Page 51 of The Thirteenth Count

Fern stared at him. “But… the driver…”

“That man is a fool,” Cassius spat. “But the guards at the gate are not. If they had found that letter—if they read what you wrote—do you know what would have happened?” He leaned down, his face inches from hers. “They wouldn’t just arrest your parents. They would burn Ashford Cross to the ground.”

“The town—” Fern started, her voice shaking.

“Is nothing compared to you,” Cassius hissed. “Do you not understand what you are? To my father, a functioning town is an asset. You are a necessity. He would torch every home in the valley to keep you here, to force you into compliance.”

The fight drained out of her. “I… I didn’t know.”

“Ignorance is not a defense!” Cassius slammed his hand on the table, making her jump. “Ignorance gets people killed! You are not a peasant girl anymore, Miss Silverbell. You are a Blackwell asset. And assets do not smuggle notes out the back door!”

He grabbed her shoulders, the grip bruising.

“Listen to me,” he hissed. “If you want your parents to live, you will never, ever contact them again. You will be silent. You will be obedient. You will let the valley think you are exactly what my father needs you to be—a silent, compliant piece.”

“Like you?” Fern whispered.

Cassius froze. The anger in his eyes fractured, exposing the agony beneath it.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Like me.”

He let her go, turning away and bracing himself on the mantelpiece. He stared into the fire that had consumed her hope.

“I was watching from the gallery,” he said, his voice flat. “I saw you stop the wagon. I came down before it reached the checkpoint. No one else saw the letter. The driver… I’ll handle the driver.”

Fern touched her wrist where he had grabbed her. It throbbed, a dull ache that matched the pounding in her temples.

“You saved me,” she said. Why would he save a traitor?

“I protected the investment,” Cassius corrected.

Fern looked at his back. For the first time, she noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles were white where they gripped the stone.

“Cassius,” she said softly.

He went rigid. His knuckles tightened on the mantle until the bone threatened to split the skin, but he didn’t correct her.

“Get out,” he rasped. “Get out, Fern. Before I forget that you’re an asset and remember that you’re a liability.”

Fern didn’t move right away, glancing at the fire, then at him. “Thank you.”

She turned and left his study. The corridor outside was empty, but the silence of the East Wing was heavy, watchful. Fern kept her head down, hugging the shadows as she hurried back toward the safety of the main hall.

But as she walked back to her gilded cage, she understood its bars held more than one prisoner.

He burned the letter. He yelled. He hurt her.

But… he hadn’t told his father.

He’s trapped, too. She looked at the walls, the stone pressing in on all sides, suffocating them both. He’s part of the machine, but he hates the gears as much as I do.

And for the first time in four weeks, she wasn’t entirely alone.

Two days passed in suffocating silence. Fern expected retribution. She expected guards to burst into her room, dragging her down to the dungeons or worse—back to the copper vats. She expected Cassius to storm in, cold and furious, listing the ways she had failed him.

But nothing came.

Lina brought her meals. The maid’s usual chatter was gone, replaced by a nervous, flighty energy. She wouldn’t look Fern in the eye, and her hands trembled as she set down the tray.