Page 77 of Salem’s Rise

“That’s not how time works. The clock doesn’t revolve around you, no matter how much you may think it does.”

There’s a smirk on his arrogant, beautiful face. “Everything revolves around me, Mercer.”

“Right. How could I forget?” I fight a smile, my attention drifting back to Georgina. “What was that about?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“But—”

“We’re partners, Mercer—not friends,” he says, his tone cooling noticeably. “This is strictly a strategic alliance. I’ll tell you what you need to know for our mutual success in the trials, but I don’t owe you more than that. Understood?”

One thing about Silas, he sure doesn’t mince words.

Across the clearing, Rowan is still watching us with the tight, displeased expression of a man unaccustomed to losing anyone’s attention. Something sharp and satisfied moves through me. An unintended but welcome perk of this new alliance with Silas is that I’m certain it will drive Rowan crazy. Not because he genuinely likes me—I don’t believe that men who sincerely like women take them to secret occult rituals to be executed—but because Rowan has an ego and seeing me with Silas will take him down a peg.

An older man steps onto a low stone platform near the trailhead, and conversation stops. I recognize him from Veil Night. He stood next to Van in the chamber during the ceremony, merciless and severe, one of the men who supported Van and championed for my execution.

“One of Van’s uncles,” Silas murmurs near my ear. “A Hawthorne. Senior Veil member.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the man. “He has a reputation for enjoying other people’s suffering. Stay away from him.”

I suppress a shiver. “I plan on it.”

“Welcome to your Second Trial,” Van’s uncle begins, his voice carrying over the wind. “The land you see here is controlled by a private trust owned by the Veil. To outsiders, this was an old military signal point, now closed due to instability and for historical preservation. To the Veil, it served a different purpose as a warning route. During periods of persecution for alleged witchcraft, signal lanterns raised from the watchtower warned Veil families when magistrates or clergy entered the region, giving them time to flee before the raids began.”

A gust bends the torch flames nearly horizontal, and shadows jump across the faces around me.

“The route was difficult,” he continues. “Anyone assigned to the station was expected to cross the ridge in darkness and severe weather, particularly high winds. The path became known as the Witch’s Ladder.” His gaze moves over us. “Your physical objective tonight is straightforward. Follow the marked course, cross the bridge, reach the eastern signal platform, and raise the lantern before sunrise.” He pauses, letting the instructions settle. “But as you already know, nothing in the Veil is simple. There are other qualities we’ll be evaluating before a winner is declared.”

The bell at the trailhead rings once.

“You have until dawn,” Van’s uncle says, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “Go.”

We run.

The first ascent is brutal almost immediately. The path climbs steeply through dense pines, the ground slick with old leaves and frost.

We slow at the first fork where several false trails split from the main route, each marked by decoy torches placed far enough away to appear legitimate. The other competitors hesitate before scattering down the different paths. Silas holds me back until the last of them disappears, studying the trails instead of blindly following the crowd.

“What are you doing?” I ask Silas, breathing hard.

“We need to go left,” he says, nodding toward the canopy above the paths. “Watch the treetops. The wind is moving differently over there. The ridge is exposed higher up, and that kind of wind needs open ground. Left leads up.”

I study the branches for a moment and realize he’s right. On the right, the pines barely stir—thick, sheltered, comfortable. On the left, the highest branches bend and release in a steady rhythm, catching a current the trunks below never feel.

I nod my agreement, and we head left. The trail begins to narrow a few minutes later, the terrain growing more treacherous, forcing us to slow our pace. Large rocks and roots push through the soil like knotted fingers. Twice, I nearly lose my footing, and both times Silas catches my elbow without comment. The third time, I slap his hand away.

“I don’t need your help to walk.”

“You’ve demonstrated otherwise.”

I glare at his back. “Are you going to be this insufferable the entire time?”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

The second section of the course follows a rock ledge no wider than a sidewalk. The cliff rises on our left and drops sharply on our right, though the darkness hides the bottom. Iron rings have been driven into the stone at intervals, threaded with an old guide rope—the only thing standing between us and the long drop below. The wind is stronger here. It presses against my coat, vanishes, then strikes again from another direction.

“I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” Silas says.

“I’m not.” I give him a wry grin. “Just afraid of falling to my death.”