Chapter 23 The First Round
“I suppose there is nothing written in it,” Principal Greaves said, his voice firm enough to settle the murmurs. “Jamie Morven, return to your post. And if you utter so much as a word, your group will be disqualified.”
Jamie’s jaw tightened. He crushed the blank paper in his fist, the tendons in his arm standing sharp beneath his skin. With a low growl, he let the paper fall to the floor and ground his heel into it. His glare was cold and venomous and fixed itself on Mr. Nolan.
“You won’t get away with this,” he muttered, barely controlling his anger, before storming back to his group.
“Now,” Principal Greaves continued, unperturbed, “Group Two, step forward.”
Melanie flinched. Not dramatically, but enough for me who had been watching her, and to feel the tension ripple through her posture.
Vincent moved first, taking a stride toward the box.
Before he could reach it, Melanie suddenly stepped in front of him. “No… I’ll go first.”
Vincent paused, a faint amused smirk tugging at his lips. “No rush. After you, then.” He stepped back with exaggerated politeness.
Melanie inhaled deeply. She approached the box slowly, almost ritualistically, as if each step had been counted in her mind. When she finally reached it, her hand hovered above the slit in the red cloth.
Her gaze drifted, quick flicks of her eyes, but sharp, deliberate.
First to Jamie, who remained fixated on Mr. Nolan, his expression dark and murderous.
Then to Cordelia, who wore a small, cruel smile, her brow raised in taunting delight.
Melanie’s gaze shifted to Kaitlyn, who looked at her only long enough to roll her eyes before turning away with dismissal.
And then… Evander.
Melanie froze.
Evander did not blink. His dark eyes bore into hers with unnerving intensity, the kind that spoke not of threat, but of knowledge, too much knowledge. They stared at each other, neither moving, the air between them taut, silent, conspiratorial. It felt less like a glance and more like an unspoken exchange, a pact or warning carried in silence.
When Evander finally broke the stare and turned his attention fully on Jamie, Melanie seemed to remember where she stood.
She lowered her hand into the box, swift and precise, and withdrew a paper in one movement.
Greaves unfolded it.
“I am sorry, Melanie Penrose,” he announced, “but you have drawn no clue.”
Cordelia pressed a hand over her lips to hide her laughter, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. Jamie’s expression, in contrast, immediately brightened, his mood lifting as though Melanie’s failure somehow compensated for his own.
I was no longer steady; my breath had lost its rhythm. All I could hear now was the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribs, each thud echoing up my spine like a cold warning. Melanie stepped back from the box, pale and shaken.
“This group is going down right under our feet,” Cordelia murmured, smugness dripping from every syllable.
“That was bad. Wish me luck,” Vincent said, stepping forward.
He slid his hand through the slit in the cloth, fished through the papers, and withdrew one with a steady exhale. Principal Greaves unfolded it with the practiced neutrality of someone accustomed to dealing with judgments.
“Vincent Carrow… you have no clue.”
“Ha!” Jamie barked, unable to contain his glee. “Just one left before they’re disqualified.”
“Next,” Principal Greaves commanded.
I stepped forward. As Vincent passed me, he leaned in and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I whispered back. Then I faced the box, its red cloth draping like a ritual shroud.
My gaze drifted to the far end of the courtyard. Julian stood half in shadow, unreadable. He met my eyes and gave a single, slow nod, as if assuring me the universe had already bent in my favor.
Then I looked back toward the crowd and found Oliver. The moment our eyes locked, his whole face brightened, warm as sunlight breaking through old storm clouds. I remembered the charm he had placed around my wrist… the creeping-ivy bangle with the red metallic roses. My good-luck charm. I couldn’t afford to fail.
I slid my hand into the box. The papers brushed against my fingertips thin, cold, countless. I hesitated. Which? Which one carried my fate?
Then something brushed against my hand, lightly, like a nudge.
Not chosen.
Given.
My fingers closed around it, almost involuntarily. I withdrew the paper. Principal Greaves took it from me immediately, unfolding it with a swift, decisive motion.
“Congratulations, Lexie,” he announced. “You have found a clue.”
Jamie’s laughter died in his throat. Cordelia’s smirk cracked. Kaitlyn’s expression hardened into an icy glower, her friends mirroring her silent fury.
“Yes!” Vincent hissed under his breath.
Melanie did not celebrate. She stood rigid, hollow-eyed, looking at no one but Evander watched her with the calm intensity of someone studying a chessboard.
Relief washed through me, so suddenly my knees almost weakened. “That was close,” I breathed as I stepped back to my group.
Mr. Nolan carried the box away, the sound of its base scraping faintly along the stones. Principal Greaves moved to stand before the crowd once more, his coat fluttering slightly with the cold breeze.
“Now that each of them has drawn your first clue,” he declared, “the Trial of Wit shall truly begin.”
His gaze swept slowly across both groups, as though he were committing each participant to memory, the doomed, the hopeful, the unreadable.