12. Observed
There were very few places in Blackwell Keep where Fern could almost breathe.
The library had become her haven. Hardly anyone frequented the space, save for a few servants grabbing books, and its silence and solitude were cherished.
That is, when a lifetime of learning wasn’t being crammed down her throat each day.
It was the second week of her confinement—she refused to call it a “stay”—and her world had shrunk to the size of Cassius Blackwell’s curriculum. Sanguine Mechanics. The History of the Valley. Etiquette for the Elevated Heart.
“Again,” Cassius said.
He stood by the window, not looking at her, watching the courtyard below with his hands clasped behind his back.
Fern glared at the small pile of silver dust on the table. Her task was supposedly simple. All she had to do was lift the dust, form a sphere, hold it.
It sounded easy, but it was agonizing.
Fern pricked her thumb with the lancet. A warm bead of blood slowly pooled. On the table, the resonance crystal hummed as her pulse spiked. She focused, pushing her will into the droplet which fell onto dust. It shivered. Then, it rose, swirling into a chaotic cloud.
“Control, Miss Silverbell,” Cassius said, still not looking. “You’re forcing it. You’re trying to grab the dust. Don’t grab. Invite.”
“I am inviting it,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s declining the invitation.”
Cassius turned then. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Fern thought she was seeing things, but no, it was really there. “Then be a better host. The dust responds to intent, not demand. You are shouting when you should be whispering.”
He approached the table like Sprout stalking a ripe berry beneath the cupboard. Fern frowned. Today, he didn’t look like her keeper. Today, he looked… tired. Dark circles smudged the skin beneath his cobalt eyes. He looked about as rested as she felt.
“Watch,” he said, pressing his thumb to the Blackwell family ring on his forefinger. A small bead of blood welled against pale skin.
He raised a hand and the silver dust calmed instantly. It coalesced, swirling not into Fern’s jagged cloud, but a clean, rotating ring. Then another inside it. Then a third. A nested ring of silver light, spinning in perfect silence.
“It isn’t about strength,” he said softly. “It is about convincing the valley that this shape is the only one that makes sense.”
Fern watched the spinning rings, mesmerized. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s mechanics,” he corrected, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He let the dust settle. “Try again. Whisper.”
Fern took a breath and closed her eyes. She didn’t think about grabbing the dust. She thought about the roots of the trees in the Grove. How they didn’t force their way through the ground but found spaces in between.
Rise, she thought.
When she opened her eyes, she found the dust floating. Nothing nebulous, more like a soft, undulating wave. It wasn’t as neat as Cassius’ rings, but it was controlled. And even more important, it was hers.
“Better,” Cassius said. He leaned against the table, close enough that she could smell his soap. “Much better. You have a natural affinity for—”
The library doors slammed open. Fern flinched as the sound punched the air from her lungs.
Her silver wave collapsed instantly, scattering across the table. Cassius straightened, his face reverting to stone.
High Blackwell stood in the doorway.
He wasn’t alone—two guards flanked him but remained at the door. He entered, his boots clicking on the parquet floor.
“Father,” Cassius said. His bow was shallow, but respectful.
Fern scrambled to her feet, dropping into the curtsy she’d practiced until her knees ached. “High Blackwell.”
High Blackwell ignored her. He walked to the table, running a gloved finger through the scattered silver dust.
“Progress report,” he said without looking at his son. Instead, he focused on the dust.
“Miss Silverbell is advancing ahead of schedule,” Cassius said. The fatigue and subtle warmth in his voice were gone. “Her grasp of theory is rudimentary, but her practical application constitutes a… unique potential.”
“Unique.” High Blackwell turned the word over like a crown he suspected was counterfeit. He finally looked at Fern. His eyes were the same blue as Cassius’, but where Cassius’ were ice, his father’s were the unending void.
“Show me,” High Blackwell commanded.
Fern’s pulse pounded against her eardrums. “Show you… what, High Blackwell?”
“Power,” he said softly. “I am told you are an anomaly. A flaw in the design. Show me why I shouldn’t simply have you scrubbed from the history books.”
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.”
Fern blinked, tears pricking her eyes. “You… you think so?”
Cassius held her eyes. “I know so.”
He hesitated. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say more. To step closer, but the moment hung suspended, fragile as the dust rose.
“Ice your hand,” he said finally, stepping back. The mask slid back into place, but it didn’t fit quite as tightly as before. “We resume in an hour. And Fern?”
She paused at the door.
“Don’t let him make you a hammer,” he said. “The rose was better.”