Chapter 22
My summons for the Second Trial of The Rites arrives beneath my door the very next evening. My pulse quickens as I stare with dread at the red wax bearing the same Mark of the Veil I have grown to sincerely dislike. I break the seal and read:
The Second Trial of Air shall open upon the East.
All claimants will present themselves at the Old Watchtower no later than midnight.
What cannot be seen must still be understood.
I arrive at the Old Watchtower dressed in my warmest sweater beneath a heavy coat, jeans, hiking boots, and a wool beanie pulled low over my ears.
My hair is tightly braided down my back to keep it out of my eyes.
This is important since I already have a sinking suspicion about what this trial might involve after a quick Google search of the location.
Official records described Salem’s Fall’s Old Watchtower as a late seventeenth-century military signal station once used to watch for ships, forest fires, and troop movements.
The photos online made it look less like a historic landmark and more like the world’s deadliest ropes course.
Now, standing at the bottom of the ridge—aptly named Witch’s Ridge—I see my hunch was correct.
The old watch station rises beyond the trees in fragments.
Most of the original tower is gone, reduced to a black stone foundation and the skeletal remains of a platform high above the ridge.
The route leading to it is visible only because torches have been fixed along the path, their flames bending sharply beneath the wind.
Even from far below, I can make out pieces of the course.
First is the steep ascent disappearing into the tree line. Above that, a narrow path clinging to the rock face designed by someone who clearly disliked both safety and visitors. Finally, the rope-and-plank bridge leading to the summit where a weathered signal platform waits against the sky.
The good news is I am not afraid of heights.
The bad news is I’m certain at least some of my competitors will be happy to throw me from said heights.
I walk over to join the remaining contestants gathering near the trailhead.
We are just twelve now. The number feels obscenely small after the First Trial.
I feel Jonah’s absence like a pit in my stomach.
He should be here, standing beside Wren and Lena, quiet and watchful, his hands tucked into his coat pockets.
Instead, there is a sad, empty space between them.
Wren sees me first, her face softening in welcome. I cross the clearing and hug her before I can overthink it. She stiffens in surprise, then holds on tightly enough to make my ribs ache. Lena joins in a second later, wrapping one arm around each of us.
After losing Jonah and spending more time with Wren and Lena, I feel closer to them than I expected. Considering how many people here would probably be happy to see me dead, I’ve decided having a few allies isn’t such a bad thing.
Across the clearing, Van stands with a broad, shaved-headed and tattooed man I vaguely recognize from the First Trial. Van says something to him, and they both look directly at me, shooting daggers with their eyes. Not exactly subtle.
I notice Rowan and Georgina are together again.
Lately, they seem closer. Silas is with them too, standing slightly apart as Rowan says something to Georgina.
A moment later, she turns to Silas, taking his arm and leaning in to whisper in his ear.
Silas smiles at whatever she says, and I wonder if I imagined our entire conversation last night.
Maybe his proposed alliance with me lasted all of twenty-four hours.
But then he disentangles from her grasp and catches my eye. It feels like everyone notices as he walks over to stand at my side. Georgina definitely notices, as does Rowan, his expression going flat in a way that feels almost dangerous.
Silas arches an eyebrow. “You’re late.”
“I’m ten minutes early.”
“You arrived after me,” he says.
“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.”
Silas steps onto the ledge first, testing each anchor point along the rope before he trusts his weight to it. Satisfied, he waves me ahead of him.
“Do not fight the wind,” he says, falling in close behind me once I’ve found my grip on the line. “Lean into the cliff when it rises. Move when it drops.”
We follow the ledge as it curves upward and around the ridge. Torches burn in metal cages fixed to the rock, but the gusts make the light unstable. Shadows erase the path, then reveal it again.
Finally, we arrive at the midpoint and the wind slams into us hard enough to throw me against the cliff. My shoulder screams, but it’s the sudden lurch of empty air beneath my boot that turns my stomach to ice.