Page 44 of The Thirteenth Count

Cassius took a half-step forward. “Father, she is still in the foundational⁠—”

High Blackwell raised a hand. Cassius stopped instantly, his jaw tightening.

“The girl,” the High said. “Now.”

Fern looked at the pile of dust. Then she looked at High Blackwell. She saw the dismissal in his eyes, the boredom. He expected her to fail. He expected her to blast the room with uncontrolled energy, proving she was just a dangerous animal to be put down. Not a pet worth keeping.

You are shouting when you should be whispering.

Fern raised her hand. She didn’t look at Cassius. She looked straight at the High.

“As you wish,” she said.

She reached for the lancet again, wincing as she pricked her thumb. A fresh bead of blood welled up, familiar heat surging. But she didn’t push it outward. She held it. Compressed it. She thought of the gem-hard pressure found deep underground.

The silver dust didn’t explode. It lifted.

One grain at a time.

It was agonizingly slow. But Fern didn’t waver. She directed the dust to swirl, to condense. She didn’t make a sphere. She made a rose.

It hovered between them—a perfect, shimmering rose of silver dust. Each petal was distinct. The thorns were sharp enough to prick. It rotated slowly, catching the light of the wardcandles.

It wasn’t a display of raw power. It was an insult: delicate, pointless, perfect control. The rose off their own gates, handed back to them in dust.

Fern suppressed a shiver as the strain hit her, but she held the High’s gaze.

“Is this adequate, High Blackwell?” she asked.

High Blackwell stared at the silver rose. He looked genuinely surprised. Then the surprise vanished. Calculation took its place.

“Pretty,” he sneered. He waved his hand, his thumb brushing a ring on his finger.

The air pressure in the room slammed down.

Fern gasped as her concentration shattered; the silver rose disintegrated. The resonance crystal on the table flared white-hot, looking glassing her shock. She stumbled back, catching herself on the edge of the table.

“Fragile,” High Blackwell said. He stepped closer, looming over her. “I am assessing a curiosity, Miss Silverbell. But if you cannot withstand a simple breeze, you are merely a defect.” He turned to Cassius. “Push her harder. If she breaks, she breaks. We have no room for glass baubles.”

With that, he turned on his heel and marched out. The doors swung shut, leaving a ringing silence in his wake.

Fern stood trembling, clutching her hand. The humiliation burned hotter than the sting in her palm. She had done it perfectly. And he had crushed it like it was nothing.

“Fern.”

She froze. It was the first time he had used her given name. The sound of it was strange in his voice—close, and unexpectedly warm.

Cassius was there and he reached out, taking her hand—the one marked by blood. He gently pried her fingers open. The skin was red, angry.

“He’s wrong,” Cassius said.

Fern looked up. His heir’s mask was gone, his eyes wide and dark with fear she had never expected to see.

“I failed,” she whispered. “He said⁠—”

“I know what he said.” Cassius ran his thumb over her palm, a touch so light it made her breath hitch. “He wants a hammer. He only understands the world as nails.”

He looked at the scattered dust on the table. “That rose,” he said quietly, “was the most difficult piece of transmutation I have ever seen a novice perform. He destroyed it because he couldn’t replicate it. Not with that finesse.”