Page 14 of The Teras Trials

I know I’ll need friends here. I already owe Fred and Silas Lin and Leo Shaw my life. I spot them in the crowd, but they’re not together. I’m surprised Silas is here and on his feet after the manticore, but if I hadn’t been there myself, I wouldn’t know he’s injured. He stands stock still with a straight back, looking strong. Fred doesn’t see me, but Leo does—we lock eyes, and he stalks towards me—but he doesn’t say hello. He hovers near me for a moment, then scans around me, and with a sly smile goes instead to a pale girl nearby; pretty in a fine blue dress. She is missing her right arm. It’s been replaced by an artificer’s work; marble, steel, and gold interlink to give her an arm that looks like delicately painted porcelain.

Leo doesn’t even introduce himself. “How’d you lose the arm?” he asks.

The girl is startled he is talking to her. Leo’s shirt is smattered with dried blood. Even if it wasn’t obvious by his clothes alone, I notice Leo’s forehead is marked with a golden cross. It marks him as xenos.

“This?” The girl looks younger than him, just over the cusp of eighteen. She scoffs a little, like the extremely delicate, artificer-made steel-and-gold prosthetic is not something worth staring at or asking about. “Teras, of course. A big one. Boar-shaped. Caledonian class, you know.”

“Sure,” Leo says through a forced smile. For God’s sake. I’m sure he’s seen plenty of teras — and whatever arcane act has manifested these beasts from the Greek mythos made plenty of those massive boars stalk the land. Leo continues, “I suppose you killed it?”

“Clean shot through the head, of course.” And then, when Leo doesn’t offer his own story of brilliance, the girl decides to voice the curled concern at the back of her head. “Are you sure you’re meant to be here?”

Leo doesn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes slide to me like he’s disbelieving of the attitude. He gives me a wink. “Oh, I’m rather sure.”

Leo makes to leave but not before the girl can say, “Quality’s hard to find these days.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Leo whispers as he slinks away again.

He slips past me. “Mr Jones,” he says, and doesn’t stop to talk. I don’t know what he’s doing or why, but I watch after him.

Again, I find myself wondering what it's like to have that kind of confidence. It feels like a natural armour for him. There are others like him—obviously xenos, or less well-off—but they lack the energy he exudes. The ease. The gravity.

I look around the room. Not as many xenos as I’d been expecting, but enough that they all stand out. They aren’t the only ones to be shunned. There are London-born workers, or their children: the ones who make the city run, but who will never enjoy the same privileges and money as University graduates. They have come to try their hand. I also notice a smattering of other nationalities, refugees from a world ravaged by the same monsters. But they will be like me, the xenos, the Workers–overlooked in favour of London’s own.

I edge my way through the crowd and prop myself against one of the hall’s internal columns. I also try not to think about looking like a cornered animal, but I’m not sure I succeed.

An open call is rare. It means the University is desperate. They regularly take the siblings of graduates, their children, their friends. The University only takes the very best, and their testing methods are relentless.

I know all this but standing here makes it all that more real.

“Quiet down. Quiet down, now.”

The dean walks out. He’s dressed in a long robe with gold edges. He looks sadder than ever this evening, but truly, it’s just his face. He climbs onto the dais at the end of the hall, half slumping over the podium as he waits for the crowd to grow quiet. A buzz of excited whispers continues even when most voices stop, a mosquito-squeal that sits my teeth on edge.

“I am Dean Drearton,” he says with little ceremony. “It is my humble pleasure to welcome you all to the halls of the University, many of you for the first time. You have all taken up the Calling, determined to protect this country from the growing presence of the teras.”

How many of them are here for patriotism, I don’t know. What I do know is, more than ever, I am here for what London can give to me—not the other way around.

I want to learn. But I also want to live. I covet the knowledge in the books, the way to protect myself and my family if it ever comes down to it. I want my mother to sleep soundly for the rest of her life.

But I am here for myself, and I’m not the only one.

The dean continues in a slow, rambling way, though I’m distracted by movement in the crowd. I’m drawn to it like the rest of the waiting cohort. The dean stops as the crowd parts. Four graduates walk in, one for each discipline and marked by their vestments and their hats. The Scholar, Artificer, and Healer peel off to the sides, and the Hunter steps up to shake the dean’s hand. I recognise her from the other night; she was in the party where my brother died. A small part of my mind starts to wonder who decided to leave him to die.

She wears the mantle — a long coat that is beautifully embroidered in silver thread with teras scattered across it. A teras can only be embroidered on the coat if the Hunter has killed it and returned with a trophy.

She removes her tricorn hat and continues forward to the Dean.

Leo moves beside me.

“Oh, am I worthy of your attention now?” I whisper. He says nothing, gives me nothing to work with, so I turn to inspect him. I wonder at the furrowed look on his face. He must feel the burden of my stare, because he glances at me. I flinch too obviously and turn away, desperate to break the feeling.

“Scholar?” I hear him whisper. “Is that what you’re going for?”

“Hunter,” I reply, not looking his way. His silence is one of surprise. For whatever reason, it makes him step closer. I try to ignore the surety Leo has about him. He is an outsider, a xenos, but he walks like he belongs here. I can’t understand why I feel so out of sorts beside him.

“I’ve seen you out there. Might be best to stick to the books.”

“Hunter,” I say again, more sharply. This time I do turn to look at him. I meet the hard gleam of his eyes. “Stay out of it, Shaw.”

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