Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 182

Chapter 182

Cassian

Mate.

Mate.

Mate.

The word has been on repeat in my mind since she said it-quietly, almost apologetically, as if she didn’t realise that the sound of it would split my world

open and rearrange the pieces into something I have spent years believing I could not have. She called me her mate. She didn’t stumble over it, didn’t

retract it, didn’t flinch from the truth of it. She said it aloud. She called me her mate. And now the word thrums beneath my ribs like a new pulse, beating in perfect time with the faint drag of her footsteps ahead of me as we walk through the fading hush of the forest. She’s slower than usual, her exhaustion

stitched into every movement, her shoulders tight with effort, her breath uneven from magic depletion. Though she doesn’t complain, doesn’t pause, doesn’t reach for anything to steady herself. And maybe that’s what undoes me most; she is fraying at the edges, trembling in a way she tries to hide, yet she chooses to walk beside me as though she trusts me enough to reveal the cracks. She trusts me enough to be fragile beside me. The thought wraps itself around my throat like a hand and squeezes.

Her foot catches on a raised root and she sways just slightly-barely enough for someone else to notice-but I see it. I have walked her memories, and I know the way she hides pain the same way she hides hunger: quietly, determinedly, with the kind of stubborn resilience that turns survival into a lonely type of religion. I reach out, fingers brushing her elbow, steadying her without taking away her dignity.

She whispers, “Sorry.”

And something inside me sharpens into something almost violent.

“Don’t,” I murmur, voice low and certain. “You owe no apology for being tired. You owe nothing you haven’t already bled for.”

She goes still, and for one suspended moment the forest around us feels unbearably quiet, as if even the trees have paused to watch the way she looks at me -not startled, not fearful, but as if the words I spoke touched a bruise she didn’t realise she still carried. We keep walking, the forest shifting around us in long strokes of gold and green, sunlight catching in her hair in a way that pulls my gaze over and over again, no matter how many times I drag it away. She pushes aside a branch the same way she did as a child-too small hands pressing against a world that never softened for her-and I see not just Allison walking ahead of me but every version of her I have held in my mind since the moment I first stepped into her memories. I see the girl who ran barefoot through frost, who stitched her bag strap with shaking fingers because no one would give her a new one, who knelt in moss and cried quietly, silently, because she thought no one would ever care enough to hear it. I walked through her mind. I walked through her past. I walked through the girl she used to be. And I know now with a clarity that borders on devotion that I am never letting her face the world alone again.

A rustle in the brush pulls my attention sideways, where claw marks are fresh on a nearby trunk, and I step subtly closer to her, altering our route without making her feel guided. She notices anyway.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she says, breath soft, tired but aware.

“Which thing?” I ask, though I already know.

“The protective one.”

A rare, quiet smile tugs at my mouth. “Get used to it, little siphon.”

For a few minutes, we walk in silence, something new weaving itself into the space where tension once lived. When we reach the narrow creek that splits the grove, I pause, the words sitting on my tongue heavier than any spell I have ever cast.

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17:41 Thu, Jan 1 M

Chapter 182

“I need you to understand something,” I say.

She turns, exhaustion softening her posture, shadows pooling lightly at her heels.

ST

“I didn’t hesitate because I didn’t want you,” I murmur, voice steady, stripped of every practised wall I’ve ever built. “I hesitated because I didn’t know how

to want something for myself. I didn’t know how to choose something that wasn’t duty or survival or obedience.”

Her throat moves with a small swallow. “Cassian…”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” I add. “I’m just telling you the truth. You deserved the truth.”

She holds my gaze for a heartbeat… then two… then three… and when she speaks, her voice is quiet but certain.

“I know. But you’re here now.”

The words strike like a pulse of heat down my spine. Here now. Wanted here. Needed here. Chosen here. The forest seems to shift around the edges of that

moment, as though something ancient recognises the significance of it even before I do.

We move again, climbing toward the patch where duskweed grows, its feathery blue tips trembling when touched, and she kneels despite the tremble in her hands. I reach down, steadying the stalk for her so she doesn’t have to fight the soil. Our fingers brush, barely, but the spark of it travels through my entire arm like a tether pulled tight. When she lifts her eyes to mine, something clicks into place with a surety I have never felt before. I am meant to stand beside her. Not above her. Not behind her. Beside her. Right here, with her. We gather what we need and turn north, toward the ridge. I pause at the tree line, scanning the mental list I’ve pieced together from her memories and my training. Lunathorn. Frostroot. Duskweed. Shadowcap spores. Bloodbind bark. Only one ingredient left-white emberleaf-and then we can go back, brew what they need, and keep moving before anything else finds us.

“Allison,” I murmur, noticing how her steps are no longer steady lines but soft, wavering arcs, each one tugged down by exhaustion she can’t hide. “We can rest a moment before we get the last one.”

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