Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 162

Chapter 162

Kael

251

The shack door groans like it hasn’t been opened in a decade, and honestly, looking at the place from the outside… maybe it hasn’t. The air that hits us is cold, biting enough to wake me up more than the walk across the room ever did. The magic in my chest is still sluggish, heavy, refusing to spark properly, but at least I’m not face-down on the floor anymore, so… progress. Allison steps out first, hood up, backpack slung over one shoulder like she’s done this a thousand times. Maybe she has. Evander and I follow, and the moment my boots hit the dirt, I stop dead. Because this? This is nothing. No road. No nearby houses. No signage. No streetlights. Just trees-tall, dense, packed so tight together they swallow the horizon. Shrubs climb over each other, thick and tangled. The ground is uneven, more dirt than anything else, cracked, rough, and dry.

“How did you even find this place?” I mutter.

Allison glances back over her shoulder. “You’d be surprised what you stumble on when you have nowhere else to go.”

Right. Her life. Before Thornhill. All of this-this emptiness, this isolation-was her normal.

Evander scans the area, his wings itching beneath his skin. I can feel the flicker of his magic even from here. “Let me fly us,” he says, too casually. “I can get

us somewhere safer in minutes. You don’t have the magic to be hiking across-”

“No,” Allison says immediately.

He blinks. “Al-”

“No flying.” She stops walking long enough to look him straight in the eye. “A dragon out here? You might as well send a flare into the sky that says ‘please

hunt us.””

Evander’s jaw tightens. He hates being told he can’t protect people. “I was just trying to-”

“I know,” she cuts in, softer. “But this isn’t Thornhill. Out here, you don’t show your magic. No one does. You never know who’s watching, or what they can

1. It’s how people survive.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So basically… be boring.”

“Exactly,” she says, turning back toward the trees. “Blend in or die.”

Great. No pressure.

We walk for what feels like forever. My legs ache, and Evander keeps glancing at the sky like it’s personally offending him. Allison moves as if she could walk for days-silent, sharp, aware of every branch snap and every rustle in the underbrush. Eventually, the trees thin, and I catch sight of lights-dim, amber ones that flicker like they’re struggling to stay awake. An old town appears ahead of us, if you can even call it that. It’s tiny, ancient, and weathered. Buildings slouch into each other like they’re drunk. Signs hang crooked. Dirt roads slice between uneven shacks and narrow alleys, and yet… people are everywhere. The moon has fully risen now, and the town comes alive as if the light switched something on. Stalls appear out of nowhere. Lanterns ignite. People pour out of their homes, setting up tables, crates, and little makeshift markets.

“They do everything at night?” I ask.

“People here prefer it that way,” Allison says. “Daytime is for the registered. Night is for everyone else.”

Makes sense, but damn. This place is its own world.

1/2

Chapter 162

Allison pulls her hood lower and guides us through the narrow paths between stalls. She whispers out of the corner of her mouth, “Keep your heads down, Don’t stare at anyone. And don’t talk unless you have to.”

I nod. Evander nods. She still looks like she expects one of us to fail this simple instruction.

At a small clothing stand, she snatches up two dark hoodies and tosses them to us. “Put these on.”

We do. Mine actually fits. Evander’s is too small across the shoulders, but he makes it work. Next is food. Dried stuff. Tins. Bread. Something that looks like jerky but smells like regret. Then a second backpack. She gets a couple of knives and something wrapped in cloth that I don’t ask about. Each time, she steps forward, tips her wrist under a scanner, and it beeps green. Transaction approved. My eyebrows pull together. How the hell does she have money? I’ll ask later…When she’s not glaring at me for breathing too loudly.

For now, we follow her through the crooked street and toward a building that looks like it shouldn’t legally be standing. The sign above the door flickers weakly: THE SALTY WRAITH-which is probably exactly the vibe inside. Allison pushes the door open without hesitation. I stare at the warped wooden sign again.

Evander mutters, “Perfect. A bar named after a dead ghost. This bodes well.”

Allison looks back at us, eyes sharp beneath her hood.

“Welcome to the only place around here where people mind their business,” she says. “Now don’t make me regret bringing you.” And then she disappears

inside.

The inside of the bar hits me with a wall of sound and smells of ale, sweat, old wood, and something frying in a pan that probably shouldn’t be edible. It’s

dingy, sure, and the lights flicker like they’re debating retirement, but it’s… normal. Weirdly normal. A long wooden counter stretches across one side, the

varnish worn down to patches. A few battered tables scatter the floor, each one occupied by people who look like they’ve either lived here their whole lives

or died three times and came back anyway. A jukebox in the corner rattles out a song that was definitely recorded before any of us were born.

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