Page 102 of Salem’s Rise

Professor Nightwing calls the remaining contestants forward to announce the winners. “With the survival bonus applied, the highest combined score belongs to Station Two,” he says. “Both contestants completed the trial. Both demonstrated restraint.”

Rowan and Georgina exhale in relief.

“Station Four places second,” Professor Nightwing continues, and I give Silas a startled look. I thought we’d lost when he jumped in to save me. “Mr. Blackhollow’s first-round time remains the second strongest individual performance. Ms. Mercer’s second round was forfeited physically, but the trait the West demonstrates most strongly is wisdom. Mr. Blackhollow certainly showed that by going after his partner when she was in distress. The pair’s survival bonus also preserves their standing.

“Third place goes to Mr. Hawthorne.” Professor Nightwing’s gaze settles on Van with unmistakable disapproval. “His first-round score was sufficient to advance him. However, it is not necessarily wisdom to sacrifice your partner.”

Van’s expression does not change.

I look at Silas, still unsure of what just transpired. He entered the water believing it meant forfeiture and would cost us the round, and he most certainly would’ve won without doing so. And I definitely don’t understand what happened in the water. It looked like Silas somehow controlled the harbor, bending it to his will.

Except… that makes absolutely no sense. I was seconds away from losing consciousness, so who knows what I actually saw?

Still, whatever else he has lied about, whatever else he is still withholding from me, one truth has become impossible to deny. When given the opportunity to win or save my life, Silas chose me.

December 15 (7 Days Until Dark Solstice)

By the third week of December, Salem’s Fall University has surrendered almost entirely to winter. Snow blankets the dead lawns and clings to the old stone buildings, the Winter Solstice only days away and Christmas close behind.

I’ve been doing my best to pretend life is still normal, and nothing on a college campus is more aggressively normal than finals week. Somehow, while I’m fighting to survive the Veil and The Rites, I’m also expected to study for exams. Because apparently facing death at every turn is no excuse for failing a semester final.

I’ve been sitting at the same table in the Ashcroft Library for nearly four hours, surrounded by notes for my Microeconomics final, my textbooks, and a coffee that went cold sometime before sunset.

The library smells like Christmas threw up in it. Garlands threaded with dried oranges and cinnamon sticks droop above the circulation desk and on bookshelves. Somewhere near the entrance, instrumental carols play softly enough not to disturb anyone, though the tinny rendition of “Jingle Bells” has repeated so many times that I’m beginning to suspect it was selected as a form of psychological torture.

I should be studying.

Instead, I keep staring at supply-and-demand graphs without absorbing a thing, my thoughts circling everything I’m trying not to think about—Mom, Josh, Silas, and the fact that there are now only eight contestants left in The Rites.

I haven’t seen Mom in weeks. I keep promising myself I’ll go home for Christmas since I missed Thanksgiving. Assuming I’m still alive, that is.

A few months ago, death was something that happened to other people. I’d carried the quiet, irrational certainty that I had decades ahead of me—that there would always be more time. Now I think about dying almost every day. Three trials have passed, and more than half of the twenty people who began The Rites with me are already dead. Most nights, I’m certain I’ll be next.

At least there’s only one trial remaining.

Four directions, four elements—four trials. Silas all but confirmed it a few days ago, after saving my life in the harbor. I don’t know if it was a Blackhollow secret he wasn’t supposed to share, but according to him, there should only be one trial left.

Should.

That’s what Silas was taught, anyway, though he’s warned me the Veil’s rules have a way of changing when you least expect them to.

I lift my gaze from the pages of my books and look around the library. I picked the quietest table in the place, far away from everyone else, tucked into a darkened corner. Across the room, students cram for finals, their faces illuminated by laptop screens and green-shaded reading lamps. One guy flips through a stack of flashcards while two women in SFU sweatshirts share a bag of candy beneath a sign threatening expulsion for anyone caught with food. No one else is playing a deadly game run by a ruthless secret society and trying to uncover what happened to their missing brother. Their greatest immediate danger is failing organic chemistry.

For a moment, the sheer absurdity of it all nearly overwhelms me. I’m studying for finals as though my grades matter, when in all probability, I’ll be dead before Christmas.

“You look troubled.”

Georgina’s voice reaches me before her perfume does, something expensive and darkly musky. She stands across from my table in a tailored ivory wool coat, her raven-dark hair smooth despite the snow outside. She doesn’t wait for an invitation before pulling out the chair opposite mine and sitting.

“I’m studying, Georgina,” I say, lowering my voice even though no one else is within reasonable hearing distance. “Was there something you needed?”

She closes the book in front of me, forcing my full attention.

“You know Silas is using you, don’t you?”

Her expression remains composed. There’s no anger in it, no jealousy. It’s as if she’s just stating a fact. Somehow, that makes her words even worse.

I let out a disbelieving groan. “Did you seriously come all the way over here just to tell me that?”