3. The Thirteenth Count #2
An ancient man with no hair and skin like leather hobbled across the dais. White robes billowed behind him. He stood in front of the pedestal with hands clasped together, waiting. Watching.
Behind him stood the reason thousands had gathered.
High Blackwell’s presence seemed to bend the surrounding air.
His blonde hair, streaked with silver, and his sharp features belonged to a legacy Fern had heard about her whole life—a family ruling Thornvale for generations, untouchable, ever-present.
His piercing blue eyes swept over the crowd, scrutinizing the very people who depended on him.
Lady Blackwell stood beside him, elegant in deep crimson with silver-streaked blonde hair curled at the nape of her neck.
Her beauty was as cold and perfect as White Season’s frost. Her honey-brown gaze lingered on the youngest Blackwell, Marcus, whose features favored hers.
Both had fox-like qualities—narrow faces and long noses.
Marcus sneered down at the Rootfolk below.
Fern leaned into her father and whispered, “How old is the youngest Blackwell?”
“I believe he’s right around your age. Perhaps a year or two older.”
“And the other?” Fern’s gaze moved to Lysander Blackwell, poised on his father’s other side in a fitted Blackwell blue frock coat. He looks quite dapper. He had High Blackwell’s hair and eyes, though something in his expression seemed gentler. “He seems nicer than the others.”
“If I recall correctly, Lysander is twenty-six.”
High Blackwell surveyed his territory like a hawk. A chill crept over Fern’s skin; she had never felt more exposed.
The Grove Master raised his hands, and the crowd went silent.
“I can feel your worries,” he rasped, his voice echoing across the square.
“Excitement. The trepidation coursing through your veins.” He rested his palms flat against the pedestal.
“Those feelings are natural. Warranted. For something such as the Count to come two years early? Why, there must be a reason. And by the grace of the Mother, there is.”
Quiet whispers raced through the assembly, sending a shiver down Fern’s spine.
She turned to her father. “This is bad, isn’t it?”
He grimaced. “Seems that way.”
“The Mother teaches us that our blood sings,” the Grove Master continued. “That magic flows through us all, though in different measures. Without the Rootfolk, the Stembloods couldn’t survive. And without the Stembloods, the Highbloods would falter.”
High Blackwell wrinkled his nose at that.
“Our valley has been plagued by greed. People who take and take until they become nothing more than a scourge upon our lands.” The Grove Master lowered his voice.
“Magic is finite. As we seek and obtain more power, giving nothing in return… our bloodlines diminish. And eventually, when there is nothing left to give… we will all become Deadwoods.”
Gasps and horrified voices erupted from the crowd. Fern’s stomach dropped. The Grove Master opened his mouth to continue, but High Blackwell pushed him aside and commanded the crowd’s attention.
“What I believe our Grove Master was trying to say,” Blackwell shot him a withering look, “is that desperation will lead to corruption.” Cobalt eyes scanned the crowd.
“I’m going to level with you. For many years, the valley’s magic has been dwindling.
You may have noticed blood tithes happening more and more frequently.
Perhaps common goods that were once affordable are now a luxury.
Our goal with this Count is to find Stembloods living amongst you in an effort to strengthen bloodlines—to strengthen the valley.
To return Thornvale to its former glory. ”
The crowd’s murmur started as a low rumble, like distant thunder. Then it grew, voices rising in anger, rising in fear.
“You’re bleeding us dry!” one man shouted in the distance.
High Blackwell’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained controlled. “All those who are to take part, line up. Everyone else, move to the designated waiting area.”
Fern’s father held her closer as the swarm of people dispersed every which way.
“Why should we trust you?” A woman’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “You take our blood, our children, our chips—what do we get in return?”
The crowd pressed forward, and Fern felt her father’s grip tighten protectively around her.
“More promises?” Another voice bellowed. “More lies while we starve?”
High Blackwell’s composure slipped for just a moment—a flicker of disgust twisted his mouth. “All those who are to participate—”
“Answer us!” The crowd was moving now, a surge of anger pressing forward. “Why should we sacrifice more when you give back nothing?”
Fern couldn’t deny it. Her family never starved; a Keeper’s household was spared the worst of it. These people had every right to be angry.
But the mob’s advance slowed as whispers began to spread.
It’s him.
The son.
The heir.
The crowd parted like water around stone, and through the gap walked Cassius Blackwell, his presence commanding silence where his father’s words had failed.
He was polished in every sense—the aristocratic slope of his nose, skin so pale it seemed to catch the light, the deliberate fall of his blonde hair.
One hand rested in a tailored pocket as his lean frame moved with grace and confidence that looked inherited.
It was hard to believe he was only twenty-eight.
So, he’s alive after all. Fern found herself staring. The rumors were wrong.
“My son, everyone,” High Blackwell held his hand out toward him, “will do the honors today.”
A few women wept. Others clapped and whooped. Over the past few years, whispers he’d died spread like wildfire throughout Thornvale. No one had heard from—or seen—High Blackwell’s eldest son. The people of Ashford Cross assumed the worst—illness, exile, even death.
But seeing him now was electrifying. The heir of the Blackwell family was alive, well, and undeniably powerful.
As Cassius raised his hand to acknowledge the crowd, a thin rivulet of blood slid down his palm and blight crept along his fingertips. Something strange washed over the square. The angry shouts died away. Even the weeping dwindled to soft sniffles.
A faint tremor ran through his fingers and his jaw tightened as if whatever he was doing caused him pain. Fern caught a hint of something between his brows. Not control, but struggle.
Fern felt a peculiar lightness in her chest, as if her worries were dissolving like sugar in water.
“I feel… odd,” she whispered to her mother.
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Resonance,” she murmured, barely audible. “He’s calming everyone’s emotions. It’s an uncommon, terrifying gift.”
“Terrifying how?”
“Someone with resonance can assume complete control over another person.” Her mother shuddered. “That takes significant, concentrated effort. What Lord Blackwell is doing right now is like soaking the crowd in warm water—blanketing them in power instead of crushing them beneath it.”
Fern blanched. “Could he really do that to everyone here?”
“Fortunately, no. I doubt he could use this at full power on more than two people at a time. Even then, he would need time to recover. Everything has a cost.”
Fern watched Cassius carefully as the unnatural peace settled over the square. Most would see a powerful heir displaying his gift, but she noticed the way his shoulders sagged slightly, the careful way he drew breath. Maintaining his resonance is draining him.
Thin black vines crept up his neck, branching across his brow. And that’s the price of power. What was normally considered a stain upon Thornvale’s people looked quite striking against the heir’s pale skin, and she didn’t want to admit it, but it stole the air from her lungs.
“The purpose of today’s Count has already been explained to you,” Cassius’ voice carried clearly amongst the crowd. “But I stand here before you for one purpose, and one purpose alone: to beg you, the good people of Thornvale, to understand the importance of strengthening our blood.”
Fern looked around the crowd and saw awe and admiration on their faces. Cassius Blackwell begging?
“The Thirteenth Count is not about consolidating power; it’s about saving the valley.
Without magic, we—all of us—cannot tend to its needs.
” He lowered his arms and looked down. “We have a duty to care for this land, to nurture it, and with the magic in our veins dwindling… we have no way of doing that.” He sighed, running long fingers through his hair. “The Withering… is spreading.”
His composure cracked, and something raw slipped past, something that looked a lot like… guilt. Maybe shame. Shame of what he was asking of them. That vulnerability lasted only a second before the Blackwell mask returned, but she’d seen it.
Murmurs rumbled through the crowd. Cassius raised his palm to silence them. “I’ve spent all these years researching, learning everything I can about how to stop it. And… this is the only way. So please, I beg of you, let the Count commence.”
Reverent silence swept over the crowd. Then, slowly, people began to nod. A few voices called out in agreement. The angry energy from moments before had transformed into hope.
Cassius stepped back and gestured toward the right side of the dais. “All those who are to participate, please form a line here. Everyone else, move to the designated viewing area.”
“Time to go.” Her father gently guided her toward the dais.
Fern’s stomach fluttered as she watched the crowd disperse.
The viewing area filled with people—the elderly, those too young to partake, and pregnant women who sobbed and hugged their partners before they joined the other participants to see if they’d be leaving them for the second tier.
Everyone else lined up single file, and Fern found herself swept along with hundreds of others toward an uncertain future.