Chapter 22 The First Trial
My heart beat so fast I could almost hear it echo against my ribs, but outwardly I wore composure like a mask. I refused to let them see the tremor beneath my calm.
“Hey,” said a voice beside me. “Vincent Carrow. Guess we’re in a group now.”
He stretched out his hand. His voice carried that effortless confidence, the kind that belonged to someone who never feared losing. He had the careless grace of a bad boy, tall, sharp-edged, with thick brows and tousled honey-blond hair that caught the weak sunlight. His lips were thin, his gaze steady. I hesitated only a heartbeat before taking his hand. “Lexie Lambert.” His palm was warm, rough, grounding.
“Nah, nah.”
The sharp interruption came from a few steps away. Jamie, of course, his tone dripping with theatrical offense. “You can’t be part of our group,” he said, flipping his hair with exaggerated flair toward Melanie.
Cordelia crossed her arms, her smirk thin and cold. “Yeah. Failure would be waiting for us if she’s part of us.” Her eyes flicked to Melanie like a knife. “We’ll take Marcus instead.”
She caught Marcus by the sleeve, the poor boy looked painfully out of place, his glasses slightly askew, his shoulders curled inward. “Run along to Lexie’s group,” Cordelia said, her voice edged with mockery.
“You mean the loser’s group,” Jamie added, laughter curling in his throat.
They both laughed. “The game hasn’t even started, and they’re already losers.”
Melanie’s face was expressionless as she turned and walked to our group. Vincent exhaled through his nose, his tone low and unimpressed. “How childish,” he murmured.
“Welcome, Melanie,” I said softly, offering a smile, but she kept her head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground, giving no reply. The silence between us was awkward, heavy.
“Group One, take your clues from the box,” the teacher announced.
Cordelia immediately shoved Marcus forward. “You first, nerdy,” she said, her voice sharp.
Marcus’s whole body trembled as he approached the glass box. The red cloth fluttered slightly in the breeze. Slowly, he slipped his shaking hand through the narrow slit. His fingers brushed the folded papers inside, searching. He hesitated for a long breath before pulling one out.
The teacher took the slip from his hand and unfolded it. “Congratulations, Marcus,” he said with a faint smile. “You’ve gotten a clue.”
Marcus’s face broke into relief. Cordelia and Jamie squealed in delight, their joy insufferably smug.
I exhaled, also relief washing over me. Marcus would have been torn apart if he’d failed.
Cordelia stepped forward without invitation, her movements brisk, entitled. Her hand darted through the cloth, and within seconds, she emerged with another folded paper.
The teacher unfolded it. “Congratulations, Cordelia,” he said. “You’ve got a clue.”
“Yes!” she cheered, her voice ringing through the courtyard.
Vincent exhaled through his nose again, half amused, half weary. “We have hope, do we?” he murmured under his breath.
“I don’t know,” I replied quietly.
Then came Jamie, his every step full of exaggerated elegance but in a girlish way. “Ugh. I can’t stand him,” I muttered beneath my breath, barely audible.
Vincent smirked faintly. “I thought I was the only hater,” he said.
Jamie reached into the box and withdrew a folded paper, his manicured fingers delicate as if handling silk. The teacher unfolded it, “Congratulations Jamie, You’ve…” but in that instant, Jamie snatched it back and the paper tore cleanly in two.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Jamie froze, staring at the torn halves in disbelief. Then his expression contorted into indignant outrage. “This is all your fault!” he snapped at the teacher. “If you wasting our time, it would’ve—”
“You—” the teacher began, his voice tightening.
“Jamie!” Principal Greaves’s voice boomed like thunder, cutting through the courtyard. All heads turned.
Jamie flinched slightly, then composed himself, his chin tilted high.
“We will give you another chance to pick a clue,” he said evenly.
Jamie crossed his arms, his tone dripping with disdain. “He has to retire for not doing his job properly,” he muttered, still blaming the teacher.
Principal Greaves’s eyes narrowed. “Alright, Mr. Nolan,” he said, gesturing sharply, “step back. I will oversee the box myself. Jamie, you will unfold it alone.”
Mr. Nolan retreated, visibly relieved, joining the line of silent teachers. He stood by Professor Ashcroft whose eyes were fixed on me, his expression unreadable.
Principal Greaves stood before the box, tall and stern, his presence commanding. “Proceed, Jamie Morven,” he said.
Jamie inhaled deeply, forcing a dramatic calm, and slid his hand through the slit in the red cloth. This time, it took longer. The courtyard waited in stillness, breaths held. Then he withdrew his hand, a single folded paper clutched tightly.
He unfolded it. The faintest tremor ran through his body. His eyes widened, his lips parted, but no words came out.
“Did you find any clue, Jamie Morven?” Principal Greaves asked, his tone cutting through the silence like ice.
Jamie’s mouth opened, but still he said nothing. His fingers trembled violently now and then I saw why.
The slip was blank. Completely blank.
A shiver swept through the students. The courtyard air turned heavier, colder. Even the sunlight seemed to dim.
For the first time, Jamie Morven, flamboyant, loud, and unbothered, stood utterly silent.
And that silence said everything. No, he didn’t.