Chapter 33
Morning comes quietly beneath Strega’s Hollow.
There are no windows in the ceremonial chamber, no pale winter light stretching across the floor to prove the longest night of the year has finally ended. Time exists here only in the soreness behind my eyes and the exhaustion of my bones.
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.
“But while The Rites may have two winners, the Veil can have only one leader.” Lucien lets the silence settle over the room before speaking again. “And The Rites have chosen Silas Blackhollow.”
The reaction is immediate. Voices rise through the galleries, several members standing and cheering while others applaud. The Veil celebrates the rise of a new Blackhollow leader, and I see no dissenters—at least not outwardly.
Silas, for his part, looks genuinely surprised. His hand trembles slightly in mine, though he does not let go.
Lucien makes a silencing gesture, and the chamber falls quiet again.
“Mr. Blackhollow has spent his life preparing for power,” Lucien says.
“Yet power and preparation alone do not make a leader. Nor does blood, ambition, or obedience.” His gaze settles on Silas, a flicker of pride in his cold eyes.
“Throughout the games, Mr. Blackhollow has protected members of the Veil at great personal cost. He has sacrificed advantage for cooperation when advantage would have been far easier to keep. He understands our traditions, but he has also shown himself willing to oppose them when they no longer serve the people they were meant to protect.”
A faint unease passes through the galleries at that last part.
“He surrendered victory rather than allow another member to die, and he did not seek leadership in that moment,” Lucien continues. “Ironically, that is the moment he proved himself worthy of it.” He inclines his head toward Silas. “Silas Blackhollow, the Veil is now yours to lead.”
I turn toward Silas.
He looks exhausted, burned, and faintly horrified by the prospect of every person in this chamber answering to him.
But he also looks immeasurably happy. This is the destiny he’s been carrying his whole life.
He was raised for it, shaped by it, taught from childhood that leadership was both his inheritance and his obligation.
The ceremony dissolves then. Members of the Veil begin to exit the chamber, their ceremonial robes brushing the stone floor as conversations rise beneath the high ceiling.
Masks are removed. Alliances reform almost instantly.
Parents move toward their children, officials toward Lucien, and half the room is eager to congratulate Silas while the other half appears to be calculating how his leadership will affect them personally.
Eventually, the stream of well-wishers around Silas begins to thin, leaving the two of us alone near the edge of the chamber. His hand is still wrapped around mine, neither of us speaking at first.
“I’m so sorry,” he finally whispers, his voice unusually gentle. “I know how much you wanted this—for Josh.”
Josh.
The name sends a ripple of anguish through me. I knew what I was doing when I saved Silas. I knew what it might cost me, and I made the choice anyway. But knowing the price and hearing it announced to an entire room are two very different things.
Silas is Veil Leader.
Which means I’m not. There will be no boon for me. No impossible wish. No miracle waiting at the end of all this.
Josh is still dead.
I came to Salem’s Fall to bring my brother home, and I failed.
The pain is so sharp, I have to look away, but then Silas’s fingers tighten around mine.
He is warm. Alive. And even with the grief tearing through me, I know with absolute certainty that I would make the same choice again.
Even knowing what it cost me, even knowing Josh would remain gone forever, I could never have stood there and watched Silas burn.