Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In all of Salem’s considerable work experience, the tarot cards have never once lied, nor have they ever been wrong in their predictions. It’s one of the many amazing things about the cards, but it also leads to considerably awkward situations, such as the one he’s in.

“So?” the father asks. He’s cradling young Ronaldo in his arms, sitting on the other side of the wooden table from Salem. His wife sits next to him, staring at Salem with wide, anxious eyes. They’re both pale, glancing between the tarot cards on the table and Salem himself.

Salem sighs, and leans forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the wooden table while staring down at his own cards. They’re from a deck that his father gave to him when he turned sixteen and announced that he was going to be helping the family make some money. Now, at twenty six, Salem is starting to regret that decision.

“Well, it’s certainly an interesting spread,” Salem admits, looking between the cards. The World. The Knight of Pentacles. The Five of Swords. “It is… not a particularly bad spread, but not a good spread either,” he says, wincing down at the cards. He’ll have to cleanse his deck after this reading, he knows. Thankfully, this is his work deck, and not his personal deck. He is much more distant, more professional, with his work deck, and he thinks the spirits that guide this deck respect that.

“Just tell us,” the father demands, leaning forward and holding one of his large hands over baby Ronaldo’s face. The baby begins to cry. The father just hushes him, not taking his gaze away from Salem’s cards.

Salem clears his throat and begins.

“His overall life card is The World. This suggests completion and harmony. This is a good card to draw.” The mother and father instantly relax, sagging back into their seats. “However, the particulars of his life will be a bit more… difficult.”

“But he will be fine? He’ll be happy?” the mother asks, seeming a bit too relieved for the news Salem just gave her.

Salem hesitates, but then nods. “Yes. His closest confidante, his mentor, whomever this person is and whatever form they take, will be born sometime between the end of August and the end of September. They will lead Ronaldo on a difficult path, one that is cursed by hedonism.” The mother and father sit up in alarm, but Salem continues as if he can’t see them. “He will be passionate about his community, about his home, about his family. He will find love, though it will not be permanent. This is the sort of love that is fleeting, and will come, go, and then come back. He will face and successfully conquer his demons, whatever form they are, but he will struggle. He will struggle for most of his life, and he may be haunted by some of the choices he makes.”

“This is a terrible reading!” the father cries. Ronaldo awakens at the outcry and begins to wail at his interrupted nap. Salem can only commiserate. He, too, would like to be taking a nap right now, and being woken from it would be a terrible fate.

“This is an average reading,” Salem counters, leaning further over the cards. “And interruptions are disrespectful, not only to myself, but to the gods that guide us. Now I need to finish this reading, thank the spirits, and then be on my way. Will you allow me to do so?”

The father grumbles, but leans back into his chair, into his wife’s embrace. The two are worried, of course, Salem can see it in their matching pinched brows and pale countenance. But he will suffer adverse effects if he doesn’t finish this reading, both in terms of his spellwork and his financial situation.

He continues, “He will be wealthy, if this is any consolation to you. He’ll have to work hard, and work hard for a long time, but he will eventually find great wealth, so long as he is diligent. Finally, this reading can come into effect as soon as three weeks, or as late as ten years. It is entirely dependent on how little Ronaldo is raised.” Salem turns his gaze to the baby, who has finally settled and blinks big brown eyes at him. Salem allows a little smile for the baby, but does not reach out to grasp the baby’s finger.

Parents tend to hate that. A touch from a witch. Yet they utilise his services at the drop of a hat.

Pretty ironic, if you ask Salem.

The mother and father let out matching sighs. No, it isn’t the reading they hoped for. It never is, in Salem’s experience. No person is destined to have a completely trouble-free, prosperous life, no matter what auspicious sign they’re born under or what gods rule over their planet, or even what their birth cards are. There is always balance. Always bad to go with the good, and vice versa.

“Now, if you’ll allow me to thank the spirits and send them off, so that I may go home?” Salem asks, though he’s already lifting his hands to hover over the cards. The family says nothing, and even baby Ronaldo watches Salem with those big eyes as Salem runs through his quick gratitude routine, allowing the spirits to be gently released back into the world. He cracks his neck when he is done, and begins to gather his cards, making sure to avoid eye contact with the family.

“So, as for my payment - “

“You’re lucky you’re getting any payment at all, with that sort of reading,” the father spits, standing from his chair and nearly toppling it. The mother stands alongside her husband, and the pair retreat to their nursery to put Ronaldo back to bed. Salem sighs, alone over his cards, and shuffles them quickly, whispering a quiet thank you to the patron spirit of his deck. That was a particularly hard reading, and he knows by the brush of wind against his cheek that they are not upset with him.

The father comes back as Salem is slipping his deck back into their little velvet-lined pouch on the inside of his bag while trying to keep his customary hat from sliding off his head. It’s a big too big, ever since he got his hair cut a few days ago, and there aren’t nearly enough charms on it to keep it weighted down. He’ll have to remedy that when he gets home.

Hopefully Father will feel up to it.

The father crosses his arms and waits while Salem gathers himself, then escorts Salem to the door. He opens the door for the witch, then slaps a handful of cash into Salem’s hand when the witch crosses the threshold.

“Don’t come back until we call,” the father grunts, making a warding sign before slamming the door shut. Salem, standing on his porch with a fistful of cash and a lopsided hat, sighs heavily and stuffs the cash into his pocket. He can already tell that it wasn’t nearly enough, not for a newborn reading, but he’s too tired to try and fight for the correct amount. Not when he’s got a battle of another kind waiting for him at home.

So instead of arguing and ruining his day further, he takes heed of his morning reading and decides to let it go. Salem turns and hops down the porch steps, his small bag clinking against his side when he lands on the sparse grass at the base of the stairs. He takes a second, makes sure that none of the little spell bottles broke, but when all seems fine, he looks back at the road and begins wandering home.

Father should still be awake, he muses as he wanders along the dark forest path. He could’ve taken his car over for this job, sure, but there’s something so magical about the Blackwoods at night, and there isn’t a witch alive who would feel scared of the darkened wood. There are flowers lining the path, aloe vera and yarrow and ferns. There are even a few daisies, from what Salem can see, shining white in the setting sun. The woods are thick, but there are peeks of a pink-purple-orange sky every few steps.

The forest is quiet. In the distance, he can hear loud, giggling laughter, the revving of a car engine, and the faint sounds of Green Day. Salem smiles, something small and quiet, at the noises. It’s little things that remind him that he’s alive.

The pavement ahead splits into two, with one path taking him toward the centre of town, and the other going straight into the woods. Every time he walks this path, every time he comes to this split, he yearns to take the righthand path, toward town. He wants to be able to go into the market and browse without getting strange looks. He wants to go out to the lake without getting suspicious glances when all he’s doing is watching the ducks. He wants to be able to go to a stupid little mortal job and earn his money that way, rather than having to stoop to shit like using tarot cards to tell parents what their fucking baby’s life is going to look like. Who gives a shit, anyway? Fate is what you make it, and nothing is destined in the stars.

He has to believe that, or he’s going to go insane.

So, instead of going where his heart wants, he sighs, and begins trudging down the left path. He doesn’t really want to go home just yet, doesn’t feel that pull that twilight often brings, but there isn’t anywhere else he can go. Most of the families in town will be at the lake, watching the sunset that promises to be beautiful today, but Salem can’t do that.

No, Salem has to go home and tend to his father.

Another sigh leaves him, unbidden. The very last thing he wants to do at the moment is tend to his father, but his wants have never once been considered. Just his needs. His feet scrape along the paved path, his ratty old sneakers covered in dirt and scuff marks from his years of wearing them. The flowers cheer him up, though, and he distracts himself from his impending arrival home by thinking of all the uses of yarrow. Protection. A healing ingredient, particularly for those affected by colds or stomach problems. Sunburn relief. Vaginitis. Menopause. Even courage, if the right potion is mixed up, though Salem hasn’t had to make one of those before.

And then he finds his thoughts drifting. A courage potion, that he’d like to try. But first he would have to finish out the commissions that he and his father were hired for. A batch of headache remedy tea for Mrs Downey. A luck potion for Mr Murr. An illness protection potion for Mrs Gould and her young son, who is so susceptible to colds and flus from his school that Salem is fairly certain he has spent more time out of school this year than in it. There’s also that pair of fertility spell jars for the Quinns, who having been trying for a baby for so long that they’re resorted to magic…

Salem sighs. So much to do, and he’s not even sure they have all of the ingredients that they need for the commissions. He’s definitely got most of the common ingredients, like lemon and cloves and honey, but he’s not sure if the ginger in the garden is quite ripe, and he’ll have to make a couple of oils for the fertility room spray… Shit, now that he thinks about it, what phase of the moon charged his moon water?

Slowly, but still faster than he’d like, his little house comes into view. When his mother and father had built the little cottage, they had settled on a white brick with dark trims and rounded edges. There are two floors to the house, with pointed roofs, an upper-floor balcony, at least three chimneys from their various fireplaces, and even a spiral tower where his father used to work. There are vines trailing up the sides of the house, covering a lot of the white brick with gorgeous green leaves that bloom with purple wisteria in the spring. Magic-powered lanterns are hung around the house, leaving an almost-magical glow to shine through the trees. Their little garden is out back, and a greenhouse further behind, where Salem spends much of his time.

Salem climbs the few steps up to the front door and comes to a stop on the front porch. He can hear the sounds of Father puttering around in the kitchen, likely getting started on their dinner. Salem had left out the ingredients for soup before he headed out for his errands, but he’s sure that Father decided to make something entirely different. Likely something with too much meat and not enough vegetables, despite Salem’s vegetarianism and their agreement to let Salem decide half of their meals.

So, instead of putting it off for any longer, Salem pulls his keys from his pocket, unlocks the front door, and steps inside. His shoes go into the shoe closet, his coat gets hung up on the coat rack, and his work bag stays slung over a shoulder as he tries to shuffle past the kitchen, to his own work studio out by the greenhouse.

“Salem! That you?” Father’s voice comes from the kitchen. Salem stops, curses his own loud footsteps silently, and turns, striding right into the kitchen.

It looks like a bomb went off. More so than usual, Salem thinks, looking around at the disaster of a kitchen. His father stands right in the middle of the mess, with chunks of beef stacked on the chopping board in front of him and flour dusted up to his elbows, white handprints smacked into the front of his apron. The same apron that Salem’s mother gave him for a birthday one year when Salem was just a child. It’s haphazardly tied around the waist and sagging a bit on the right. His hair is shoved back with streaks of white from the flour, and there’s a weird splatter of liquid on the counter that Salem can see dripping onto the floor. The oven is on, and the scent of fresh bread wafts out, making Salem’s mouth water.

All this, and his father is just staring at him. “Hi, Father,” Salem greets, looking at the vegetables he left out this morning. They’ve been discarded onto the countertop behind his father and next to the sink, where they sit sad and untouched. The large windows behind his father are pink with the setting sun, and the dying light activates the magic lanterns right before Salem’s eyes.

“How was work?” Salem’s father asks, looking back down at the meat on the island countertop before him. He seems to remember what he’s doing and turns without waiting for Salem’s answer, bending down and retrieving a large stainless steel bowl from a cabinet by the sink.

“Busy,” Salem answers, knowing that it’s the answer his father wants to hear, even if it isn’t necessarily true. Thankfully, today, it was really quite busy, and he’s not quite done yet. Hopefully he can get through the next hour quickly, choke down a bowl of whatever horrendous meat stew his father is making before scampering out to the greenhouse workshop. He needs to make these commissions as quickly as possible.

“Glad to hear it!” Salem’s father says, throwing chunks of meat into the bowl. Salem winces at the sight of those sad vegetables left on the countertop, and finds that he has to ask.

“What happened to the dinner I had planned for tonight?”

Salem’s father freezes, and immediately Salem curses himself for asking. He had gotten too lax, had assumed that his father wouldn’t have any energy tonight. He doesn’t seem to have any energy lately, after all, and Salem was looking forward to the stew that he was going to prepare for them both.

“Do you not want me to cook dinner for us?” Salem’s father asks in a weirdly quiet voice. It doesn’t suit him, this loud, charismatic man. It sounds like he’s planning something sinister. Something Salem won’t like.

“No, Father, I’m grateful that you did,” Salem answers quickly. “I appreciate the effort you’re going to to make dinner. What are you making?”

Father stares at him for a moment more, those wide green eyes searching his own face for a kernel of dishonesty. But Salem was saying nothing but the truth. He is grateful to his father for making dinner, in a roundabout way. He won’t like it, won’t even be able to eat most of it, but he won’t have to cook. And after that interaction at his last job, he’s glad he doesn’t have to have the fight about dinner.

Not the usual fight, anyway. A different fight altogether, and one that’s infinitely more challenging: reminding his father that’s he’s a vegetarian.

Then, as if nothing happened, Father’s face smooths out and a smile lights up those features again. Salem feels vaguely sick at how close he came to his father having a meltdown. “Great!” Father cheers, turning to their extensive spice cabinet and pulling out a few jars. “Then put your things down and relax. Take off your hat, for the gods’ sakes, you’re inside! I didn’t raise you to be a heathen.”

“Sorry, Father,” Salem replies, quickly pulling his witch’s hat off. The charms that he’s attaching to the sides clink together, and the chains that he attached one night in a furious burst of rebellion slide along the brim, as if reminding him of what he’s done. “I’ll step out for a moment. Get started on some commissions.”

Father just waves him off, turning back to his dish. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

Salem nods, casts one last mournful glance at the vegetables, and scurries out before his father can see him lingering.

The paved path to the greenhouse is nearly overrun with the plants that line either side. Much like the pavement through town, this stone path is edged with seasonal flowers that still have medicinal uses. Salem often finds himself plucking a few petals from the overgrown lilac tree near the door, or pruning their nearly-sentient rose bush that grows near the middle of the right side of the path. Hell, once or twice, he’s ventured off the path to their small orchard to pull a few lemons or oranges or apples. All in the name of their work.

Salem wanders up the path, feet tracing a path over well-walked uneven stone. The stones his mother had planted with his father when they had first built this place. The house had come first, then the garden, then the greenhouse. Salem’s love of green witchcraft had come from his mother, who specialised in herb-based magic. Salem’s father had practiced divination magic, particularly focused on the cosmos, and he and Salem used to spend hours sitting at the top of the hill beyond their house just watching the stars.

That was before Salem’s mother had died and his father had fallen ill, of course. Now it’s all left up to Salem. Commissions, divination, even just looking up at the moonlit sky is too lackadaisical for Salem’s father. He needs to be doing something productive whenever he’s not wasting away in bed, but this causes him to be too unwell to get out of bed. It’s a vicious cycle that Salem is trapped in, taking care of his father when he’s unwell and making sure to stay out of his way when he isn’t. It’s a thankless job, really.

The lock on the greenhouse workshop opens with a small ‘click’ when Salem waves his hand over the bolt. It was designed to only response to his family and their magical signature. Salem made sure to learn the spell when he turned twelve and he found his father snooping through his things.

Stepping inside, Salem takes a deep breath. The air smells damp and thick, of violets and roses and lavender. Rosemary, sage, patchouli, and the honeysuckles that his mother planted in the back corner, right before she died. The scent of the greenhouse wafts into the workshop, and Salem finds that a smile is spreading itself across his face.

This is what he looks forward to most at the end of every day. Coming home, seeing this little greenhouse, and finally feeling right in his own skin.

"Hello, my loves," Salem greets the flowers, setting his bag down on the table next to the door and slipping his hat back on. The plants all seem to sway in his direction. He takes a second to reach out and pat each of the flowers in his reach. "How are we all doing today? Good?"

The flowers seem to sing to him, and his smile just grows. The warmth in his chest feels like it's spreading, syrupy sweetness drifting down every vein.

"I have some commissions to work on before Father calls me to dinner. Would you all like to help me?" Salem sees some of the leaves shiver, and the rosemary appears to lean closer. "All right then."

Salem quickly gets to work, wanting to get started on as many of his commissions as he can before dinner. The first thing he does is check on his stash of charged water to make sure he has everything he needs. Thankfully, it appears that he has all the waters that he needs - there's a jar of spring water, a jar of sea water, and even the storm water that he needs for Mrs Gould's protection potion. He gathers the jars and sets them on his little workbench by the door. The workshop is small, for sure, but the greenhouse it's connected to has an internal expansion spell that Salem worked on for months when he first had the idea.

Huge glass walls, lit with lanterns on every structural wooden beam. Fairy lights strung along the ceiling, allowing for dim light to permeate even the highest corners of the greenhouse. Salem's workbench sits in a corner by the door, with another two benches stuffed with cabinets, all completely full of dried herbs, powders, spices, anything that Salem can think of or need for his work. Not including any of the plants inside the greenhouse or out in the garden surrounding the house. There are hanging plants wherever Salem could fit them, and he's made sure that every plant in the greenhouse is completely functional for work. That is, of course, excluding the very small plot of flowers that his mother planted in the very back of the greenhouse.

Salem steps into the main building of the greenhouse and glances around, doing a quick check of all of his plants. All seem well, and healthy, and some vines on the walls are even lifting their leaves to reach out to them. Salem reaches out in return and allows one, a small little ivy, to wind around his hand in greeting.

"Hello, little one," he says, smiling at the vine that's twined around his hand. The ivy shivers in response, then slinks back down his hand and retreats into itself.

Pruning shears in hand, he pulls the little list of ingredients out of the back pocket of his jeans. Lavender. Bluebell. Ginger. Sunflower seeds. Thistle. Those are just some of the ingredients he has to gather.

"Oh, fuck," he swears quietly, reading over his list. Does he have any black salt? Dragon's blood? Hell, does he have any cardamom oil? "This is a more difficult list than I thought."

A vine creeps up the back of Salem's shirt, and he allows it. It slithers up his shoulder and looks over it, down at the list in his hand.

"Are you trying to help me?" Salem asks the vine quietly, with a small smile on his face. His hat tilts forward, and the vine quickly grasps it and drops it back onto his head so that it stays in place. Salem huffs out a laugh and shoves the hat further down onto his head, almost blinding him. But it stays in place, which is what he needs.

"Look, we'll just do one remedy at a time, alright? But first, before anything, we have to make sure that we at least have some difficult-to-get ingredients. Do we have any dragon's blood?"

The plants ahead of Salem part, and almost seem to lead him over to the other side of the greenhouse. He strides that way, the little vine slipping off of his shoulder and making its way back to its place on the wall.

When he gets to the section of succulents, the bright red blooms catch his eye almost immediately, and he grins.

"Thank fuck," he says, squatting down to be closer to the succulent. They appear to bloom brighter and fan themselves out in an effort to be more appealing to Salem.

"I just need one bloom," Salem says gently to the plant, which only seems to grow larger in response. "May I take one?"

One of the clusters of leaves seems to shine brighter than the rest, as if lit from within. Salem reaches out with his pruning shears and makes a careful yet decisive snip underneath the cluster, murmuring a quiet “thank you for your contribution” to the plant. The plant as a whole shivers, and then retreats.

It goes much the same for the rest of the ingredients he collects. Lavender, chamomile, rosemary, and mint for the headache remedy tea; allspice and bluebell for the bottle of luck potion; ginger for the illness protection potion; and finally, a sunflower, thistle needles, and spearmint for the fertility spell jars. It all goes into a little basket he tucks into the crook of his arm when he realises that the ingredients for the headache tea alone would overflow his arms. He checks his oil cabinet for all the essential oils he might need, and the bench that holds all of his crystals is full.

“Best way to do this is to go down the list, I think,” Salem murmurs to himself, thinking of the different recipes he’ll have to make. He’ll need to melt some candle wax for the spell jars, but it would be a better idea to start prepping his ingredients, he thinks. No point in melting the wax, starting the potions, and then having to pause halfway through for dinner with Father.

So he gets to work. He sorts the ingredients out by which recipe they’re a part of and then gets to work on the headache remedy tea. Salem is making enough for an entire month’s supply, as part of an ongoing agreement with Mrs Downey, so he spreads out all of the leaves and herbs that will be going into the batch and then holds his hands out, palm down, above the leaves. His own magic isn't very strong, but he finds that little pool of magical essence that sits in his sternum, just below his heart, and pulls as gently as he can. The magic comes slowly, sluggish in nature, and Salem winces at the resistance he feels. He's overworked his intrinsic magic today, divination not withstanding, and he's feeling the ache of it already. It's not great, really, not if he's going to be working for most of the night again.

Finally, the magic comes, and his palms begin to warm with a dry heat. He breathes through the ache in his chest and pulls a little harder, steadily, trying to get the herbs to dry and process faster. he'd rather get to bed before the sun goes down, and he can't wait for the herbs to dry naturally.

The plants begin to shrivel and dry out before his eyes. He smiles down at the ingredients, making sure to keep his magic light and gentle on the leaves. The last thing he would want to do is to over-dry them, or dry them out too fast, and risk having to start over and waste the plants' sacrifices.

It takes a few minutes, but the leaves finally get to his liking for tea ingredients. Salem cuts off the flow of magic, making sure that the leaves don't overcook, and slowly removes his hands. The tea is perfect, as he had hoped. Now all he needs to do is put the ingredients together into a jar, infuse it with a little more of his own healing magic, and send it on its way with an accompanying jar of spring water. Wait, no, that's not right. Salem shakes his head, forcing his wayward thoughts into a sort of order. Sea water, that's what he needs.

The long hours and overuse of his magic are starting to get to him. Salem finds that he feels a little bit weak, and lifts his right hand a bit to check. Even holding it still, the limb still shakes slightly with fatigue, which is a sign to Salem to stop for the day.

Alright, I'll stop with the magic use, he decides, looking over his commissions list for the week and seeing how much work he still has to do. After all, most of these only need a touch of magic at the end. I can save those for when I'm ready to send them out. For now, I'll gather the items for each commission and keep them together, so I can quickly put them together tomorrow.

Mind set, Salem nods once, sharply, looking over his list once more. Mrs Downey's headache tea and sea water are placed together on the table, j side of the table that's just next to the door, so that Salem can send it off when he's a little more up for it.

For now, he gathers the ingredients for the luck potion. He'll need a lemon for it, so he quickly shuffles outside of the greenhouse, back into the dark of the night, to wander his way over to their little orchard. The lights of the house illuminate the path for him, and he can see his father wandering around the kitchen, a little aimlessly now that, as Salem assumes, dinner is in the oven. Or on the stove. Something like that.

Salem turns away, not wanting his father to see him out in the orchard and remember his presence before dinner is ready. He strides over to the lemon tree and places his hand on the bark of the trunk, grinning up at the bright green leaves and plump yellow lemons.

"My, don't you look lovely," he tells the lemon tree, which shivers in approval. This particular tree has always been his favourite out of the bunch, though he makes sure not to show too much favouritism. After all, he and his mother planted this tree. "How are you feeling?"

The tree brushes a handful of leaves against Salem's face, and a branch reaches out. He holds out a hand, accepting a lemon when the tree drops it into his hands.

“Thank you,” Salem says, looking into the leaves of the tree. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

The tree’s leaves shiver once more, then retreat, leaving Salem standing before the trunk with his left hand on the bark and his right hand still holding a lemon.

“I will be back later, then,” Salem says, removing his hand from the trunk and stepping back. He then turns and makes his way back into the greenhouse, holding his gift as the precious resource that it is.

This is how the rest of his evening goes. He takes a short break for a tense dinner with his father, where they sit in silence and eat their meat and potatoes. Salem briefly ruminates on the neglected vegetables in the kitchen, quietly promising to sneak into the kitchen overnight to put the vegetables away so that his father doesn’t toss them out tomorrow.

After dinner, he goes back to work in the workshop, making sure not to actively use his magic but to instead simply gather and group together what he needs for his commissions. His head remains down, and he stays focused on his work, and when the clock in the house strikes at midnight, he jumps and looks out of the greenhouse windows. The forest is completely silent and the lights in the house are all completely dark.

“Oh, shit,” Salem swears softly, looking over his workbench. There are little bundles all over the table, placed strategically with other ingredients for whatever potion or spell jar or even room spray he is creating for his clients. Satisfied that everything looks to be in its proper place and safe, Salem roots through his bag for his phone and his book and then closes up the greenhouse for the night.

Waving his hand over the lock, Salem finds that a wave of dizziness overtakes him, stronger than others he’s felt before when he’s stayed up late to work.

He swears quietly again, not wanting to desecrate the quiet peace of the midnight hour, and quickly shuffles back down the stone path to the house. His father is sure to be asleep, so Salem lets himself in, deals with the vegetables, and then heads upstairs to his cosy little room for the night.

Chapter Text

Salem’s alarm jolts him out of sleep the following morning. The dulcet tones are soft, and the gentle vibration is not at all intrusive, but Salem finds himself bolting upright all the same. He’s drenched in a cold sweat from his dream, but despite his best intentions, he can’t seem to remember what it was that he dreamt about.

He sighs. Should he even bother doing a dream reading? His dream journal, tucked away into a lower drawer of his nightstand, is full of records of the dreams he remembers. Every now and then, when he has a particularly strong reaction, he does a reading for the dream, and that helps him with clarity and guidance from his deity, but…

No, he won’t do a reading, he decides. If he doesn’t remember, then that must be for a reason. Perhaps the contents of his dream were so horrifying that his deity protected him.

Salem stretches, then looks around his room, realising that he’s left it in a disastrous state. There are clothes strewn all over the floor, a collection of cardigans and sweaters draped over the back of his desk chair, and his few pairs of shoes are all shoved together in some vague semblance of tidiness in the bottom of his little closet. He’s also managed to leave stacks of books absolutely everywhere, and there are green blankets falling from the side of his bed onto the floor, just adding to the clutter. The vines that crawl up the corners of his room to wrap around the wooden beams that criss-cross just under his ceiling. There are bookcases on every single wall, all packed with a frankly ridiculous number of books, and any visible wall is painted a dark brown to mimic wood. There are fairy lights draped all around the room, powered with crystals that Salem fills once a month so that they can be motion-activated.

His bed nook itself is tucked into one corner of the room, draped with dark green curtains that circumvent the bed to grant him a bit of privacy when he’s sleeping. There are books packed into the shelves he’s installed above the bed, and a giant window is centred right in the middle of the wall above his bed, allowing for a gorgeous view of the forest during the day and the fairy lights that litter the grounds at night.

Salem hears footsteps in the hallway outside of his room and quickly scrambles out of his comfortable bed, stumbling across the floor and picking up the first clothes his hands touch. He quickly changes his underwear, tossing the old pair into his laundry basket which magically whisks them downstairs to the laundry room, then shoves on a cropped blue sweater and a pair of black overalls with rolled-up hems on the legs. He can still feel a bit of cold air on his sides where the sweater and the overalls don’t cover, but he’ll be fine once he puts on a coat. It’s early autumn, after all, and it’s still fairly warm outside.

There’s a knock on the door, and then his father opens the door without being told to come in. Salem holds back a sigh, knowing that his father’s sense of privacy went out the window when his mother passed away years ago.

Father takes in his appearance and then frowns, two small lines appearing between those blond eyebrows. “Did you just wake up?”

Of course. No morning, Salem. No did you sleep well? Just immediate judgement, very first thing in the morning.

“No,” Salem says, voice still hoarse from sleep. He forces himself not to clear his throat, not to make it too obvious that he’s lying.

Father looks over him once more with a critical eye then gives a disbelieving hum. “You need to be waking up earlier and taking more care in your appearance.”

“Yes, Father,” Salem replies quietly. He doesn’t want to make it too obvious that he’s waiting out his father’s ire, because that will just earn him a longer lecture.

“Hmm,” Father says one more time. “You need to finish up the commissions from yesterday. I just opened the mail. There are at least five new requests, and that isn’t including whatever will come while you’re in the shop today.”

Salem blinks at his father, clenched fists loosening. He hadn’t even realised they were balled up. “We’re opening the shop today?”

“No reason not to,” Father replies, opening the door further and stepping into the room. Salem can sense that this is going to be a longer conversation than he had anticipated, and mentally groans. He wanted to finish his Witch’s Gunpowder mix today before heading out for work.

“I thought I would spend the morning working on the commissions, then head out for delivery and a final house call,” Salem tells his father.

Father shakes his head. “You can finish the brews in the apothecary, then deliver them on your way home. I’ll take care of the house call.”

Salem briefly wonders why his father would want to take care of a house call, since that’s usually Salem’s territory. But then he thinks about it, and realises who the call was for.

Ah. So it’s brown-nosing the mayor, disguised as concern over his poor wife’s ill health in the late stages of her pregnancy. Father is trying to get into the mayor’s good books, get a little bit more power. Salem should’ve known.

“I understand,” Salem agrees, deciding to step down on this one. “I’ll look after the shop, then. May I deliver my commissions on the way home? It shouldn’t take me too long.”

“As long as you’re back before dark,” Father says, and Salem fights the urge to roll his eyes. When they open the apothecary, they close at dusk. There’s no way he’ll be able to deliver anything unless he uses magic, and that’s already unlikely enough if he’s going to be finishing those commissions.

“Yes, sir,” Salem replies quietly, trying to plan out his day. If he has to go to the shop, then he’ll have to take most of the supplies with him. Fairly annoying when he considers the trip, and the size of his bag, but he’ll have to make do with carrying everything with him. At least if he’s in town, then using magic to make the deliveries should be much less taxing on him, so he’ll be able to use a bit more of his magic on creating the damn items.

“Best get going then,” Father says, making Salem blink. He nods, and Father disappears back into the hallway and shuts Salem’s door behind him. Salem stands there for another minute or two, lost in his thoughts, then jolts himself out of it to get ready.

As loathe as he is to say goodbye to his cosy room, if not just for the day, he isn’t getting any younger and time isn’t passing any slower. He has a lot of work to do today, and he knows he has to get started sooner rather than later if he wants to have any hope of finishing by sundown.

The road to the apothecary is longer than Salem would like and almost entirely barren of any sort of plant life. Instead, the path is paved with concrete and cars occasionally going roaring past, making Salem jump every time.

His feet hurt by the time he makes it to the shop, just on the outskirts of town. It’s about a fifteen minute walk, and the weather outside is gorgeous, making up for the aches. His bag is weighing down his shoulder with all of the half-made commissions. Salem digs around in his bag for the key to the shop, just shoving his hand in and rooting around for the little lanyard that he keeps attached to his keys to make them easier to find. His fingers close on the lanyard, so he lets himself into the store and closes the door behind him, sighing when he’s in the relative quiet and dark of the apothecary.

The scent of lavender reaches out and curls around him from the bunches of dried flowers they have hanging from the ceiling. On the right side of the store is a wall of dried herbs in circular containers, each labelled with a little handwritten note so that customers know what they’re for. The wall isn’t too large, and Salem is pretty much the only one who uses the herbs from the wall, but occasionally an out-of-town customer comes in, here to see the famous apothecary. There are extra large jars of certain herbs that can also be used in cooking, and Salem makes sure to display those on a table near the front of the store for customers who want to take advantage of their lower-than-the-grocery-store prices. It’s only a few people who do it, anyway, so he’s happy to accommodate. There’s a long table of crystals on the other side of the store, with crystals and gemstones of all different shapes and sizes. They’re also all labelled for ease of use, though Salem knows that most people would use the crystals incorrectly.

And finally, up the back is the register and a long workbench for Salem to work on during the day. There’s a counter of witchy memorabilia, cups and shirts and tote bags that Salem finds mildly insulting. But the stereotypical merch is actually their best-selling category of products, so there’s nothing that Salem can do.

He wanders over to the workbench and tosses his bag on top, trying to be as careful as he can with the glass components inside. Thankfully the apothecary has most of what he needs, so he didn’t have to pack too much – just the ingredients that he had already prepped at home. It’s not out of necessity, because he could work entirely at the apothecary if he wanted, but he doesn’t want the work he’s already done to go to waste.

With a quick duck into the back room to turn on the lights and start the kettle, then back out to count the cash in the register (what if they were robbed overnight?), the store is ready to open.

Salem whittles away the first few hours of the morning by finishing up his commissions. His energising tea kicks in at about midmorning, and Salem quickly finishes the last of his projects, taking advantage of the boost in his magic. The two fertility spell jars take the longest to make, of course, but he has just enough magic to send most of the commissions off to their recipients. The headache tea and the spell jars he keeps at the shop, though, because they’re much too fragile (and expensive) to courier out. Besides, he knows Mrs Downey likes the walk to the apothecary.

A few tourists come by around midday, right as Salem is finishing his lunch. He greets them, helps them find the merch section and a very weak period relief potion for a person who’s looking quite pale, and then sends them on their way.

Mrs Downey arrives around midafternoon, right as Salem is starting to feel sleepy from his lunch. He feels himself perking up at the sight of her, and grins at one of his most loyal customers.

“Mrs Downey!” He greets, shuffling out from behind the counter where he was hunched over his book of shadows. The old woman smiles gently back at him, appearing twenty years younger with the friendly smile.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs Downey greets, slowly making her way into the store. Salem quickly ducks into the back for a couple of chairs that he keeps back there for her visits, and with a wave of his hand, they place themselves in front of the large front window so they can people watch. He flicks on the kettle while he’s at it and gathers his favourite citrus tea bags.

“Are you here to pick up your tea?” Salem asks, helping the old woman over to the chairs. She smiles up at him in thanks and lets out a low grunt as she sits in the now-plush chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t finish it earlier, but I’m glad you were able to make it to the shop today.”

“I had a feeling that today was the day,” Mrs Downey says, smiling at Salem. Their tea finishes brewing, so Salem stands and retrieves it before settling back down, their tea on a small table between them with a little plate of rosemary and orange muffins. “I heard that dear Ella got the potion for her son.”

“I just hope it works for them,” Salem replies worriedly. Despite his outcast status from the town, he’s always had a soft spot for certain clients like Mrs Gould and Mrs Downey, who are just trying to make their lives a little bit easier. There’s nothing wrong with magic, and they’ve seen that in him. Mr Murr, however… if Father wasn’t close friend of that man, then Salem never would’ve taken on his commission.

“I’m sure it will,” Mrs Downey replies, smiling and taking a sip of her tea. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and Salem hides his own amused smile behind his mug.

“So what’s been happening with you, Mrs Downey? How’s your family?”

The old woman leans forward with a mirthful gleam in her eye, suddenly seeming years younger. The power of good gossip, Salem supposes. “My family is excellent, thank you for asking. My nephew Graham just moved to the big city for university, and he’s loving it!”

“Oh? I’m glad to hear it,” Salem says conversationally, sipping his tea. Mrs Downey’s nephew, Graham, was a good kid who Salem had made many a potion for, at Mrs Downey’s request. Last he had heard, Graham had done a tour for LCU, the university nearby, but he hadn’t really liked it. “He wanted to study architecture, right?”

“Yes, he wanted to create beautiful buildings like those in Faress. He applied to UBC on a whim, and they loved his application!” She leans in further, nearly out of her seat, and Salem leans forward in turn. “To tell the truth,” Mrs Downey lowers her voice, almost conspiratorially, as if they aren’t the only people in the shop, “I think they liked that someone from a rinky dink little town like ours was applying. Diversity inclusion, you know?”

“Mrs Downey!” Salem leans away, acting scandalised. Truthfully, he knew that Mrs Downey had suspicions like these, and that though she deeply loved her nephew, she wasn’t particularly impressed with his academic skills. “You dog, you can’t say that!”

Mrs Downey leans back in her chair and cackles. Salem finds himself grinning along.

“Oh dear,” she says eventually, laughter eventually settling down into gleeful little giggles. “Yes, he’s doing well. He’s liking his courses, though he’s finding them quite challenging. He didn’t realise there was so much math involved in architecture.”

“Is that not common knowledge?” Salem asks wryly, leaning forward to refill their cups with more tea. It’s the last of the pot, so Salem pushes the little plate of muffins toward Mrs Downey and says, “And the rest of your family?”

Mrs Downey waves him off and picks up her tea again. “The same,” she replies. “Josie and Dylan still aren’t speaking to me, not since I encouraged Graham to apply for the city university. And Biscuit is still doing well, though she’s certainly getting on in years.”

It’s a little bit sad, really. Mrs Downey is in her early eighties, and Graham isn’t really her nephew but her great-nephew. Josie is her daughter, Dylan her husband, and Graham is the son of Josie’s late sister Evangeline, who passed away shortly after Graham was born in a freak car accident with her husband, Mark. Josie raised Graham as her own, but there was a falling out between Mrs Downey and Josie, and their relationship has never recovered. Mrs Downey doesn’t really have anyone else except for Salem, occasionally, and her beloved dog Biscuit.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Salem says quietly. “Is there anything that I can do? On the house?”

Mrs Downey shakes her head and smiles sadly into her cup. “No, I’m afraid some matters must be solved with non-magical means. But I appreciate the thought, dear.”

“If that changes, please let me know,” Salem says earnestly, setting his cup down and turning to fully face the old woman. The people watching is good, but he needs to look her in the eye for this one. “I know that you want to repair your relationship with Josie, and I know that you haven’t been feeling the best. I’m not saying I’ll make something that will completely change her mind on your entire history. I don’t have that kind of magic, even if I wanted to. But –”

“It’s okay,” Mrs Downey forcefully replies, setting down her empty cup. “I’d rather talk about something else. How are you doing, dear?”

The two keep chatting for a little while, and soon enough, an hour has passed, and the sun is starting to creep toward the horizon. Mrs Downey forces herself to her feet.

“I’d better be getting back home,” she says, looking toward the door. “It’s a short walk, but I’d rather not be out after dark.”

Salem also casts a glance outside and realises how late it’s gotten. “I’ll get your tea,” he says, turning and making his way over to the workbench. He left Mrs Downey’s tea and sea water on the bench, so he picks them up, bundles them together into a box and seals it shut. When he brings it back over to the chairs, Mrs Downey is wincing and turning away from the windows.

“Is your headache flaring up?” Salem asks, holding the package. Mrs Downey nods, so Salem quickly hands the tea over to her. “There’s a month’s supply of tea in there, as well as a jar of sea water. You can make the tea in regular water, just make sure to mix a teaspoon of sea water into the kettle to activate the healing properties of the herbs.”

“Thank you dear,” Mrs Downey says, holding out a small stack of notes. Salem takes it, feeling almost reluctant about the nature of the transaction. But he and his father need to eat, and Mrs Downey came to them specifically for relief from her chronic headaches.

“My pleasure,” Salem says, leading Mrs Downey over to the door. “Will you be alright to get home?”

“Oh yes, I’ll be fine,” Mrs Downey says, opening the front door to the shop and stepping out into the late afternoon sunshine. “Oh, Dominic asked me to mention something to you.”

“What’s that?” Salem asks, more concerned about Mrs Downey getting home than whatever Dominic wanted to tell him. He whispers a small safety spell and blows air toward Mrs Downey, watching the golden particles of his magic settle over her skin. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t react in any way, and he smiles.

“Dominic told me that a member of the Coven of Night passed,” Mrs Downey said, looking up at Salem with her big, cloudy eyes. “They’re looking for new members.”

“Oh?” Salem couldn’t have sounded less interested if he tried, and he feels bad about it. He’s just not interested in joining a coven, especially not one that sounds pretty high profile. He’s perfectly content, living his quaint little life in his quaint little town with his quaint little business.

“I think you would have a real chance,” Mrs Downey is saying. Salem is inching the door closed. He likes Mrs Downey, he does, but he has to finish his work and not listen to this. “There’s a competition or something of the sorts being held in the city. I think you should go. Get out of here. Experience greatness.”

“That’s nice,” Salem says absentmindedly, already thinking about what he needs to do to close in the fastest way possible. He still needs to get these spell jars to the Quinns and have a short consultation with them about the jars, though it’s looking like he’s not going to be able to get over there today. He may have to push it back to tomorrow. “I’ll see you next week for our tea, Mrs Downey.”

Thankfully, Mrs Downey gets the hint. The old woman nods, turns, and begins to slowly make her way down the pavement in the direction of her little house. Salem can see the blue roof from the shop, but he doesn’t have the time to stand around and wait until she gets home. His safety spell will hold, he’s sure of it, so he turns back into the store and flips the lock on the door.

Twenty minutes later, the register is counted, the mugs are washed, and Salem is locking the front door behind himself. The sun is truly setting now, and he needs to get home quickly. Hopefully his father will be in a better mood than he was this morning.

Salem sees a few people on their evening walks or out with friends as he walks home. It’s loud when he walks near the tavern, and when a drunk patron calls out to him, he turns his face away and walks faster, tightening his grip around the strap of his backpack.

The sunset is as gorgeous as it was yesterday, and the walk is pretty quiet. Salem finds himself lost in his thoughts while walking. Did they get any more commissions today that he’ll find out about when he gets home? He’ll have to check their email when he gets home, make sure there’s nothing new in the inbox. It would be nice to have a day off, for once. He loves his work, but he hasn’t had a day to himself in forever, and all those books in his room call to him.

Shit, is Father in a better mood? Knowing his luck, he’ll get home and there’ll either be more work to occupy his time, or Father will send him to look after the shop again tomorrow, just because he doesn’t want to. Salem sighs.

At least he can get these spell jars to the Quinns early tomorrow, in any case. He’ll send a message to them, ask them to come to the shop in the morning. The shop is quiet enough for a consultation, after all.

Are there any events on at the moment? Something that will draw people into town? He’ll have to check the calendar too.

Thoughts continue swirling around his head, and soon enough, he’s blinking up at his front door. The lights are on inside, so Father is awake and wandering around.

No escaping his fate, then. Salem takes a deep breath and opens the front door, setting his bag down at the entrance. He neatly tucks his shoes away as well, making sure to keep the front entrance tidy, and then he makes his way into the kitchen, where Father generally is at this time of the day.

“Hi, Father,” Salem greets, stepping into the kitchen. There’s no sign of Father beyond a plastic cutting board with meat that’s clearly in the process of being diced. The stovetop is on, too, and there’s a pot of boiling water simmering away.

“Father?” Salem calls, turning his back to the kitchen and heading into the living room.

No sign of Father there, either.

Salem picks up his pace, striding between rooms in their home in an attempt to find his father. He can’t see the man anywhere, and none of the bathrooms or bedrooms are occupied.

“Father?” He calls again, feeling panicked now. His father was pretty strict on both of them getting home before sundown, and the fact that he can’t find the man is worrying enough. But the pot of boiling water on the stove tells Salem that he had been home, and he had started dinner, and as irresponsible as his father is sometimes, he would never walk away from a pot of boiling water. He would never just leave meat on the counter, half cut and left out for anything to get to.

Salem makes another lap of the kitchen, and that’s when he finds his father. On the ground, unconscious, with blood dripping out of his nose.

“Father!”

When the doctor gives Salem a dim prognosis, he immediately consults the cards. He’s desperate for any advice, any ideas, anything that he can use to heal his father, who lies unconscious and wheezing in his bed.

For once in his life, the cards don’t give him a clear reading. He pulls absolute nonsense and finds himself more lost than ever. Salem blinks down at the cards on the table in front of him in despair.

“What are you trying to tell me?” He asks the cards, knowing that he won’t get a clear answer out of them but needing to try anyway. The cards don’t change, and he sets his face in his hands, trying to hold back his tears.

His father isn’t any better than he was last night. He rests in the bed behind Salem, wheezing quietly and still unconscious. Dr Forbes stands over his father, closely examining him and doing a full work up. A baseline, he had called it. They needed to know the starting point of this mysterious illness, so that they can track when it gets worse.

Then an idea strikes him, and Salem shoots upright in his chair. “A spell,” he gasps, glancing wildly around the room for his things. Dr Forbes does nothing but glance at him passively before going back to his tests, so Salem stands and rushes from the room, down the hall, up the stairs and into his own room.

Grimoires practically litter his room. He keeps them separate from his collection of fiction, but they take up nearly an entire wall of bookshelves. Salem blinks, then strides over to his desk and pulls out the notebook that activates the searching rune. A handy little spell that he developed a few years ago, the notebook is spelled to list the exact books and locations that the user is looking for with just a thought.

Salem holds a hand over the blank page and closes his eyes, thinking desperately of his wish to save his father. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, and then opens them, looking down at the page full of words.

Huh. Salem cocks his head and stares down at the page in front of him. Apparently, there are a lot of ways he can cure his father.

He strides over to the bookcase filled with grimoires and finds the first book on the list. It’s a small tome, filled with basic healing spells. Salem flips through, finds a spell, and grins.

Time to get to work.

Chapter Text

Nothing works. Nothing fucking works. It’s been two months of nonstop work, but nothing that Salem tries works.

Spells. Potions. Rituals. Poultices. Hell, even prayers to his father’s patron deity aren’t working. His condition remains exactly the same as it had been on that very first day.

Salem is exhausted, and he is desperate. His father is all he has in this world, and he is dying.

“Thanks, Marguerite,” Salem mumbles, accepting his change back from the fruitier. He’s at the market, blindly buying ingredients for yet another potion, though he knows in his heart that this one won’t work. None of them will. There’s something wrong with his father and he and Dr Forbes are no closer to having answers than they were on day one.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Marguerite frowns at him. Salem meets her gaze, and then looks away. He doesn’t want to talk to her about what’s happening, but he’s come to see her nearly every day for two months. At some point, he’ll have to open up and try and get some help. From someone other than Dr Forbes, of course.

“Everything’s fine,” Salem says, plastering on a fake smile.

Today isn’t that day.

He takes a step back, trying to end the conversation, and tugs his hat further down on his head. Marguerite doesn’t mention the strange hat.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do, alright hun?” Marguerite says. But that’s all she offers as another patron calls out to her from the other side of the booth, so she also steps away with one more worried glance at Salem, who turns and scurries away before he can be caught by anyone else.

He heads to the apothecary first. Despite his father’s illness, they still needed to make money to afford treatments and food, so Salem had to continue taking commissions. The current project he’s working on is a selection of spell bags for Ms Walker, the owner of the grocer down the street from the apothecary. When she had hired Salem’s services, she said that she had been suffering from horrific nightmares that left her paralysed from fear, and that she hasn’t slept for longer than an hour at a time in months.

Salem knows the feeling.

Luckily, the bags don’t take too much time to make. There’s seven in total, one for each night of the week, to use in rotation over the course of a lunar cycle. Salem just needs to finish the final two, a deep sleep bag and a nightmare protection bag, and then he’ll be able to send the parcel off to her. She offered a pretty high sum for Salem’s services, and he was unable to turn it down, considering the money.

Salem lets himself into the shop and closes the door softly behind himself, then sighs into the dim and quiet interior. Every day, he finds less reason to get himself up in the mornings, and as much as he loves his work, he would rather be at home, trying to find a cure for his father. But praying to the deities and doing rituals don’t quite pay the bills like commissions and tourist traps, so here he is.

But he isn’t working for too long before there’s a loud commotion outside. The noise draws Salem’s attention, and he looks up from the workbench where he’s bundling together a sprig of lavender with a valerian bloom. There’s a large crowd of people outside, all gathered around the electronics store that stands across the street from Salem’s apothecary.

Salem draws himself and wanders over to the front windows, trying to see what’s happening over the crowd. It looks like the people are all clustered around one of the televisions that rests in the large window display. Salem can’t quite see what’s on the television, but it seems to have enraptured people.

So, he steps over to the front door and opens it, just peeking his head outside.

“Salem!” A young female voice calls. Salem turns his head and sees the Quinns standing at the edge of the crowd, waving at him. Mrs Quinn’s hand rests on her flat stomach, and though she’s not showing, Salem knows that his fertility charms must have worked.

“Mrs Quinn,” he greets, fully stepping out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. The Quinns seem to wince at his appearance, though he isn’t sure if that’s because of the sun, because of the way he looks, or just because of his general presence. He’s betting on the latter. “What’s going on?”

“Are you alright, Salem?” Mr Quinn asks, ignoring Salem’s question completely.

Salem’s head cocks to the side, and his witch hat almost slips off of his head. It works wonders for blocking out the sun, though. “Yes? I’m fine.”

“We heard about your father,” Mr Quinn continues, stepping away from the crowd with his wife in tow. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

Salem smiles, though it’s thin. Wan, almost. He’s never been the best at lying. “I appreciate that, sir. But I just came to see what the commotion was about.”

Husband and wife still seem worried, though they let the topic go for now. “There’s a big announcement coming in from the city. The whole town gathered to see. Something about the Coven of Night.”

The name rings a bell for Salem, but he can’t quite recall which coven that is. Are they the ones that defeated Morden last month, or the ones who found a cure for the blood sickness? Shit, if they’re the ones who found the cure, then maybe Salem should be more interested…

The Quinns, without saying another word, turn back to the crowd, and Salem finds himself observing both the television and the townspeople.

“In more recent news, after the loss of beloved member Astor Cillian and the loving memorial service hosted just last week, the Coven of Night has declared their intent to hold an Initiate Competition. This Competition will be open to any witch, of any age, from anywhere in the world. Applicants will need to register before the Competition begins and make their way to Starshade City before the full moon next week. More details to come as they’re announced. My name is Edgar Ward. Thank you for watching, and we’ll see you next time.” The screen flickers, then the next program starts.

The townspeople mumble and begin to dissipate, but Salem feels frozen where he stands. An Initiate Competition? For witches? He’s never heard of anything like this before. Why would a coven need a competition for potential recruits?

“Salem?” Mrs Quinn calls, and Salem jerks himself out of his thoughts at the beckoning. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” Salem answers. He finds himself getting a bit irritated at the question. It’s been two months since his father’s incident, and people will not stop asking if he’s alright. The question is getting on his nerves. Just a bit.

“You seem pale,” Mrs Quinn pushes, and Salem’s molars grind together. He has to remain polite. He has to.

“I’m fine,” he stresses, perhaps a little bit more harshly than he means to. The Quinns flinch back, and Salem takes a step away. “I have to go. Work to do, you know.”

They nod, but Salem is already turning on his heel and marching right back into the apothecary.

Except the thought of that damned Competition never leaves his mind. A few days later, directly after he delivers the spell bags for Ms Walker, he stands on the sidewalk, lost in thought. He’s staring at a wisteria tree, eyes tracking over the purple blooms as he thinks.

His father is still incredibly ill, despite Salem’s and Dr Forbes’ efforts. None of Salem’s spells have worked, and he’s out of grimoires. Out of options. He’s made a couple of trips to Starshade, to the famous magical library in the centre of the city, but nothing he’s researched has worked. He can’t count how many creations he’s shoved down his father’s gullet, nor how many days he’s gone to bed with magical fatigue, physically unable to do any magic because of how much he’s spent. None of the librarians at the library were able to help him, either, and he’s reaching the very limits of what he can do.

But from what he learned, there’s one way of getting more power. One way that can heighten his magic indescribably.

Joining a coven.

Just a single ritual with a coven is infinitely more powerful than anything Salem would be able to do on his own. He would need powerful coven mates, of course, but with the knowledge and power that would come from a completed coven…

The idea is attractive. Salem can’t deny that. Even just the thought of gaining enough power to heal his father fills him with the sort of hope he hasn’t felt in months.

And after all, why shouldn’t he? His father isn’t getting better anytime soon, by the looks of things. There’s no chance he’ll wake up anytime soon. It’s become clear to Salem, now that he thinks about it, that his father’s illness has no natural cause. It’s a magical illness and must be solved through magical means. If that means that he must join a coven, that he must stick with them long enough to gain the power that it’ll take to heal his father’s ailment, then he’ll do it. And then he’ll walk away from them, because life with a coven is not something that’s meant for him. Salem is meant to live with his father, to support him in his own failing magic, and that’s not something that will change just because Salem finds his forever family.

His father is his family, and his father needs him. There’s nothing more to it.

He’ll have to join this Initiate Competition and join the Coven of Night, heal his father, and then close his heart to the Coven forever.

And if that’s the case, then he better make some arrangements.

But as it turns out, the arrangements aren’t too difficult to make. Mrs Downey offers to look after the shop in exchange for a year’s worth of tea, so Salem easily obliges and makes the batch. He has enough money in his savings to keep the lights on and keep his father fed for six months, and he hopes he won’t be gone any longer than that. Marguerite agrees to come over once a week to make sure that his plants are well fed and watered. The commissions he decides to put on hold, and he sends out messages to each person on the waiting list and gives them a summary of what’s happening. Those with good intentions send him well wishes in return, and he makes a note of the positive replies so that he can put them at the top of the waiting list for his return.

Then the day comes. He wakes in his bed, bright and early, and stares at the ceiling for a while, just thinking. It was only just last week that he was hearing about the Competition, and here he is, bright and early Monday morning, planning on taking a trip to the city that will last… an undetermined amount of time. Hell, he doesn’t even know how long the competition is going to last.

This is such a stupid fucking idea, Salem thinks as he lies under his comfortable quilts. His phone alarm starts chirping on his bookcase, but he just reaches up and turns it off. A precautionary alarm, anyway. He always sets them early so he can have a bit of a lie in before he’s forced to face the day. Gods, what kind of terrible son am I? Going to the city for months on end when my father is lying in a bed, sick and unconscious.

But he knows he has no choice. His father has been sick for months, and nothing has worked. Salem’s tried everything he can think of. Every spell, every potion, every ritual, every charm.

Well, he thinks, even if I fail, I can always visit the library and try and figure this out.

And with that in mind, along with the dragging time, Salem finally forces himself out of bed. He’s got a bag packed already, although he packed light. With no idea of what the Competition involves, he didn’t want to pack everything he owns. Just in case. So, he dresses, and he dresses well, because he wants to make a good first impression for… whomever he’s going to meet in Starshade. He dons his favourite oversized knit sweater, a pair of easy-to-move-in pants, and he tucks those pants into his trusty work boots. He also slips in a pair of earrings, needing the luck from the silver wire-wrapped aventurine crystals.

His witch hat completes his look, along with his little duffel bag. Before he leaves, Salem slips his travel grimoire into the bag, needing the reassurance that he’ll always have access to the magic knowledge he needs, whenever he needs it. It’s a shame that he can’t bring all his grimoires, nor his book of shadows, but he won’t need them, nor will he be able to carry them. He’ll have to rely on the Cosmic Library if he wants to research anything for his father’s illness, or for the Competition.

Salem takes one last glance around his room, belatedly wishing that he had a cat or something to say farewell to. It would be pretty typically ‘witch’ of him, he knows, but it doesn’t stop him from wishing he had a friend to come home to. Instead, there’s nothing but his father’s prone, unconscious body to say goodbye to.

Before he leaves, Salem leans over and waves a hand at the window, murmuring the words to his favourite charm. It allows fresh air to get into the room without damaging anything inside or allowing wind in, as well as keeping the UV rays from damaging his books.

Then, with one final glance around the room, Salem leaves, locks his door behind himself, and makes for Father’s bedroom.

It’s just as dark and desolate as it’s been for the past two months. Salem steps inside and looks around, searching for Dr Forbes. The doctor hasn’t left his father’s side since he fell ill two months ago. Salem is grateful for the help, but he can’t help but feel like he’s paying the doctor for nothing.

“I’m leaving now, Father,” Salem tells his father in a mockery of what used to be his morning farewell. Usually, his father would say something along the lines of hurry back or be back by dark. Have a good day once left his mouth when he was having a particularly good day, but Salem has never once held his breath for that sort of good-natured reply. “I won’t see you for a few months.”

As expected, there’s no response from Father’s body, but Salem continues anyway.

“Aren’t you going to wake up and tell me to win? To make you proud? To come back by dark?” Tears line Salem’s eyes as he stares down at his father’s face. It’s pale, even in the darkness, with sweat dotting his brow and faint lines creasing the corners of his eyes. Salem takes a cloth from the bucket beside the bed and wipes his father’s brow. He might have a tumultuous relationship with his father, sometimes bordering on desperately unfortunate, but he wouldn’t wish ill on him for any reason. “You’ll be fine, right? You’ll stay alive, just until I come back?”

The only thing that’s giving Salem any hope of his father’s survival is his ongoing stasis. He hasn’t gotten any better, but he also hasn’t gotten any worse.

“Whatever,” Salem mutters, stepping away from his father’s bedside. “I won’t be home by dark, but I’ll sure as hell be home soon.”

Then, Salem turns and leaves, making sure to lock up behind himself.

Chapter Text

 Gods, Salem fucking hates travelling sometimes. The cramped space, the stench of others, the absolute lack of personal space that some people seem to have…

Four hours and an incredibly cramped train trip later, Salem stands on the seventh platform at Starshade City train station. He makes sure he’s out of the way after stepping off the train, shoving his way out of the flow of traffic so that he can look at his phone and orient his way around.

Salem has been to Starshade a handful of times before, of course. Any self-respecting citizen of Astaria has. The big, bustling city, home to three universities; the biggest magical library in the world, in addition to dozens of smaller, non-magical libraries; hundreds of magical shops just like Salem’s; and hundreds of thousands of people. Hell, Salem has been here just a few months ago, not too long before Father fell sick, just because he needed to stock up on a couple of rare ingredients that can only be found in Eska and imported with… less than legal means.

(Salem didn’t tell his father where he had procured the phoenix ash that Salem had used in his very first healing potion, after Father fell ill. He didn’t need to know, and he wasn’t conscious enough to realise that the potion glowed a slightly deeper red than it was meant to.)

 Blinking down at his phone, Salem quickly pulls up the directions given by the Competition administrators. According to the website, the Competition was meant to start on the day after the fullest moon of June, which would be tomorrow night. Competitors were required to arrive in Starshade the day before the fullest moon to formally register and check in. Then, they would be given instruction on where to go to put their things, as well as a rudimentary schedule. To keep everything anonymous and fair, of course.

Salem sighs, frowning down at the map on the official Competition website. It’s bare, at best, likely done at the last minute as the administrators rushed to put this Competition together. For the Coven of Night Competition, Competitors were meant to head from the Starshade station over to Stormfury Arena, on the east side of the city. It was at least forty minutes by walking, and perhaps fifteen by both public transportation and car. But from what Salem could see, there was no easy way to get there by public transportation, because it required a local PT pass and knowledge of the train stations, which Salem simply doesn’t have. He also doesn’t own a car, nor does he have enough money to hire one.

He knows. He checked.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Salem reaches down and hauls his bag up from the ground. Thankfully it’s absolutely soaked in magic, and doesn’t weigh too much for his weak hands.

Walking it is.

The sun is absolutely baking down and Salem is hankering for a tall glass of water by the time he gets to the arena. His hat is his saving grace, as it keeps most of the afternoon sun off of his neck and upper back, but there’s sweat everywhere, and it’s making his knit sweater really uncomfortable. The weather report had only forecast a fifteen degree day, slightly on the warmer side for the cold June month, but the intensity of the sun makes Salem feel as though it's at least twenty five outside. His bag is also getting heavier by the step, despite the feather charms, and he’s going to need to put it down here in a moment or he won’t be able to use his right hand for the first of the day.

But from what he can see as he crests the small hill, huffing and puffing, there are a ton of witches here. They line up at a ticket booth just adjacent to the front gate, all milling around and chatting excitedly. Salem can even see a couple of witches jumping with excitement, and one even flies up on a broom before floating gently back down.

He sighs. If only Father had taught him how to use a broom, then perhaps he wouldn’t have had to walk all the way from Starshade station.  

But there’s nothing he can do to change that now. Instead, he heads straight for the back of the line, eager to put his bag down for even a moment of relief.

There’s a pair of girls ahead of him when he gets to the line, and they glance back at him and then turn back to their conversation, speaking in short, sharp sentences. Salem ignores them as best as he can and pulls out his phone to distract himself. Grimacing, he pulls up the Competition website and scans the registration page. Then he flicks to his email to make sure he got the confirmation, and then he thinks shit, maybe I forgot my ID and makes himself squat down to open his bag to make sure it’s all in there.

This is fucking ridiculous, he thinks, zipping his bag back up with a small huff. He knows for a fact that he has everything he needs. He triple-checked his bag before he even went to bed last night, then did at least two more checks this morning before leaving the house. Then once more on the train.

It’s almost obsessive, is what it is.

Salem stretches, then observes the line in silence. All up the line, there are pairs or groups of witches chattering excitedly about the Competition, laughing and shouting and making so much of a ruckus that Salem wants to shove his hands over his ears and ask them to stop. It’s too much. They’re not even in the arena. Hell, most of the people here haven’t even signed up yet.

The line shuffles forward a few paces, so Salem mutters a quick spell for his bag. His beloved little duffle rises and floats a few centimetres off of the ground, and it drifts forward in time to match Salem’s step. He considers dismissing the spell, but then figures that the line is going to keep moving, so he might as well keep the spell active so that he doesn’t have to lift the bag again.

The pair of girls turn and glance at him again, then down at his floating bag, then back at him before turning back to each other, giggling. Salem frowns, glancing down at his bag and picking a piece of fuzz off of the cuff of his sweater. What, were they judging him for using a spell to move his bag? They’re witches, aren’t they? Why carry something when you can use a spell? It doesn’t matter if they’re out in public, and most non-magical people don’t really like seeing magic being performed. Might as well take advantage of the benefits when it best suits, and Salem’s hands really are beginning to cramp from the pain of carrying the bag all that distance.

Then he realises. He’s a fucking idiot. He could’ve charmed the bag right from the station itself.

Oh, his father would be so disappointed in him.

And that thought, of course, takes him right back to worrying about his father. Is Dr Forbes feeding him enough? Are the sheets being changed and cleaned on a regular basis, rather than whenever someone remembers? Are they airing out the room? His father’s room gets really musty and dusty if it isn’t aired out at least once a day, and his father used to use a spell to artificially clear the air if it was cold outside, and now that he can’t, Salem worries –

No. Salem shakes his head slightly, trying to clear the anxious thoughts. His father will be fine. He cleared the whole trip with Dr Forbes before he left. There’s no reason to fret, not when Salem will be gone for, what, six months? At the most? Wow, he really has no idea how long a Competition lasts –

“Next!”

Salem blinked, realised the pair of girls ahead of him were stepping off to the side, and shuffled up to the front of the check-in booth, bag still floating somewhere near his calf.

“Name?” The person on the other side of the glass looked bored, as if a Competition happened every day around here. And maybe it did. Salem was sure there were some that weren’t televised. People died all the time, after all.

“Salem Blackwood,” he says, blinking down at his bag. Then, “Do you need my papers?”

The person waves him off, the glint of a dozen silver rings on their fingers catching the light. Salem admires them absently.

“Age?”

“26.”

“Your magic speciality?”

Salem hesitates, unsure which speciality they mean. “As in, the type of magic that I practice, or the magic school I’m a student of?”

“School of magic,” the person clarifies. They shove a lock of deep brown hair out of their eyes, and stare at him, eyes lidded, as though they’re half asleep. They’ve probably been doing this for hours, Salem thinks, feeling an almost kinship with the person. He, too, feels like he’s half asleep, and yet all-too-awake at the same time.

“Divination and enchantment,” Salem says quietly. The person nods and types something into their computer.

“Date of birth?”

“September 14, 1999,” Salem answers.

“Town of residence?”

“Evergrove.” This is getting tedious.

“Alright, that’s all we need. Give me a minute,” the person says, then they spin in their chair and yank something from the printer next to them. As they move, their earrings all clink together, each with different runes engraved into the silver. Salem admires the effect. Wonders what sort of enchantments they have on the earrings.

“Okay,” they say, spinning back around to face Salem and shoving a few sheets of paper under the grass window. “You’re in the Grimmstead dorm, in that menacing black building over there.” They point, and Salem follows their finger, nodding when he sees the building they’re talking about. “The Competition officially begins the day after tomorrow, after the full moon, but there’s an official dinner tonight to welcome the guests, as well as a breakfast tomorrow and dinner tomorrow evening. Other than that, you’re free to wander the city as you may, though we ask you don’t engage in any… criminal activity while you do so, so as not to tarnish the reputation of the Competition and the Coven. Any questions?”

“Actually –“

“Next!”

Salem sighs and moves out of the way, glancing down at the papers in his hand. His lodging details are on the first page, with an official schedule on the second page and a map of the arena and surrounds on the third. Salem finds it interesting that there are no details for dates after the official start of the Competition, though he can’t fathom why.

He thinks about it for a second, then decides to hit up the dorms first. According to the schedule, the commencement dinner isn’t until eight, so he has a few hours before he has to be back.

Perfect. Just enough time to drop off his things, and then hit up the Cosmic Library for some answers.

Every time he enters the Cosmic Library, the majesty of it all just takes his breath away.

The outside of the building is nothing special. Designed to be hidden from the outside, the Library has been glamoured to look like its neighbouring office buildings. It’s entirely steel and glass, and the windows display the pretence of a busy company, with employees striding around for meetings, taking calls, and the like.

Salem has never seen in the inside of an office building, but he imagines it would look exactly the same as what’s projected from the windows.

There’s a café at the bottom of the building, meant to keep up the appearance of a corporate building. However, witches know, by word of mouth, that if you go up to the barista and tell them that ‘you have a meeting with Dr Bark and will just order a cosmic latte while you wait’, the barista will smile, and point you in the direction of a nondescript door just to the right side of the counter. Step through and you’ll be taken to the true entrance of the Cosmic Library.

And oh, what an entrance it is.

Salem’s mouth gapes open, as it does every time he enters. The true Library is built into the centre of a great and hulking tree, towering for stories above Salem’s bread. The floors are circular, with a massive open space in the centre for studying. The walls are all lined with bookcases, and some stretch off into an unseen distance, meant only for those who are searching for specific books with true intentions. The further up the tree one gets, the narrower the open space in the floor is, until the ceiling cuts off the top floors from view. Salem knows from experience that those higher floors are entirely for studying, away from the noise of the city, with the very top floor being reserved for research on the ancient magics.

And higher up is exactly where Salem is headed, so he makes his way over to the elevator that’s been built into the left wall of the Library. It’s been glamoured to look like it’s made of wood, so that it fits in with the aesthetics of the Library, though the inside is all sleek metal and safety checklists. Salem calls for the elevator, steps inside when it arrives, and presses the button for the first closed floor, all the way near the top of the Library.

Salem fiddles with his phone while he waits in the elevator. His ears pop from the air pressure, and he yawns to relieve the mild ache. He doesn’t have any notifications. Nothing from Dr Forbes, nothing from Mrs Downey. Nothing at all. There are no friends waiting for him at home, and he finds himself wanting to at least have someone to share his nerves with.

The elevator dings as it slows to a stop, and opens on a floor just below Salem’s intended floor. He shuffles to the side silently, allowing for the other person to step on, and keeps his gaze down, not wanting to attract much attention.

“Oh,” the other person says, a deep voice tinged with faint surprise. Salem blinks, glances up at the other person, and then tries to stop himself from staring.

“Everything alright?” Salem asks, nervously. The angel with white hair and the world’s most sculpted jaw turns to look at Salem out of the corner of his eye, and Salem picks at the edges of his thumbnail in turn. Then Salem blinks, realises he’s staring, and looks anywhere but at the man.

“Yes,” the stranger replies. Fuck, his voice is almost regal. Everything about him is, really, from the long white hair to the sharp, almost-elfin features. Sharp, high cheekbones, pouty lips and a haughty attitude.

Fuck, he’s just Salem’s type.

They fall silent, standing near enough that Salem can feel the stranger’s body heat, but not so close that Salem feels like a creep. He tries not to stare but finds himself continuously sneaking glances at the stranger. His clothes are dark and draped over his body like they were tailored perfectly to his body, and there’s even a pair of dainty gold glasses perched on the end of his nose, connected to a simple glasses chain with celestial charms dangling from where they connect to the glasses. They’re surprisingly delicate for the man’s large build, but Salem finds that they suit the man.

Their eyes meet once or twice, and Salem quickly looks away each time, looking down at the finger he’s picking at. He had bought himself a fidget ring a few years ago, but he always forgets to wear it, and his cuticles have suffered the result. There are a few bits of skin that have ripped up, and he repeatedly picks at and then smooths over a hangnail on the side of his thumb.

There’s total silence on the elevator as they ride to their chosen floor. Theirs, because Salem didn’t fail to notice that the ethereal man didn’t press for another floor. Going to the same floor as Salem, which makes Salem wonder what the man is looking for up there. What he’s hoping to find, more likely. Salem himself isn’t too sure of what he’s looking for, but the books up there… Well, the knowledge isn’t really something that just anyone would go searching for.

A ping breaks the silence in the elevator, and Salem huffs out a quiet breath. The doors slide open with a swift and soft hiss, and Salem and the man both remain in place.

“After you,” the stranger says in that strangely deep voice, turning his head to fully look at Salem for the first time since stepping into the elevator.

“Oh,” Salem says quietly. He smiles at the stranger, says thanks, and quickly disappears between the looming shelves, all-too-aware of the man’s gaze on the back of his neck the entire time.  

As Salem is searching the shelves for his chosen topic, his mind keeps wandering back to that strange man. Salem thinks, He was so fucking pretty it hurts. He thinks, I need to know more about him.

And then, inevitably, I wonder what he’s looking for.

His eyes wander over the towering shelves, sorted haphazardly by genre, then topic, then author. Salem stands in the non-fiction section, at the shelf on ancient magics, specifically looking for any book on blood magic. It’s not exactly a forbidden topic, not really, because no type of magic is strictly forbidden. But he hasn’t seen anyone between the shelves since he stepped out of that elevator, and if he really listens to his surroundings, he wouldn’t be able to hear any other signs of life anyway. Just him and the shelves.

Where did that man go?

Salem, outwardly, is finding the shelves incredibly hard to navigate. He’s been here before, of course, but the downstairs floors are much easier to search, with the shelves neatly sorted and books perfectly placed. There are also library assistants downstairs, whose entire jobs are to help patrons find the exact books they’re looking for. Hell, there’s an entire floor just laden with computers for writing papers or using the internet. Upstairs, there’s none of those resources. Just books and a few tables scattered around for silent study, with a handful of rooms all the way at the back for private collaborative study.

He wanders down the shelves, turning and shuffling down another aisle, trying to find the books on blood magic. Salem had thought there would be a huge section on the topic; after all, there weren’t many ancient magics, and the books on sanguimancy certainly outnumber those on necromancy. But he’s been searching for at least twenty minutes, and he hasn’t found anything yet.

Salem sighs, leaving the aisle he’s standing in when he realises there are only books on material awakening. It’s, unfortunately, of no use to him, and not a topic that he has any interest in researching. The shelves continue on and on, all listing book titles within subjects that he has no interest in looking into. Time erosion. Soul splitting. The crafting of false souls. Hell, he even sees an entire shelf dedicated to summoning liches to act as your slaves. That one, he stays far away from, quickly striding for the next section.

And it doesn’t help that there are no fucking section labels, so he has to walk into the aisle, pick up a book, read the title, see that it’s not about sanguimancy, then put it back and move on. It takes time, and he doesn’t have all day. A library assistant would be immeasurably helpful, but as far as Salem is aware, he’s the only one up here. Hell, even that beautiful man from earlier has probably left already, having found what he had come for and gone back down to a lower level to study or even check out the book.

Finally, finally, near the back of the floor (by the aforementioned study rooms), he finds what he’s looking for. Introduction to Sanguimancy is the first book that Salem picks up from this particular shelf, and he’s so relieved he could start crying.

And if he did? Who would notice? Not like anyone’s here.

He sighs loudly, enough to startle anyone who could be present on the floor, and grins widely at the cover of the book. Then Salem looks back up at the shelf and picks another, this one with a startlingly deep red cover. Blood as a Universal Conduit, by Dr L Park, same as Introduction to Sanguimancy.

“How quaint that we’re looking for the same thing,” a familiarly deep voice proclaims from Salem’s left. Salem jumps, dropping the two books, and whips around to stare at the stranger from the elevator.

“Hi,” Salem replies, dumbly, hands still empty. He hasn’t even registered that he’s dropped the books, because he was pulled too quickly back into this man’s orbit. How quaint, he had said. That doesn’t seem like a good thing. Quaint. Like some aristocrat speaking patronisingly to a peasant.

Standing in front of this man again, that’s exactly how Salem feels. Like a peasant.

The man drifts over to Salem, almost appearing to float with how smooth his steps are. Salem can’t take his eyes off the man. He feels like a rabbit caught in a wolf’s trap, and if he doesn’t move, then the man will forget he’s there and move on. It’s not the most apt description, because this man is no wolf and Salem is no rabbit, but it’s the best metaphor that his failing brain cells have got.

The stranger, draped in white-blonde hair and those stupid little gold glasses, glances down at Salem’s feet, then gracefully squats down. Salem has no idea how a man can squat gracefully, but this man is doing it, keeping his knees together and bending slightly to his right side over them to –

Oh. He’s picking up Salem’s dropped books.

Salem makes a little wounded noise as the man stands again, slowly, like he’s trying to not startle Salem. The man looks down at Salem’s books and makes an interested noise.

“Introduction to Sanguimancy? What interest do you have in blood magic, little rabbit?” The man quirks a brow at Salem, as if genuinely waiting for an answer.

Salem, however, is broken from his illusion. Something about the tone of little rabbit makes the nickname seem mocking, almost condescending, and Salem doesn’t like it one fucking bit.

“Excuse you,” Salem replies, swiping his books from the man’s hands. He ignores the tingles that shoot through his fingers as their hands brush. The man’s fingers are warm and soft, with writer’s callouses. There are a few scars on them, from what Salem can see. Some kind of burn marks? “I am not a little rabbit, I’m a grown ass man. I don’t even know who you are! So I don’t see how it’s any of your business what I’m interested in, fuck you very much.”

The man blinks, impossibly deep blue eyes widening in surprise. “I. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean.” He sighs, then starts again. Salem finds the gesture… oddly cute. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. I was trying to get to know you, in a weird way. I’m Reign.”

“Salem,” is his terse reply, hugging his books to his chest. He doesn’t even know if he’s going to read these particular books, but they’re his hard-won prize, apparently, so now he feels like he’s locked in. “Why are you trying to get to know me.” It’s not a question, it’s a request. A demand, really.

Reign obliges. “I’m interested to know why the only other person I’ve seen in the Library today is looking for books on the exact same topic as myself. That’s all. Plus, I think you’re cute,” he adds, catching Salem off guard.

“Oh. That’s fair enough, I guess,” Salem relents, loosening his grip on the books. He’s still wary of the man, but speaking to him now, he seems… a little more human, he supposes. Less ethereal god, more oddly beautiful but still attainable witch. “It’s, uh, for a personal project. I’m not, uh, really comfortable with saying more.”

Reign inclines his head in Salem’s direction. “Well, I have a rudimentary understanding of the subject. Do you… want any help in narrowing your search?”

Salem’s eyes narrow, and he finds himself shifting back onto his right foot. “Why?”

Reign shrugs. “I’m also looking for a couple of books on sanguimancy. If we’re in the same area, then maybe while I’m looking for my books, I can also tell you if I find any books that you might find helpful.”

He has to admit that it makes sense, even if he doesn’t want it to. So, against his better judgement, he says, “Sure, alright.”

Reign blinks. “Really?”

“What, you taking back your offer already?” Salem asks gruffly, though he’s teasing. He thinks. He’s not really sure, actually. He’s never interacted with someone like this before.

“No, no! I’m just surprised you said yes so easily,” Reign grins, flashing white white white teeth at Salem, who squints at the sight. Yeah, not really helping his perfect man image.

“Well, don’t get too used to it. I probably won’t see you again after today,” Salem says, shrugging and turning back to the shelves. There’s a tugging sensation in his chest, as if his body wants to turn back to Reign and step closer, but there’s work to be done. “I’m looking for something about bloodborne curses.”

“Not to cast, I hope,” Reign jokes, turning and heading back to the other end of the aisle. With this distance between them, Salem feels as though he can finally breathe.

“Perhaps,” he answers vaguely, not wanting to give away too much about his research or why. “Why are you researching sanguimancy?”

Reign shrugs, a dismissive gesture that instinctively raises Salem’s metaphorical hackles. He’s seen that gesture too many times before, on boys just like Reign, right before they did something to hurt Salem. “I’m looking into the cross-section between sanguimancy and divination for a… personal project.”

“Sounds interesting,” Salem murmurs, still looking at the titles on the shelf. “Are you specialised in divination?”

“No,” Reign admits, pulling a book off of the shelf down at his end, studying the cover, and then placing it back on the shelf. They’re drifting closer together, still searching for titles that would help either of them in their research. “No, I specialise in conjuration and transmutation.”

Salem’s gaze whips to Reign, and he exclaims, “Really! I’ve heard of the two schools but I’ve never seen them in practice. What can you do?” Father had told him of the other schools of magic, of course, but he had never allowed Salem to practice anything that didn’t help their work. Salem, instead, had to borrow books on the other schools and study them in his own time, giving him an absolutely rudimentary understanding of some of the other schools. Hell, he hadn’t even heard about blood magic until he had overheard Dr Forbes mention it to a colleague over the phone, just a week before he came here.

“Well,” Reign begins, pulling another book off of the shelf, studying it, then nodding to himself and adding it to the slowly growing stack in his arms. “I mix natural conjuration – plants, seeds, rocks, trees, the like – with a subtle touch of advanced botanical transmutation to create a range of items. Weaponry, food, even ingredients for witches to use in their potions when a specific ingredient is too hard to get.”

“Wow,” Salem marvels. “What got you into that?”

“My covenmate,” Reign answers softly, taking another step to his left and now fully in Salem’s space. Salem isn’t even sure he’s aware. of it. There’s a gentle smile on his face as he thinks of gets lost in his thoughts. Salem wonders if he’s intruding on something. Covenmate. “He was an amateur chef, made all of our coven’s meals.” The smile fades from his face. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.

“I’m sorry about your covenmate,” Salem says quietly. Reign jumps, then looks down at Salem. He tucks a strand of white-blonde hair behind his own ear and smiles thinly, though Salem can see how fragile it is.

Then Reign clears his throat, and the moment is broken. “Did you find anything?”

Salem blinks at him, then looks down at the books tucked into his arms. There’s a book on lifeprint detection, the practice of identifying creatures by their unique blood signature. There’s another book on bloodline mapping, and a third on general bloodborne curses, though it seemed more like an introduction to the subject, rather than anything specific like types of bloodborne curses. All in all, not super useful for what Salem’s looking for, but it’s a starting point, at least.

“Kinda,” is what he decides on. Then he looks over at the much larger stack in Reign’s arms, and asks, “What about you? You’ve got a pretty good stack there.”

Reign looks down at his own stack of books and plucks one from the top of the stack, handing it over to Salem. Hemalurgic Lines and Resonance by Howard Lee. Salem looks back up at Reign with a question on the tip of his tongue, but Reign beats him to the punch.

“It’s about energetic pathways between living beings,” Reign says, leading the way out of the aisle. Salem follows, feeling almost like a little puppy.

“Like ley lines, but between people?”

“Sort of,” Reign says, heading to the nearest study table and gently setting down his stack of books. Salem does the same on the opposite side of the table, dropping into the seat with a small groan. The train ride to Starshade was incredibly long, and then he’s been standing ever since, and his feet are starting to hurt a bit. He’s more tired than he expected to be. “It’s more like… if we were all connected with strings of energy. Tracing people through their similar traits. Something along those lines.” Reign nods at the book. “Might be a good secondary starting point. Read Introduction first, to give you a basic understanding of the craft, and then go from there.”

Salem nods, pulling Introduction down from the stack and opening it to the table of contents. No point in reading a book if it’s not going to be of use to him, especially not while he’s limited with time. He’ll only be able to stay in Starshade for as long as he’s in the Competition - since they’re offering free room and board - and he doesn’t want to waste time.

Reign pulls down a book from his own stack, and the two begin their researching. After some time, Salem roots around for some paper to take notes, which Reign produces from his bag without pause. A pen shortly follows. Salem beams at Reign, then immediately turns back to his own work, reading intently and taking notes on anything that might help his father.

A few hours pass this way, until Salem realises that Reign has been tapping the desk in front of him for some time. He looks up at the man and sets his pen down. He’s got a couple of pages of notes to start with, a few recommendations of further reading to continue with, and some ideas for spells to try in the meantime. He’s not optimistic that any of them will work, but they’re worth a try, at the very least.

“Yeah?” Salem asks quietly, aware that there’s no other sounds on the floor.

Reign grins. “It’s seven. Didn’t you say that you have to get to a dinner at eight?”

“Oh yeah,” Salem says, though he starts packing up his things. He’ll check out Introduction to Sanguimancy, he decides, and stacks the remaining books to put in the return cart near the elevator. Then he realises what Reign said. “Wait, I didn’t say anything about a dinner at eight. How did you know I have a dinner at eight?”

Reign’s grin only stretches wider over his lips, and he says, “You seem like a participant in the Competition, taking advantage of the city experience to come to the Cosmic Library. Am I right?”

“No,” Salem says. Yes.

“Well, we’d better get going,” Reign says, standing and collecting his own stack of books. Salem does the same, and follows Reign to the return cart.

It’s only when they’re in the elevator that Salem says, “Wait, we?”

Chapter Text

Salem’s return to his tiny, temporary dorm was rushed. He threw down his bag and borrowed book onto his tiny bed, showered, and changed into one of the nicer outfits that he had brought. A bit of magic was used to dry his hair and ensure his outfit was pressed and sitting nicely, then he tugged on his boots and left, leaving his hat with the rest of his things in the dorm room.

Reign had disappeared as soon as they returned to the arena grounds, so now Salem stands in front of the arena entrance, where they had planned to meet. On the way back from the Library, Reign had mentioned that he was also a competitor and attending the commencement dinner, so he and Salem had agreed to meet, to enter and sit together at the dinner. He had said that he just needed to drop his own books off at his dorm and change, and then he would be back, so Salem had smiled and said he’d wait for Reign, since Reign was in the much farther Ironside dorm.

But now, a long bell chimes from inside the arena, marking the time as a quarter to eight. The time to meet has passed, and Salem grumbles at the thought. Turns out you can’t rely on men for shit.

A trio of competitors approach, so Salem steps aside so that they can enter. They eye him as they stride past, then turn and whisper amongst themselves, giggling and occasionally glancing back at him. Salem does his best to ignore the chatter, knowing that they’re speaking about him, and thinks. What could be keeping Reign? They both had to be at the dinner before eight, and it had been made clear in the welcome packet that competitors were expected to be arrived and seated before seven forty-five, to ensure that everyone is seated and ready for the commencement speeches.

Five more minutes, Salem thinks, casting his gaze around the square. It’s empty now, other than a few straggling competitors rushing to the entrance to Salem’s right. He leans back against the wall and keeps an eye on his surroundings, trying not to get dirt from the wall or dust from the ground on his clothes. For someone with as little magic as he has, using spells or charms to do small, temporary things (like drying his hair, or tidying his clothes, for example) take more effort than they’re worth. He only did his hair so it wouldn’t still be dripping at the dinner table!

Five minutes pass in a flash. Salem pulls out his pocket watch and glances at the time, then shoves it back into his pocket and pushes off the wall.

Alone, then. As usual.

He turns to the entrance, scurries inside, and joins the throng of people who wait just inside the main lobby. There are groups of witches lingering in the corners of the room, all speaking in hushed conversations with their friends and making sure to not speak to anyone they don’t know.

Salem stops in the middle of the room, totally alone, and looks around for Reign. The lobby is only half full, and there’s a double door on the other side of the room where contestants are lining up and getting their identity checked before heading in to the dinner. There are witches of all kinds, dressed at all different levels of formality, and Salem finds that he feels… oddly out of place, considering he’s in a room with only witches.

Now that he thinks about it, this hasn’t really happened before. Sure, there were the few times he’s been able to make it to the Cosmic Library before this, but that didn’t really count. The Library was never as full as this room is, and he always found a quiet corner to read in while waiting for his father.

Shit, maybe that’s the tactic to take, Salem thinks as he makes his way to the back of the line. Find a quiet corner, wait out the social time. Focus on the Competition. Find a cure for Father.

Game plan in mind, Salem keeps pace with the line, following it along the room and keeping an eye out for Reign. He can’t see the tall, oddly regal man anywhere, and as the time inches closer to eight, he decides that Reign simply must already be inside, seated and waiting for him. Maybe he thought that Salem was going to be late. Maybe he wanted to save them some good seats, and he didn’t have any way to contact Salem (Salem is going to ignore the spark of sad magic that sparks inside of him at that thought). Maybe…

Maybe he didn’t trust that Salem was going to be coming. That Salem decided to drop out before the Competition even started.

Salem takes a deep breath, then steps up to the door. There’s a member of staff standing at the entrance, who asks for his magical identification card. Salem hands it over, watches as they wave a wooden wand over the top to verify its authenticity, then they hand it back and wave him inside without another word.

So, Salem steps through the double door and finds himself in yet another line, this time leading in to the belly of the building. There are staff lining both sides of the hall, ushering contestants further through the halls, with magically-powered lanterns floating above their heads. It’s way after dark outside, so the lanterns cast an eerie glow across the halls, shadows dancing behind silhouettes.

“Where are we going?” Salem hears someone ask a staff member farther up the line. The murmur flows back across the other contestants, making Salem realise that no, they aren’t being led to the main arena. That would be too informal for this affair, he thinks, and is likely already being set up for the first major event of the Competition.

“Dining hall,” the staff member grunts back before waving them on, so that the line doesn’t bottleneck too badly. Salem follows, helplessly, shuffling his way between people and entirely alone. It would be nice if he, at least, had a friend to commiserate with, but Reign is nowhere to be seen, and he doesn’t know any witches besides his father.

Shit, how would his father be doing? Is he still alive, even though Salem hasn’t been home all day? Is Dr Forbes feeding him well enough? Making sure he gets enough water? He should call, just to check. Salem, still trudging along with everyone else, shoves his hand into his pocket and roots around for his phone. Wrong pocket. He checks another. Finds his phone, yanks it out, and blindly dials the number for the house. There’s a lot of murmuring happening around him, and occasionally he can hear something akin to nervous laughter, but the noise doesn’t stop him from making the call.

It doesn’t go through.

Salem panics, then dials again. Still doesn’t go through. He leaves a message, and then calls one more time, just for good measure. When this call still isn’t received, he hangs up and sends Dr Forbes a text message, nearly blind with his panic. Why is nobody picking up the phone? Where is Dr Forbes? Is he even at the house right now?

The text isn’t immediately answered, and Salem can practically feel himself descending into an animal-like panic. He’s blinking at his phone, and at least he’s still shuffling along with the line, finally nearing some sort of grand doorway with sparkling lights casting a flurry of colours just outside the circumference of the door. But Salem can’t appreciate it. Something bad has happened to his father, he can feel it. Shit, he should just quit this whole thing now and just go straight home. At least then he can be with his father in his final moments. This was a terrible decision, and he’s a terrible son, and, and his father is dying, and yet he’s -

“Hey, Salem!” Hands clasp themselves on his shoulders and Salem takes a loud, shuddering breath. Tears force their way out of his eyes and down his cheeks, and he can feel how hot his face is. He’s dizzy. Who grabbed him? Don’t they know not to just blindly grab someone when they’re having a panic attack?

Then a face swims into view. Reign.

“Breathe,” Reign says, frowning down at Salem. There’s a bit of jostling around them as they hold up the line, so Reign moves them to the side of the hallway but remains close to Salem. Salem, in turn, turns his head away from the line of witches and faces the wall as nearby staff make sure to keep the line moving. One even stands in front of Reign and Salem, as if trying to protect them, which Salem finds oddly sweet but ultimately pointless. Salem is red and gulping for air like a fish after having a panic attack over nothing, and Reign is like seven feet tall and beautiful and of course they’re going to draw eyes. Salem can feel it on his back like needles. They aren’t subtle.

“Hey,” Reign murmurs, hovering both of his hands above Salem’s shoulders, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to touch or not. Salem doesn’t point out that he’s already touched him. “You alright? Out of your thoughts? I can do the whole ‘five things you can see, four things you can hear’ bit if you want me to.” There’s a tug at the edge of his lips, as though he wants to laugh at his own joke, but Salem’s too tired. It’s been a long fucking day, and suddenly all he wants is to get this stupid dinner over with so he can go back to his temporary dorm and sleep for a hundred years. Or a night. Whatever works.

“Hard pass,” Salem says, pulling himself away from Reign. There’s something about the touch that feels… distant. Fake. Like Reign is playing a character, and that character likes Salem while Reign himself doesn’t. It makes Salem feel a sort of churning in his gut. Like he’s anxious. “But you can tell me where you were, since we agreed to meet outside fifteen minutes ago.”

Reign winces and glances back at the crowd of people. “Let’s just say I came here with my own group of witches, and they needed more of my attention than I thought.” Then he perks up, though it’s artificial. Now that Salem has seen the mask, he can read it all. “But that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have left you, and I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Salem murmurs. The last of the line is making their way past Salem and Reign, and the lights inside of the grand doorway are beginning to dim, as if for a performance. Salem doesn’t want to miss it. Hell, he doesn’t want to be the person who’s late to something like this, and not for something like a panic attack. He can call again later. ”Look, let’s just go inside for the dinner. You think we’re seated near each other?”

Reign shakes his head. “I heard the seats are pre-planned. By last name, I believe.”

Salem sighs, because he can already tell that this is going to be a long as hell night. He already doesn’t want to go to the dinner, and now he can’t even sit with the one tentative, sort-of friend that he’s made? Good opportunity for making friends, Father would say. Well, Father isn’t here, which is why Salem is, and Salem sure as fuck doesn’t want to speak to anymore strangers tonight.

“Where are you going to be?” Salem asks Reign. A subtle probing about his last name, yes.

Reign says nothing, just smiles and nudges Salem away from the wall. They file in at the end of the line, Reign’s hand hot and hovering just above Salem’s lower back.

The commotion is so much louder in the dining hall. Salem winces at the volume, looking around at the décor. The ceiling towers over its occupants, gilded in gold and painted with scenes of magical feats. There are wooden pillars, painted as though they’re cracked with gold, that line the walls of the hall, evenly spaced with magic lights floating and bobbing their way around. String lights connected the pillars and zag their way across the hall, clearly draped with magic. There are circular tables clustered around the room, all with heavy white tablecloths and matching gold-and-white chairs. There must’ve been at least two or three dozen tables, from what Salem can see, all with six chairs and cards at each seat. Hovering candles light up each table, allowing for a bit of sight, but not so much as to cause a headache from too-bright lighting. At least three-quarters of the tables are full already, with contestants chattering away and laughing while drinking from glasses of wine.

Salem glances at the nearest tables for his seat, and when he doesn’t see his name, he turns to Reign. However, Reign has long since disappeared, white waterfall of hair completely hidden from Salem’s view. Salem huffs, feeling frustrated with Reign’s constant disappearing act, but he reminds himself that he only met Reign earlier in the day. He doesn’t know the witch, not really, and to have expectations of him already is… quite spoiled behaviour, really. Not everyone was raised with the same social customs as Salem, and he needs to remember that.

So instead, Salem tips his chin up and walks further through the hall, looking for his name tag. Contestants glance up at him as he walks by, but it’s no more than a passing interest at another competitor. They simply turn back to their conversations without a word to Salem, so he takes that as a good sign and continues further.

Finally, at a table to the rightmost side of the room and about three-quarters of the way to the other end of the room, Salem finds his seat. It’s against the wall, just in front of one of the beautiful pillars, so he happily takes his seat, glad to be one step further into getting this night over with. The seat is also nice and anonymous, which Salem appreciates. He’s never been one to be directly at the centre of attention, no matter how much his magic forces it back home.

There are three other people at his table already. Two of them are deep in conversation already, heads bent together as they sit side-by-side. Salem has a feeling he won’t get much out of – he checks their names – Iris and Willow.

But there’s a man seated to his left, and he’s lazily looking down at his phone, tucked into his lap. Him, Salem has hopes for.

“Hello,” Salem says quietly, gaining the man’s attention. His own grey eyes meet the stranger’s dark brown, and the stranger puts his phone away and turns his full attention to Salem. Salem looks away, because he finds the eye contact with the stranger to be too… much. Too intense.

“Hi there,” the stranger drawls, a strange southerner accent colouring his words. Salem glances back at the man, and then away. Another man too pretty to keep eye contact with. Salem can feel his cheeks beginning to heat.

Salem wants to say something else, but he can’t think of anything else. What brings you here? How are you? How fucking inane can small talk get?

“Pretty thing like you isn’t in a coven yet?” the stranger asks, and Salem has to suppress the surprised squeak that wants to escape. Pretty thing like him?

“N-no,” Salem says, turning more toward the man but still refusing to make eye contact. “And I’m surprised you aren’t either.”

“Why’s that?” His head tilts to the side, black hair shifting with the motion. It’s mostly gelled back to be kept in place, but a few chin-length strands escape and brush against his sharp jawline. Salem stares at the escaped strands. At his jaw.

“Not sure,” Salem admits. “There’s just something…”

The man smirks, then holds out his right hand for Salem to shake. It’s covered in gold rings, each inset with a different stone. Azurite. Carnelian. Malachite. On the back of his hand, there’s a tattoo peeking out from his long sleeve, and it looks like the bottom of a tarot card.

Salem sees the warning for what it is and still reaches his hand out to shake.

“Onyx,” the man says by way of introductions. “Specialised in enchantments.”

“Salem,” he says. “Divination.” And enchantments, but he doesn’t say it. Something tells him that it would be better to keep that part of his magic under wraps.

Onyx grins, showing both canines. “And what made you want to study divination, of all things? You look like an abjuration boy.”

Salem doesn’t like the way he says that, the way he says abjuration like it’s something to be ashamed of. “Family business,” is all he says, though what he really wants to say is hey, fuck you, all schools of magic are equal. “You seemed more like a man of evocation.” You seem like a heavy-handed man, is what he really means.

Nevertheless, Onyx puffs out his chest with pride. “Yeah, I like to dabble with evocation, but enchantments is where the money is really at.”

Salem hums back, but doesn’t say anything. There isn’t really anything else he wants to say. He regrets talking to Onyx, though he has the feeling that this commencement dinner isn’t the last time he’ll be seeing the brute.

And thankfully, before he has to reply, there’s the sound of a throat clearing, and every eye is drawn to the culprit. There’s a stage at the back of the room, just a few tables away from Salem’s, and there’s a woman standing directly in the centre.

“Contestants,” she says, and her voice projects as if she’s standing directly next to each and every person in the room. “Welcome to the Competition of the Coven of Night.”

There’s a smattering of scattered applause, and Salem claps softly as well, knowing it’s expected.

The woman smiles, putting on a show for them. “I am Gamemaster Acacia, presiding over the Competition. It is my job to mediate the games, to make sure that everything is kept fair and just, and to ensure everyone’s safety. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little bit of fun!” She throws out her arms, and directly on cue, magical fireworks shoot up from behind her and explode high above the contestants. A rumble of awe goes over the crowd. Salem stares at the blue and pink sparks, caught up in the dizzying flash they create.

From the explosions come confetti, falling to the floor in little clusters of that same pink and blue paper. One such paper falls onto Salem’s lap, and he picks it up to have a closer look. It’s pink, shaped like a little star and completely blank.

“Contestants,” Gamemaster Acacia calls their attention back, and Salem pulls his attention from his little piece of confetti. He keeps it tucked into his hand, however, and rubs at the paper with his fingers while he listens to the speech. “You’re here today to compete. This much is clear to everyone in this room. Every single one of you wants to play, wants to win, wants to join the illustrious Coven of Night!”

There’s cheering, and applause, and three men step out from the sides of the stage and stride over to stand just behind the Gamemaster. Salem can’t really see them from where he sits, as he’s too far to the side, though he catches sight of red hair and black clothing. He sets his piece of confetti on the table next to his plate and takes the pitcher of water from the middle of the table, filling up his goblet.

“These are the men who will welcome you into their coven when you win! First is Caspian Night, Head of the Coven of Night and specialising in evocation!”

The man to the gamemaster’s right steps forward, looking bored, and Salem’s breath catches in his chest. He’s the source of the short, fire-like hair, with matching golden-brown eyes that seem to blaze brilliantly, even through his boredom. His clothes are dark and stiffly collared, sitting high against his neck and giving the appearance of keeping his head held up.

And the clothes… Salem blinks at the sight of Caspian’s muscles straining against his shirt. Yeah, he can work with that.

Caspian does nothing more than bow, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. Salem holds his breath as Caspian’s eyes roam over his table, eyes darting down to look at the table before Caspian’s gaze can meet his own. When he looks back up, Caspian has moved on, though his focus seems more targeted now. Like he’s seen something he’s looking for.

Then, without saying a word, he turns and rejoins the line of men, removing himself from Salem’s direct view over the tops of the other competitor’s heads. Salem sighs and leans back in his chair, willing himself invisible. Fuck, if the rest of the Coven of Night have that sort of gaze, then he doesn’t really think he wants to join.

“Next is Evander Night, the Spine of the Coven and specialising in Abjuration!”

Before he can stop himself, Salem’s gaze is drawn to Onyx sitting next to him, though Onyx is entirely focused on the stage. He seems a little bit pale, even, and Salem briefly wonders if he regrets his opinions about the school of abjuration. Clearly, he’d have to change those views if he wants to join the Coven.

The man standing behind Gamemaster Acacia steps forward then. A curtain of long black hair obscures his vision when he bows, and he swipes it from in front of his eyes as he, too, looks over the crowd. Salem blinks widely at the man, because his ears are pointed and practically covered with silver jewellery. He’s got a narrow nose, full pouty lips and brilliantly blue eyes that scour the crowd, as though he’s looking for whatever Caspian had seen.

Those eyes, too, sweep over Salem’s table, though he doesn’t make eye contact with Salem. Sending thanks to his deity, Salem picks up his goblet of water and takes a sip, forcing himself to look away from the stage for a brief moment.

Evander straightens, brushes his hair gracefully over his shoulder, and turns to rejoin his coven behind the gamemaster.

“And last but certainly not least is Zephyr Night, Tail of the Coven and specialising in Conjuration and Transmutation!”

The last member of the Coven of Night steps forward and Salem chokes on his water.

It’s Reign. Well, not really Reign, because they don’t really look alike, but they certainly look similar enough to be cousins, perhaps even brothers. Zephyr has Reign’s white hair, though his is cropped at the ears and tousled around his face. His eyes are silver, almost glowing despite the bright lighting in the dining hall. He has the same sharp cheekbones, the same pout, and the same almost bored attitude that Reign had at first.

Unlike the others in his coven, Zephyr doesn’t sweep his gaze over all of the contestants. He looks over the crowd, yes, though he’s more methodical in his approach. Zephyr seems to take in the appearance of each and every contestant, and when he gets to Salem’s table, he stops and stares at Salem for a beat longer than everyone else. Salem freezes under the glow of his eyes, and Zephyr seems to know something Salem doesn’t. He releases Salem from his gaze and turns back to his coven, not even bothering to look at the rest of the contestants. When he reaches his coven, he says something to them, though Salem can’t see anything after that. The person in the seat opposite him, a tall man named Roman, blocks his view.

Gamemaster Acacia appears to be listening to their conversation, then perks up and says, “Alright, everyone, those are the members of the Coven of Night! Who’s excited to meet them?”

There’s a faint cheer that echoes through the room from the sea of contestants, but Salem doesn’t join in. He feels faintly sick, actually. There’s something churning in his gut, nausea or anxiety, or fear, that has him seriously reconsidering this whole venture.

“Well,” Gamemaster Acacia begins, forcing the contestants to quiet down for fear of missing something she says, “You’ll be meeting them very soon! Each and every competitor will get their chance to have an interview with the Coven of Night, just before the commencement of the first Trial!”

The cheering gets louder, and Salem feels sicker. He might throw up, actually. If there’s one thing he doesn’t want, it’s to be the centre of attention in an interview. Is this a fucking job that he’s signing up for?

Whatever it is, he isn’t sure he wants it. But then the thought of his sick father flashes through his mind, and Salem’s hands ball up into fists under the table. Thankfully he’s set his little confetti on the table. It’s too cute to scrunch up.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” Gamemaster Acacia says. The three men who make up the Coven of Night turn and leave the stage, with a chorus of booing marking their exit. Salem stays silent. “The first Trial, the Trial of Swords, will take place in two days, on the day after the full moon. We will hold the interviews directly before your Trial, so that you are in the right mindset to answer the Coven’s questions.

“Furthermore,” Grandmaster Acacia pauses, as if to let the tension in the room grow thick. Salem really doesn’t appreciate the thought. “You will be participating in the Trial of Swords in pairs. You will not find out the identity of your pair until the morning of the Trial, so that you may not strategise or sabotage fellow competitors. The two of you will arrive at the arena for your interview at your designated time, then undertake your Trial. We will only allow the better half of competitors to attend the trial. This means for one hundred and four of you, you will not be able to compete at all.”

There’s a discontented murmur that runs over the crowd, as if the other participants hadn’t realised that this Competition was going to be so cutthroat. Salem himself is anxious at the thought of the interview, sure, but not as upset as some of these other contestants seem to be. Even Onyx, at his side, has a sneer on his face, though he’s smart enough to keep any words to himself. No need to alienate himself from any potential pairs. Onyx’s own eyes slide over to Salem, so Salem quickly looks away and takes another drink of water from his goblet.

“However, that isn’t for another few days. Competitors, please indulge in this feast that the Coven of Night has prepared for all of you, and enjoy your night!” With that, Gamemaster Acacia strides off the stage in the same direction as the Coven, and music begins to play. It’s something with a heavy beat and light, airy male vocals in a language that Salem doesn’t know.

“Fuck,” Onyx sighs, leaning back in his seat and taking a deep swig from his goblet. As he lowers the goblet back to the table, Salem sees a flash of deep red liquid inside, and sighs. Wine. Of course.

As if this night couldn’t get any better.

“What did you think of them?” Onyx asks Salem. Salem sighs internally and resigns himself to having to put up with one of the most overconfident men he’s ever met.

“Intimidating,” Salem answers, a bit more honest than he would’ve preferred. It seems that that’s the general consensus of the room, however, as contestants whisper amongst themselves. Waitstaff begin to stream out of hidden doors in droves, delivering plates of food to each table before quickly retreating so that competitors aren’t given a chance to speak to them. Salem himself is granted a bowl of smoothly blended tomato soup and an accompanying plate of cheesy bread before the waitress turns and swiftly strides away, twirling her fingers to refill Salem’s glasses automatically. He wishes he could thank her, but she’s gone before he can.

“Really?” Onyx mutters, staring at a waiter who slides a plate of steak on the table in front of him. The waiter straightens, meets Onyx’s gaze, squeaks, and leaves. He doesn’t do the same trick that Salem’s waitress did for him, and Onyx seems like he wants to grumble about it. But he waves his own hand so the jug of wine on the table lifts into the air and refills his goblet without any kind of incantation.

Salem is secretly jealous. He can use that sort of magic, of course, but not without expending a lot of his magic in the process. As it is, he must focus on using it at the right time, and for work, primarily. He doesn’t have the luxury of using it whenever he wants. His patrons generally get the bulk of it.

“They didn’t seem all that impressive to me,” Onyx continues, jolting Salem out of his envious thoughts. “Seemed like a bunch of stuck of witches, honestly.”

“Then why do you want to join?” Salem asks, beginning to tuck into his dinner. The first bite of his tomato soup is absolutely divine, as expected. It’s sweet, creamy but not overwhelmingly so, and there’s a depth of tanginess that Salem doesn’t expect. Vinegar of some kind? Red onion? Whatever it is, it has Salem’s tastebuds lighting up like nothing his father has ever cooked.

Father. Shit. He needs to check his phone.

Onyx speaks, but Salem doesn’t listen, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. There’s no missed calls, but he does have a message from Dr Forbes.

Evening, Salem. Your father is fine. Apologies for not picking up. Please focus on the competition and don’t worry. Dr Forbes.

A sigh of relief escapes him unbidden. Salem clutches his phone to his chest, feeling a sense of bonelessness flood him. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep, and the thought of staying at this dinner next to this dolt of a man is abhorrent.

The tomato soup keeps him in his seat, though. Salem tucks his phone away and begins to eat in earnest as his stomach growls at him. Shit, when was the last time he ate? Must’ve been when he was on the train, now that he thinks about it. He was so focused on getting to Starshade, then getting registered, then going to the Library, then this dinner that the thought entirely slipped his mind.

“What about you?” Onyx asks. The man is tearing into his own steak with the relish and vigour of a wild animal. The sight of it disgusts Salem, but he can’t leave just yet. He isn’t done with his soup, and none of the other contestants have left yet. He can’t be the first one.

“Huh?” Salem asks, entirely obvious about the fact that he was not listening. And why would he?

“Why do you want to join the Coven?” Onyx repeats, his eyes narrowing at Salem’s non-answer.

“Oh,” Salem says, putting down his spoon. He’s devoured his tomato soup and needs to leave the table immediately, but he doesn’t want to potentially antagonise Onyx too much in case they’re paired for the first Trial. The Trial of Swords. Shit, what must that involve? He’ll have to do some thinking. He knows the tarot like the back of his hand. The name has to mean something. “I need the power. Same as most people here, I think.”

“The power?” Onyx grins, dropping his fork to his empty plate. There are a few bits of steak left on the plate, as well as the entire salad that the cooks had so painstakingly paired with the steak. Salem thinks, distantly, of his father doing the same sort of thing. Refusing to eat his vegetables, that is. “Yeah, you seem like you’d be after the power boost.”

Salem’s own gaze narrows at the words, but he chooses to keep his mouth shut. If he says anything else, he might just accidentally tell this brute to fuck all the way off. Then his gaze is caught by a head of white hair moving toward them, and a smile paints his lips before he can even think about it.

“Excuse me,” Salem says, though he doesn’t particularly care what Onyx thinks. He stands and begins to weave his way around the tables, feeling Onyx’s eyes on his back the entire time. Salem decides to focus on Reign’s more inviting gaze, and when he reaches the white-haired witch, he says, “Wanna go literally anywhere but here?”

His bed is still calling for him, but the desire to leave is louder.