

Fern stared at him. “You bleed them.”

“We sustain them,” he countered sharply. “Do you think the Shroud stays back out of politeness? Without the repulsion wards, that fog would swallow Ashford Cross by the twelfth bell and rot the crops before supper. It takes power to hold the world together. And power requires fuel.”

“So you farm them,” Fern said, her voice rising. “Like… like cattle.”

“We shepherd them,” Cassius said. But he didn’t meet her eyes. He looked at the fire. “It is a symbiotic relationship. We provide safety. They provide… capacity.”

Fern looked back at the ledger. Vane, E.—2 drams—Cosmetic preservation.

“Cosmetic preservation,” she read, her voice trembling with anger. “Two drams. Someone bled so that… what? So Lady Vane wouldn’t have wrinkles?”

Cassius stilled. “Yes.”

“That’s distinct from safety,” Fern snapped. “That’s vanity. That’s theft.”

“It is the privilege of the Highblood,” Cassius said softly. “To use their resources as they see fit.”

“It’s monstrous.” Fern slammed the book shut.