Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 138

Chapter 138

Cassian

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By the time the classroom empties for the final time today, the sun has begun to sink behind Thornhill’s

spires. The last streaks of gold smear through the high windows, cutting across the desks and catching the

chalk dust still hanging in the air. I stand there for a long time after the door shuts, listening to the echo

of footsteps fade down the corridor. I shouldn’t still feel her here. But I do.

The scent of her perfume clings to the air, or maybe to my memory. The mark she left on the room isn’t

physical, but I can feel it all the same: a charge humming beneath the surface of my skin. The bond never

truly quiets. It waits. Watches. Punishes. I try to convince myself it’s just exhaustion that I can still outrun

what the fates have written, but I’m not sure I really can. The knock comes too sharply to be polite.

“Enter,” I say, my voice steady out of habit.

The door opens before I finish the word, and Headmaster Scorched fills the frame like a shadow cast too long. His robes smell faintly of smoke and old parchment, his expression unreadable behind the lenses

perched on his nose. His eyes are the colour of banked embers-no heat, only judgment.

“Professor Hill.” His tone makes my name sound like a reprimand. “You have a moment?”

Do I? No. But I nod anyway. “Of course, Headmaster.”

He steps inside, closing the door with a quiet click. The sound seals the room, cutting off the soft murmur

of students in the hall.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He looks around the room as though cataloguing every detail-the half- erased sigils on the board, the chalk dust on the desk, the untouched glass of water beside my notes.

Finally, his gaze returns to me.

“The council sent word this afternoon,” he says.

My stomach goes cold. “About…?”

“You know what about.”

Of course I do. The moment he says council, I know it’s not about research reports or grading policies. It’s

about her. It always is.

Scorched crosses to my desk, setting down a wax-sealed envelope already broken open. “They’ve received…

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Chapter 138

observations.” He doesn’t specify from whom, but I can guess. Cage’s father sits high in their ranks. A whisper from him would carry weight. “Apparently, your lectures have become… spirited.”

I force a thin smile. “The students respond better to engagement.”

His brows lift a fraction. “Engagement,” he repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it?” The air between us thickens. He’s not asking. He’s warning. “I am aware,” he continues, “that the council’s laws regarding fraternisation between faculty and students are… strict. Especially when certain bonds are involved.”

“Bonds,” I echo quietly.

He meets my eyes over the rims of his glasses. “The kind that don’t simply fade when you ignore them.”

I say nothing because words will only dig the grave deeper. Scorched sighs, removing the glasses and setting them carefully on my desk. “You were given special clearance after the last war, Hill. The council could have sent you back to the front. They didn’t. They offered you this-peace, purpose, a chance to teach instead of fight. Do you understand how easily they could rescind that mercy?”

“I understand,” I say. And I do. Too well.

He studies me for a long moment, then lowers his voice. “The girl-Allison Rivers-is dangerous.”

“She’s gifted,” I counter before I can stop myself.

His gaze sharpens. “Gifted? She was unregistered. Uncontained. Every report we have indicates she shouldn’t exist, and yet here she is, walking the halls, bending the rules of every law we know about bloodlines and bonds. And now she’s latched onto you.’

“She hasn’t-”

He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Don’t insult us both, Cassian. We feel the magic. Every professor within fifty feet can feel it when the two of you breathe the same air.”

I turn away, jaw tight, pretending to organise papers on my desk. “If the council wanted her contained, they’d have done it already.”

“They’re watching,” he says. “That’s worse.”

Something cold and certain settles in my chest as Scorched moves to the window, looking out over the courtyard below. Students cross the grounds, their laughter faint beneath the tolling of the evening bell. “There will be an inspection next week,” he says. “A del gation from the High Council. Officially, they’re

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Chapter 138

here to evaluate Thornhill’s defences after last month’s incident.” He glances back at me. “Unofficially,

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