Page 114 of Salem’s Rise

I test the restraints automatically. They don’t move.

Lucien circles us slowly. “During the Salem’s Fall witch trials, the accused were often burned at the stake,” he says. “The innocent died as the innocent often do—terrified, confused, and begging for mercy from men who had none to give. But the witches, the real witches, would never die in such a pedestrian manner.” He pauses, allowing the full weight of his words to hit us. “Fire does not kill a witch. It transforms them. Remain in fire long enough, and your true self will emerge. Fire reveals.” Lucien turns his gaze to me, studying me with an unsettling intensity. “Or the flames will consume you.”

My pulse slams against the chain across my chest.

True self?

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Is there some skill I’m supposed to have that somehow stops fire? Because I have a very bad feeling about where this is going.

My gaze drifts toward the heap of blackened remains still lying in the snow. He isn’t actually going to set all of us on fire too, is he?

No.

That would be… insane.

“The first contestant to free themselves will be declared the victor,” Lucien says.

My breathing turns shallow and rapid.

Free ourselves? From what?

The chains… or something else?

Something worse?

“Jack.” Beside me, Silas shifts against his stake. “I need to tell you⁠—”

“Don’t.”

I keep my eyes on Lucien.

His voice rises over the clearing. “One final rule,” he says. “Once the trial begins, even the Leader of the Veil himself cannot interfere.”

He flicks his hands once more and the ground around us ignites.

Somehow, Lucien has impossibly created fire again with just a flick of his hands. The flames begin several feet from each stake, burning in thin trails across the snow as though someone poured gasoline over the frozen ground and struck a match.

For one suspended second, we all freeze. Six bodies remain chained upright, each of us looking from one to another as though someone else might understand what Lucien has set in motion.

Then the flames begin to move.

Slowly.

They creep through the snow toward us, inch by inch. I realize, with horror, the fire isn’t simply burning where Lucien started it.

It’s coming for us…

At first, it’s manageable. Unpleasant, but distant, like standing too close to a fireplace or holding your hand near a match long enough for instinct to tell you to pull away. Except, I cannot pull away. The chains hold my shoulders and waist tight against the wood, the iron around my wrists biting deeper when I test it again.

The flames continue to crawl closer.

Unlike the woman Lucien murdered just moments earlier, our fires don’t erupt high enough to kill us immediately. They snake along the narrow trails through the snow with patient precision, consuming the distance between us, while the heat steadily builds. Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck despite the brutal cold, my heartbeat pounding against the chain crossing my chest, hard and frantic. Each breath becomes shallower as smoke begins to rise around us.

Across the circle, Lena twists against her restraints. Wren has started crying. Rowan jerks repeatedly against his cuffs, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle flex. Even Georgina’s composure is cracking at the edges, her eyes fixed on the line of fire steadily eating its way toward her.

Only Silas does not move.