6. Taking Her Name
Hushed whispers followed Fern as Sturgis led her through Ashford Cross’ winding roads.
Passersby stopped in their tracks to watch, but no one dared interrupt their procession.
The curious stares that followed, however, were grating on her last nerve.
Heat prickled under her skin. Mother, I despise this.
Sprout was anxiously circling above, and she felt as though she was slowly dying.
And Sturgis? Sturgis was a lizard. Being forced to go directly to the Keep was an awful, terrible thing.
She didn’t want to be any closer to the Blackwells than necessary, but the only thing she could do was obey the Stemblood, unless she wanted to make things worse for herself and her parents.
At least Sprout was still allowed to stay with her. If they had tried to take him… she didn’t know what she would have done.
So, she followed him to the mountain’s base, where the cliff face swallowed what little crimson light filtered through the fog and cast long shadows across the stones.
A lone platform waited, guarded by four Stembloods armed with runic swords.
The blood carriage would arrive soon to carry her up Ashford Peak—away from everything she’d ever known.
“While convenient,” Sturgis began as he looked up the mountain face, “these blasted things are slower than oak resin.”
Fern rolled her eyes. I doubt he’s ever needed to harvest resin.
As they waited to board, Fern’s nerves grew more frayed.
Sturgis stood rigid at her side, his dark Stemblood coat fitted so tightly it looked like it could hold him upright on its own, polished silver buttons gleaming even in the gloom.
His lapels held a curious detail she hadn’t seen before—the Blackwell rose, stitched in dark thread along the edge, its thorns curling like claws.
An emblem only worn by those who served the High directly.
A cold prickle gathered at her hairline.
Whatever awaited her at the top of the mountain would not be kind.
She’d never thought she was afraid of heights, but the absolute terror at the thought of being dragged up to Ashford Peak made her stomach churn.
Sprout nuzzled against her neck as she watched the carriage slowly move down from the second tier along a cable.
It finally settled onto the platform with a thud that made her jump.
She bit her bottom lip. “Is… is it safe?”
“Very.” Sturgis sniffed and held open the carriage door. “Come. I’ll show you how it works.”
The carriage did look safer than she thought it would. Black iron with brass fittings housed them like a cage, while waist-high dark wood panels gave the illusion that they were simply on a veranda, overlooking the vista.
Mounted in front of Sturgis was a hand-shaped receptacle lined with tiny spikes. He jerked his head toward it, and Fern moved closer.
“Do you know how blood allows for carriage movement?” Sturgis asked.
Fern squinted at the runes etched into the black iron and wood, then let her gaze trail upward toward the thick chain connected to a pulley system.
“I’m assuming blood runs through the runes, which activates the mechanism?”
He nodded. “Very good. Now sit tight,” he added as he pressed his hand against the mold without even a wince. The Oathblight already on the back of his hand darkened. “We’ve a long trip.”
The blood carriage lurched as it began its ascent, powered by thick crimson that flowed through mechanical veins carved into the platform.
Ashford Cross fell away in slow, sickening inches—the little market square, the birch groves behind her home, the winding streets she’d walked all her life.
With every pull of the line, more of the world vanished beneath a dense red haze, swallowing everything familiar.
Soon, only the dapple of torchlight and wardcandles remained.
Fern pressed herself against the back wall, clutching her travel bag while Sprout flitted about, his yellow eyes darting between the rising landscape and Sturgis’ impatient expression.
“I’ve allowed this creature to remain with you, but I trust it won’t be causing any disruptions,” Sturgis said, the distant toll of timing bells vibrating faintly through the compartment.
“Familiars are not permitted inside the administrative hall.” When Fern’s brow knit in confusion, he added, “Your elevation must be entered into the High’s books. A formality.”
Fern shifted her weight from one foot to the other as Sprout beat his wings faster, letting out a sharp hiss that echoed throughout the compartment.
“He stays with me,” Fern said firmly, surprised by her own boldness.
Sturgis finally looked at her, eyes devoid of emotion. “We shall see about that.”
The climb felt endless. Every creak of the carriage scraped at her nerves, until, at last, it shuddered to a stop.
“It appears we’ve arrived,” Sturgis said.
As they stepped off the platform, Sturgis paused to consult a narrow scroll, giving Fern a moment to steady herself.
The red haze was thinner on the second tier, but that didn’t help; the world below looked wrong, flattened like a painted map.
Streets she’d walked her whole life were only pale lines.
People were nothing more than moving flecks of color. It didn’t feel like her home anymore.
A large, smooth road—far different from the cracked cobbles below—divided the tier into two sections.
Stemblood residences were carved directly into the mountain, while elegant dark-wood buildings rimmed the man-made platform.
A high stone wall reaching Fern’s shoulders enclosed everything, likely to keep anyone from plummeting to their death.
Sturgis placed the scroll inside the jetted pocket of his jacket and cut left. They walked the tier until they reached a large building with carved black columns.
“Don’t dawdle—Registrar Praxis is waiting.”
The Registrar’s office felt more like a judgement room than an administrative hall—all dark wood and stern portraits of previous Thornwardens glaring down from the walls.
Sturgis deposited her there with only a clipped nod before disappearing, leaving her alone with her travel bag and growing dread.
Sprout remained perched on her shoulder.
Fern stood in the suffocating quiet. A draft slipped through the floorboards, cold enough to raise gooseflesh. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, each packed with gilded leather volumes—the kind she’d only ever seen locked behind display cases.
Once, she’d seen a blacksmithing tome priced at two full crowns. Rootfolk would need years to save that much, yet the knowledge inside could change a life. She hadn’t dared lift it from the shelf then, and she didn’t dare move now. Not in this place. Not with the portraits watching.
She stayed rooted to the spot by the door, travel bag clutched in both hands, as if stepping farther inside might trigger something she couldn’t take back.
The door behind the large desk swung open, and Registrar Praxis swept in. Her posture was sharp, heavy navy eyes going straight to Sprout before she even acknowledged Fern.
“I see Sturgis failed to enforce policy,” Praxis said as she took her seat. “No matter.” She gestured across from her at the stiff-looking wooden chair.
“Ms. Grovekeeper, while your father is an esteemed man in his own right, when one achieves elevation, precepts must be obeyed.” She steepled her fingers and narrowed her gaze.
“One must cast aside their old name and take on a new—something befitting their appointed station. This is an honor seldom granted.” Her stare drifted to Sprout, then to the ancestral clock on the wall.
“Stembloods and Highbloods are proud pillars of Thornvale. Your name must reflect that. Under normal circumstances, I would allow you a full day to choose.” Her lips thinned.
“However… we are on borrowed time. High Blackwell expects your arrival shortly. I will give you a brief while to decide.”
“My… name?” Fern managed.
“Yes.” Praxis folded her hands atop the desk. “Your current surname carries certain… connotations. Connotations that are unbecoming of those who reside in the upper tiers.”
“You cannot expect me to abandon my name,” Fern whispered.
Praxis blinked once, slowly. “It is the least of what will be required. You would do well not to resist it.”
Fern swallowed. “I’m sorry. I—this is rather sudden.”
“You’d do well to set your feelings aside and do as you are bidden.”
Fern was gripping the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles were grey as she watched Registrar Praxis leave her alone in the room. A new name? They really expected her to give up her family name without being Bonded? How utterly insulting.
How long did she have to decide? Minutes?
An hour? She didn’t even know any Stembloods—or Highbloods, for that matter, save for the Blackwells—to know what kind of name to choose.
Her fingers tapped along the wood. Elmwood?
Bloomington? Taft? If only the Mother could guide me in this, but even with all her infinite wisdom, I don’t think she’ll provide an answer.
By the time Registrar Praxis had returned, Fern had her head in her hands.
Praxis cleared her throat, getting Fern’s attention. “Before we proceed—your family. Both parents are Rootfolk, yes? No Stemblood ancestry at all?”
Fern gripped the fabric of her dress. “None that I know of.”
“No uncle or grandparent of unusual talent? No incidents of inherited magic?” Praxis’ quill hovered, poised to strike through something.
Fern shook her head. “My family’s ordinary.”
Praxis hummed, unconvinced. “We will verify. Now…” She sifted through a small stack of parchment, selecting one with clerical efficiency and laying it flat between them. “Have you chosen?”
“I—” The timing bells outside began to toll, and Fern’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Bell. Fern Bell.”
“Bell.” Praxis deadpanned. “You truly believe Bell is a good enough surname for an elevated individual?”
Beads of sweat rolled down Fern’s spine. She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on the silver pitcher sitting on top of a small table.
“No, no,” Fern began nervously. “You’re absolutely right. Silverbell. Fern Silverbell.”
Registrar Praxis cocked a bushy grey brow but started writing. “Well, I cannot say it is what I’d have chosen, but I suppose it will have to do.”
She slid a thick sheet of parchment in front of Fern, followed by a knife. “This binds you to the name until you Bond. It must be signed in blood.”
Fern stared at the knife.
“Go on,” Praxis said, pushing the instrument closer.
With a shaky hand, Fern pricked her index finger. Her hand hovered over the document; a glob of blood fell from the tip, soaking into the fibers. Registrar Praxis huffed.
Fern swallowed, closed her eyes, and signed her new name. Oathblight crept around her neck.
Signing away her name was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Do I even belong to my family anymore?
The registrar tutted. “Your penmanship could use some work. I will include that in my notes to High Blackwell. No matter.” She rolled up the parchment, tying it together with a thin piece of twine before sealing it with black wax.
She handed it to Fern. “Take this and let the guard outside know you’re ready to go to the Keep. They will escort you.”
Registrar Praxis didn’t wait for Fern to get up before leaving.
Alone in the room, Fern knew she should find the guard, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.
Instead, she untied the twine and broke the seal on the parchment.
She didn’t care if opening something meant for someone above her station would bring consequences. She had to see it.
And just like that, Fern stared at her new name written in her own blood.
Silverbell. It looked wrong—foreign, like it belonged to someone else entirely.
Twenty years of being a Grovekeeper, of carrying her father’s name with pride, reduced to a panicked glance at a pitcher and the sound of timing bells. Her throat tightened.
Who was Fern Silverbell? She didn’t know.
Sprout chirped softly, reminding her she couldn’t stay there forever. She forced herself to stand and opened the door to find a guard wearing Blackwell blue, waiting.
He bowed deeply and then held the door for her to exit. “Miss…”
“Silverbell,” Fern told him.
“Miss Silverbell.” His voice was more respectful than Sturgis had probably ever been in his life, but it didn’t stop the ache of losing her name from settling in her stomach. “I’ll be your escort.”
She followed him to yet another platform. As they stepped inside the waiting carriage, Fern sucked in a sharp breath. This one was even more luxurious than the first, with velvet cushions and gleaming brass fixtures.
As they climbed higher up Ashford Peak, Fern watched the Stemblood tier shrink below them. The administrative buildings looked like toys from this height. Minutes dragged. The cables groaned. Even Sprout’s wings fell silent. Mother, I’m starving… but there was no room for weakness now.
Too soon. The carriage shuddered to a stop.
Fern’s legs felt unsteady as she stepped onto polished stone.
She marveled at how different the third tier was even from the second.
Highbloods lived in grandeur—huge manors carved from black marble, adorned with statues of weeping women and men pouring jugs of water.
Between each manor there were fountains and manicured gardens.
An ornate black marble wall surrounded the area, keeping them safe from the deadly drop beyond.
A pair of Highbloods sat on an iron bench wearing finery Fern had never even seen in person, save for the Blackwells at the Count. They watched her pass, their sneers unmistakable.
“This way,” the guard said as he gently guided her toward a tall set of stairs.
As they reached the top landing, Blackwell Keep loomed before her.
The paintings hadn’t lied—gargoyles jutted from the dark stone facade, their grotesque faces frozen in eternal screams, while dying statues flanked the entrance.
Carved blood pooled around their bare feet.
If anything, the paintings had been kind.
This close, the Keep didn’t only look threatening, it felt hungry with pointed spires reaching for the fog above.
Sprout pressed closer to her neck as the guard led them toward a massive wrought-iron gate watched by stoic Watchers gripping runic swords.
“Hail,” Fern’s guard said, fumbling for a sheet of parchment which he handed to one of the watchers. “Miss Silverbell is to be staying.”
The Watcher skimmed the document, gaze sliding to Fern. Instinctively, she drew herself in, as if the look alone could press her smaller.
“Let them through,” he called.
From a guard tower, another Watcher sliced his palm and pressed it to a stone plate. The iron bars glowed red before gears clicked and the wrought-iron frame started to move.
Fern wanted to run, but the gates opened all the same.