Page 119 of Salem’s Rise

The chamber looks mostly as it did on Veil Night. Blood-red candles burn along the stone walls, their flames reflected behind the elaborate masks worn by some of the Veil members filing into the room in their all-black ceremonial robes. Other members are barefaced, like Rowan’s and Georgina’s parents standing directly behind the altar. Wren’s and Lena’s parents are here too, along with poor Jonah’s family. They, along with many others, are mourning the loss of a loved one today.

I stand shoulder to shoulder with the surviving competitors of The Rites—Silas, Wren, Lena, Rowan, Georgina, and me. From twenty, we are now six. We’re all in varying states of disarray, faces darkened with soot, clothing torn and scorched. My arms ache from pulling against my chains, and bloody welts circle both wrists. Rowan’s lower lip is split from when he fell from his stake. The worst of our burns have been wrapped in bandages soaked with some Veil magical concoction that cools the skin on contact and heals it with unnatural speed. Within hours, I’m told, there won’t even be a scar.

Silas stands beside me, his hand wrapped around mine. At some point between leaving the forest and entering the chamber, he reached for my hand and never let go. The bottom of his black coat is scorched from the flames, his pants blackened around the calves. Beneath his clothes, I know his legs and feet have been treated with the same magical healing Veil ointment as mine, though his burns were considerably worse. He looks pale beneath the ash on his face, exhausted enough that I keep glancing at him to make sure he is still upright.

On the third time, he turns his head slightly.

“As touching as your concern is, you can stop checking,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Who said anything about concern?” I lift a brow. “I’m just making sure you don’t collapse and embarrass me in front of several generations of secret-society aristocracy.”

His mouth quirks.

“Ahh, well, that does sound more like you, Mercer,” he says, a surprising tenderness in his voice.

Lucien approaches and takes his place at the altar. Unlike the rest of us competitors, he is immaculate in his ceremonial black gown. Not a thread out of place or a streak of soot across his skin. He raises one hand, and the room falls silent.

“The Rites have ended,” he says, his voice carrying through the chamber, measured and utterly unshaken by everything that happened only hours ago. “The trials have been completed. Those who entered have been tested, and the Veil has rendered its judgment. Once every fifty years, our Order is renewed. New blood is given the chance to prove itself worthy of leading the old. Through The Rites, the Veil endures.”

My grip tightens around Silas’s hand. He presses his fingers against mine in return.

“Jacqueline Mercer has won the fourth and final trial—the trial of the South,” Lucien says. “Of fire.”

The announcement moves through the galleries in a wave of shocked gasps and whispers of disbelief that an outsider has won the final trial. Around me, my competition acknowledges the win with a mixture of begrudging approval and respect. Rowan gives me a smile, Lena a slow nod of acceptance. Wren’s eyes shine, though whether from pride or exhaustion, I cannot tell, while Georgina watches me with a look that falls somewhere between quiet acceptance and recalculation.

The announcement catches me off guard, though maybe it shouldn’t. I know I was the first one freed, but the victory feels a bit too clean for what happened. I had not freed myself, not at first. Silas saved me, and everything I did afterward came from refusing to let him die.

Lucien allows the murmuring to settle.

“Ms. Mercer did not merely escape the fire,” he continues. “She completed its hidden purpose.” His gaze comes to rest on me, those dark eyes all-knowing. “This trial has long been misunderstood. Those who enter it believe fire tests power. They assume victory belongs to whoever can dominate the flame, but fire is not merely destruction. It is transformation. It reveals what remains when fear, ambition, and self-deception have been stripped away.” The chamber becomes very still. “Ms. Mercer emerged from the trial understanding that power gained through the destruction of another Veil member is not victory. It is failure.”

I feel Silas’s hand tighten around mine.

“Ms. Mercer has now earned full standing within the Veil, and the Fourth House, long absent from our society, has returned.” Some members bow their heads, while others stare at me with open suspicion. They are not merely seeing a new member but seeing the return of one of the founding families and whatever that may entail.

“The Veil is whole once more.” Lucien lets the declaration hang over the chamber. “And Ms. Mercer will, in time, understand what The Rites have restored to her.”

I frown.

The words are deliberate. I can hear that much.

Restored, not awarded.

Lucien makes no mention of the boon. I won the Fourth Trial, but does that mean I won The Rites, too?

Or… did someone else?

Lucien looks slowly around the chamber. Murmurs of anticipation move through the gathered members like wind through dead leaves.

“There have been four trials during these Rites,” Lucien continues. “Silas Blackhollow won the First Trial—Earth. Silas Blackhollow and Jacqueline Mercer won the Second Trial—Air. Rowan Ashcroft and Georgina Alden won the Third Trial—Water. And Jacqueline Mercer won the Fourth Trial—Fire.” Lucien pauses, his gaze moving between Silas and me. “For the first time in Veil history, The Rites have ended with two victors. Silas Blackhollow and Jacqueline Mercer have prevailed in equal measure. Both have won The Rites.”

A wave of astonishment moves through the chamber.

Holy shit, I did it.

I won.

For one dizzying second, that is the only thought I can hold on to.