Page 24 of The Teras Trials

“Nothing to worry about now,” I say, and mean it, because we have to deal with trials before all that. And this is worth it for my brother’s dying wish. “Let’s go.”

9

LESSON NINE

The rooms are in a secluded section of the University’s dorm building, which is a massive dark sandstone building near the hall we eat in. The University’s building stretches deep into the campus grounds, but so far, we are not permitted there.

We barely have a chance to take in the wealth of tall, windowed buildings and conical roofs. Most of the view is blurred by the night and the rain, with only a handful of fire lamps lighting our way.

“The sunset will be stunning,” Leo tells us. He is standing in front of a large triptych window in our small reading room. A small shelf doubles as a reading seat beneath it. He spreads his arms wide to encompass the length of it. I watch his shirt stretch over his chest, hardened muscle exposed as the buttons of his white shirt strain to stay together.

I know the flush is coming and look away.

“You look downright miserable,” Leo tells me, slapping an arm over my shoulder like we are old friends. “You better save some of that awful depression for when the trials actually start.”

I know I should quip back, but I don’t. Leo Shaw keeps shifting from overly-familiar to darkly guarded. I can’t trust him, I can’t—but I keep getting pulled in. It doesn’t help that he’s beautiful. And as much as I tell myself I’m not here for pretty boys, I feel myself growing desperate for that kind of intimacy. Grief and the horrors of my mortal life apparently are best soothed by men.

Leo peels his hand away and walks away when I don’t reply.

Large crates filled with us Londoners’ belongings have already been dragged up. Bellamy and Victoria laid claim to two rooms already, right at the front of the wing like they’re eager to jump out of their shared home-to-be at any given chance. It could be true. They aren’t happy with the guests I’ve invited, but I remind myself I’m not supposed to care. They can stare daggers at Fred, Silas, and Leo, but so long as we work together in any trial that requires it, we’ll be fine.

We’ll absolutely be fine.

I have claimed the room next to the sitting room. Not too small, it consists of a bed, a study desk, an oil lamp, and a fireplace. Its large window shares the same view as the triptych window: the University’s gates. Carved on the lintel are the initials TJ, which is why I snagged it: I suspect there’s something here, something left by my brother, and once the door is closed I immediately drop to my knees. Like an insect, I am on the ground, feeling along the seams of the floorboards, on my knees as if in prayer before the stone wall. I press and prod and wait for something to give. One floorboard screams with my weight, and I pry it free.

Nearly six years worth of dust bursts out of it. No one has touched this since my brother was in admissions. There are several flasks, bandages. A gun with six rounds calls my name, but I leave it there and shift it aside. There’s a sparker. I grab it and shake it; a tiny amount of fuel sits in it, and I doubt I’ll be able to replenish it, but I pocket it anyway. For when I’m in a bind.

A dirty bit of paper sits underneath it all.

I open it. It reads:

1. Python. Gun’s useless. Dead: 32

2. Use for trials 2, 4. Library in centre. Massive willow. Courtyard. Meléti helps for a price. Dead: 1

3. Plant from 2 is a toxin. Be careful to

The letter is blackened, both from an immense amount of ink, and from a burning that has clearly destroyed the rest of it.

I take a flask out, take a swig, choke. I hear a floorboard creak behind me, and spin—no one is there. Before someone can come, I put everything back under the board.

I’ll only share what I know if I need to. I don’t know who to trust yet, and I remind myself I only need this team if it comes down to it.

I get to unpacking.

My case is mostly made up of tomes, and a few pieces of clothing to get me through. I quickly realise there is little point to them: a trunk at the end of the bed supplies me a uniform.

I tut and drag it out. Grey pants, white shirt, tie, blazer, vest. They’ve even supplied us socks, emblazoned with the University’s crest. I grab the woolly pair of them to ask the other’s opinions—who embroiders socks?—but I stumble out onto a sight that gives me pause.

Silas has taken a seat beside Leo. I watch as he edges a book out of the shelf between his legs. He opens it up, frowns, and awkwardly tries slotting it back into place.

Leo inclines his head towards it. “What is it?”

“Latin,” Silas says softly. He jerks his head to the side, and I flatten myself to the wall before he spots me. In an even softer voice he says, “Which I can’t read.”

This is a dangerous thing to admit. Some of the lessons they teach us should we be admitted will be entirely in Latin. Or Greek. They might even make us learn Armenian. Anything to keep the University’s secrets protected.

Leo says nothing for a beat. I resist the urge to spin around the bend. Eventually he says, “Show me.” I hear the shuffling of the exchange.

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