Page 49 of The Teras Trials

“Alright,” I tell it. “I’ll pay your price.”

15

RECORDATIO

“Get up.”

Cassius snapped awake. The light was harsh, a blaring white after the snowfall. He was in his house just outside of Hull, a little shack he shared with his brother and parents. Didn’t know what day it was. Knew it was morning, at least, but nothing else. Something was burning in the distance, and the smoke made him scrunch up his nose. Disoriented, he blinked once, but he didn’t get up quick enough. A hand closed around his shirt and hauled him to standing.

“I said get up.”

Cass clamped his mouth shut, swallowing a yelp. The urge to lash out ran through his mind momentarily, but it was quickly quashed. Striking his father would bring him nothing but a world of pain. He was still sporting the bruise from his father’s last ill-managed flash of anger—Cass wasn’t in the mood for any more aches.

He raised his chin. At twelve, he wasn’t nearly as tall as his father or Thaddeus, so he had a constant crick in his neck, a constant strain to appear taller. But it didn’t take much to make him feel small. Just one look; the withering, disappointed stare of his father. The man’s coarse hair was shaggy, and the bags under his eyes told him he’d slept poorly again. He smelled like whiskey, fish, as he always did, and the general unclean scent that clung to everyone in this town.

Cassius wasn’t sure what was going on. Sleep still hewed to him, making him groggy. But when Mr Jones put a finger to his lips and a hunting rifle in his hands, Cassius grew cold.

He knew what all this meant. Something was outside. Broad daylight usually deterred teras, but not always. Whatever was out there would have to be fought.

He shook. He was horrified. But this was life, outside of London. Cassius’ father was a fisherman, but there were terrible creatures to be found at sea, and he always trained Cassius and Thaddeus to fight. Cassius just wasn’t very good. Not like Thad.

But he had no time to think about that now. Cass carefully positioned himself against the wall of the small shack. A poorly fitted curtain hung over the window. He stood next to it, trying to spy the creature through the cracks.

On the opposite side of the shack, Thaddeus was crouched on the ground, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. He’d been awake longer than Cass had and should have had a better grip on the situation than him. But Thad was shaking. Cass knew he hated this. Thad was sixteen, raised his whole life outside the protection of London, and he was good at Hunting, when he had to do it, but Cass knew he wished for something different.

Cass grimaced and glanced away. Mr Jones caught his eye. Cassius’ father was staring at him, assessing him as he sometimes did. It was all part of his training—sizing him up, seeing if he was scared. Only a fool ignores their fear, he sometimes said to Cass. But a greater fool let it overwhelm them. Adrenaline ran molten hot through his veins. If he could utilise it, stoke the burning fire just enough to centre him, he could slay this thing in no time. These were, of course, not his words nor his feelings. He was regurgitating everything he’d ever been told, in case Mr Jones was angry today, and wanted to hit him.

His father saw right through him. Still staring, he got up and knocked Cassius’ shin.

“What, boy?” Mr Jones hissed, risking whatever was outside hearing him.

Cassius felt his face crumple, both out of fear and a dark disappointment. He bit his tongue. He couldn’t reply.

“Focus,” his father ordered.

Cassius nodded frantically, clutched the rifle and looked back out the window. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his back. He tried not to urinate on himself. He’d done that once. Got beaten for it.

It was times like these that Cass liked to pretend he wasn’t scared of death. But the truth was he felt it: a yearning in him, a need to stay alive that felt more vital than breathing. He didn’t want to die to his father’s anger. He didn’t want to die to a teras. He didn’t want to die in a rundown town outside of Hull without a taste of the world beyond.

He didn’t want to die at all.

So when the window beside his head smashed in, he screamed. Something closed around his neck. Cass thrashed, still screaming, and put his leg on the sill for leverage. The grip around his neck loosened. Cass stuffed the curtain against the broken window, but the hand still grabbed for him; long fingers curled through the curtain fabric trying to find his flesh. Cass cocked the rifle. The curtain blocked his view. It didn’t matter. He shot blindly.

There was a howl of pain. Someone cursed.

Cass lowered the gun. Blood was in his ears. But someone was outside cursing. Over the panic he heard herself, in shock, asking, what kind of teras swears?

Thaddeus shot up, knife and gun pointed towards the window. “What’s—”

A new force burst through the broken window. With a screech, the curtain tore off its rod. Two hands folded the curtain over Cassius’ gun and clamped down, heaving. Cassius held fast. The muscles in his shoulder strained against their sockets, but if he lost that gun Mr Jones would beat him bloody. Then a man roared and dragged him forward. Cassius was twelve—he had barely any body weight to stay grounded on a good day. When the force outside pulled, he couldn’t resist. He was dragged over the windowpane.

Cass screamed, at first from the fear bubbling up and over, and then from the pain: a white-hot flash of it over his abdomen where shards of broken glass had sliced his stomach. He hit the snow with a thud. Cass rolled, wriggling backwards away from his assailant. There was blood in the snow, little drops of it. He reeled away with a choked scream, catching sight of dark boots, a figure towering over him, but the snow was blinding bright. He couldn’t pick out details; he needed to get away.

It was then he realised the rifle was out of his hands. He struggled back in the snow, feeling around for it.

Just as he grabbed the rifle, a gun cocked above him.

Cass froze. His heart was in his throat. At this point he knew it was pointless to struggle. He jutted out his chin and squinted up at the man above his. He tried not to cry. He failed. Tears welled hot in his eyes.

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