Page 47 of The Thirteenth Count

She followed the pipe, which led to a metal grate set into the floor.

Fern knelt, shielding the candle flame so the light wouldn’t betray her. She peered through the iron slats.

Below her was a room she’d never seen.

It was vast, a cavern carved out of the mountain’s roots. The ceiling was lost in shadow, but the floor was lit by the eerie glow of hundreds of rune-etched glass tanks.

It looked like a sunken forest of copper and glass.

Massive vats sat in rows, connected by a web of piping like tangled vines. Steam hissed from valves, venting into the cold air. Men in leather aprons—Stembloods, by the look of them—moved among the vats, checking gauges, adjusting levers.

Then she saw what was feeding them.

On the far wall, there were rows of iron chairs. And in the chairs sat the Deadwoods.

Their skin was deathly grey, mapped with the inky black veins of Oathblight. The magic had claimed them, hollowed them out. For some, the curse had gone further—fingers lengthening into crooked twigs, limbs beginning to transform into timber-like appendages.

Tubes ran from their arms—dark red lines draining that trace power into the copper machinery.

They were being milked.

Fern gripped the iron slats until the cold metal bit into her palms. She recognized one of the faces.

It was Rowan Sheely. The old cobbler who had vanished from Ashford Cross two White Seasons ago. His eyes were fully black, swallowed by blight. Thorns had sprouted along his jaw, and his hands were gnarled, the fingers locked into the shape of claws, but she knew the gentle stoop of his shoulders, the way his head lolled to the side.

The Count, Cassius had said. To identify the most efficient fuel.

This wasn’t a tax. This was a harvest.

“Output on Bank 4 is dropping,” a voice echoed up from below. A stout man with a ledger was walking down the line of chairs.

“Subject 4-alpha is dry,” another man replied, checking the cobbler’s arm. He pulled the needle out with a careless yank. A droplet of dark red welled up, stark against the grey skin. “Shall we disconnect?”

“Disconnect and render,” the stout man said. “The High wants the reserves at ninety percent by the Banquet. We’re behind schedule.”

Render?

Fern watched in horror as two guards approached the cobbler. They unstrapped him. He didn’t move. He didn’t wake up. His head lolled back, his mouth hanging open.

They dragged him away, his feet trailing uselessly on the stone floor. They didn’t take him toward a door; they took him toward a dark chute in the corner of the room.

“No,” Fern breathed. “No, no, no.”

She scrambled back from the grate. She had to leave.

She stumbled back up the sloping passage, the hum of pipes vibrating in her teeth.

Blind panic drove her upward. She didn’t pause to feel for the draft or the groove of the panel she’d entered through. She just ran, hand scraping against the stone, the darkness swallowing her sense of direction.

The passage ended in a small wooden door. Fern fumbled with the latch, her fingers shaking. It gave way with a screech of rusted iron, and she tumbled out into a corridor.

She jumped up, spinning around, ready to run.

Then it caught up with her: she wasn’t in her room. She was in a part of the Keep she didn’t recognize at all—a narrow hallway lined with dark portraits—and she wasn’t alone.

A figure leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching her with an expression of mild amusement.

Not Cassius.