Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 13

Dressed to Dance.

The training field looked like hell’s playground, with shifters of every size and shape stretching, rolling their shoulders, and jogging the perimeter. Wolves cracked their necks, lions flexed their claws, a bear shifter roared and dropped into push–ups that rattled the ground. Kael spotted me instantly, waving like we were best friends. His grin was so wide I wanted to smack it off his face. He jogged over, his eyes roaming up and down my body before he whistled low,

“You’re training in that?”

I followed his gaze, grimacing at my pleated skirt, blazer, and worst of all, the heels clicking against the packed dirt.

“Lovely,” I muttered.

He snorted, jerking his chin toward the squat stone building just off the field. “Go grab a kit. Trust me, you’ll want it.”

I didn’t want it. But I went. The kit was worse than the uniform, tight black shorts that barely hit mid–thigh, a thin sports bra that left far too much skin exposed. Every scar I’d ever tried to hide was suddenly on display. The worst of them burned across my back, memories lashing me harder than the humans ever had. Being caught, stripped, whipped, demanding I use powers I didn’t have because there’d been no magicals around to siphon from. Just me, helpless.

I shoved the memories down, lifted my chin high, and walked back out to the field. The teacher, a hulking shifter with a shaved head and arms like tree

trunks, looked me up and down, unimpressed. “Are you sure you’re in the right class, little one?”

Snickers rippled through the crowd. Kael slid in close, slinging an arm over my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. My whole body

flinched, and I shoved him off with a sharp jerk.

The teacher’s brows rose at that, a flicker of interest sparking. “Good. You’ll need that fight. Today we’re doing physical combat. No magic. No shifting. Just

your bodies.” His voice boomed across the field. “Pierce. Rivers. Demonstration.”

The laughter hit like a wave. Snide comments, jeers, jokes about how long I’d last before Kael flattened me. Kael himself just grinned, rolling his shoulders,

eyes glinting like he’d been waiting all day for this. I stepped forward, chin high, my heart pounding. As I moved, the sun caught my bare back. The laughter

faltered. Gasps rippled through the crowd, sharp and sudden, followed by grimaces. Even Kael’s smirk slipped for a moment, his auburn–flecked eyes flicking

over the scars carved deep into my skin.

The teacher frowned. “What is it? What are you all gawking at?”

I stopped, turned my back to him, and let him see. The scars told the story better than I ever could, angry welts crisscrossing my skin, proof of pain I’d

survived. The field went silent. Kael’s smirk didn’t return. The silence dragged, heavy and uncomfortable. Dozens of eyes burned into my back, and for once,

it wasn’t hunger or mockery; it was worse. Pity. Curiosity. Horror. My chest tightened, heat creeping up my neck. I hated it. Hated their gawking, their

whispers, their grimaces like I was some broken thing on display.

From the side of the field, a tall boy stepped forward, his stride steady and unhurried. Broad shoulders filled out a loose white training shirt, the sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. Blond hair stuck up like he hadn’t bothered with it, and his blue–green eyes were calm, steady stormlight caught in human form. Without a word, he pulled the shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he peeled the fabric free. He held it out to me, the faintest smile tugging at his

lips.

“For you,” he said simply. His voice was low, warm, carrying no judgment, only… understanding. I stared at him, stunned. Then at the shirt in his hand. The silence of the field shifted, curiosity buzzing as sharp as the scars still burning across my back.

I swallowed, reaching for the shirt with careful fingers. “Thanks,” I muttered, my voice rougher than I meant.

He didn’t comment. Just waited until I pulled it on, the soft fabric falling low enough to hide the worst of the marks. Only then did his smile widen, a quiet, reassuring curve that steadied something in me I hadn’t realised was shaking. For the first time since stepping onto the field, I didn’t feel naked. I was

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Dressed to Dance.

grateful. Truly grateful.

The shirt hung loose on me, soft and warm, and I tugged the hem down before anyone else could get another eyeful of the scars. My pulse still thudded

painfully in my ears, but at least the whispers had dulled. The teacher cleared his throat, sharp and deliberate, snapping the class’s attention back to him.

His expression was unreadable, though the faint crease between his brows said plenty.

“Enough gawking,” he barked, voice cutting across the field. “This is combat training, not story hour. Pierce, Rivers, into position. We’re going to

demonstrate how to take down an opponent smaller than you.”

A ripple of laughter surged through the students again, though it was thinner this time, more cautious. Kael’s smirk came back in full force. He flexed his

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