Page 65 of Salem’s Rise

“We’ll have better odds as a group.” Jonah looks nervously toward the tunnel. “Four people can cover more routes without losing track of the main passage.”

“Four people make a larger target,” I say.

Lena’s mouth presses into a thin line. “We’re offering to help you.”

I study the three of them for a moment. I see my friends from lunches, study sessions, and nights at the Witch’s Brew, but I also see people who have deceived me once and who have more than enough reasons to continue to do so.

“I’m going alone, but thanks for the offer.”

Wren releases my sleeve. “That’s a mistake, Jack.”

“Probably,” I agree.

I turn and step into the tunnel before they can say anything else to stop me.

The first passage divides into three paths after less than fifty yards in. Other contestants rush past me, quickly making their choices, as I stop to study the angles of the tunnel. The left slopes downward while the right rises slightly but narrows between warped support beams. Straight ahead, boot prints mark the mud where several contestants have passed without turning off in either direction.

Someone falls into step beside me, fast and silent.

“Right.”

I look up. Silas doesn’t meet my eyes. He barely slows, his attention fixed straight ahead.

“What?” I ask, unsure I heard him correctly.

“Go right,” he repeats, his jaw clenched. “Watch for the carvings. The oldest ones mark the way out.” The words come reluctantly, as though every one of them is being dragged from him against his better judgment.

“I don’t need your help.”

A humorless smile ghosts across his face.

“Sure you don’t.”

Before I can tell him that he can take his help and go to hell, he’s already gone, swallowed by the darkness.

I don’t trust Silas. Not for a second. I don’t believe one thing that comes out of his lying mouth.

And yet, against every ounce of my better judgment, I find myself turning right. I tell myself it isn’t because he told me to or because he also went that way himself, but because it seems as good a direction as any.

For the first hour, the tunnels feel difficult but rational. Every branching passage must lead somewhere. Every dead end eliminates a possibility. I mark turns by scraping lines into the mud with my heel and try to keep track of which passages I’ve already explored.

There are two major obstacles working against me. The first is the darkness. The torches lining the walls cast just enough light to see a few yards ahead, and even with my cell phone flashlight, progress is painfully slow. Still, I suppose I should be grateful. The Veil could’ve given us no lights at all.

Like I said, they have manners.

The second obstacle is the tunnels themselves. It’s a good thing I’m not particularly claustrophobic. Some tunnels are so narrow, I have to crouch or crawl to get through, and each time the ceiling drops lower, I wonder if the next stretch will finally prove impassable.

I catch glimpses of a few other claimants along the way, but I make a point of avoiding them, ducking into side passages whenever I hear footsteps approaching. I have no idea who might be an ally and who might happily leave me bleeding in the dark, and I’m not particularly interested in finding out.

I press onward as quickly as the tunnels allow, past two partially collapsed chambers, one flooded passage, and then a circular corridor that, unfortunately, deposits me right back to lines I made with my heel earlier in the mud. Every wrong turn costs time, and every correction ratchets the pressure in my chest a little tighter.

Twice I pass deep markings pressed into the stone near a junction. Small, deliberate shapes, not the random scarring of centuries underground. Silas’s voice surfaces in my mind, reminding me that I should look for the oldest carvings.

I almost laugh out loud. Sure. Like I have time to decipher ancient graffiti.

I ignore the carvings and keep moving, trusting my own system instead, watching for airflow, beam spacing, and the angle of the ground.

Eventually, I hear shouting up ahead.