Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 212

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15:42 Tue, Jan 6 CHA

Thornhill Academy.

The Dragons Arrive

Evander

Evening settles over the rebellion camp slowly, as though the sky itself is reluctant to dim when so much is at stake beneath it. The sun sinks in long

strokes of amber and wine, bleeding light across the treetops, gilding the tents in soft, fragile warmth. Fires crackle. Voices murmur low. Soldiers sharpen

weapons with the steady rhythm of people preparing for a night they might not survive. Every breath feels like an inhale before a storm. Allison sits near

the main fire with her knees drawn up, Kael tossing sticks at her boots just to make her huff, Cassian reading a small, battered book like he isn’t tracking

every sound around her, and Rhaziel letting his shadows curl lazily in the flicker of flame. They look peaceful. Or as peaceful as three dangerous men and

one exhausted, powerful girl can look. My place is a few feet behind them, arms crossed, gaze on the treeline. I can feel them, long before anyone else

notices, the ground shifts not trembling, not quaking, just subtly… a steady thump thump thump. The air thickens with a familiar heat that coils beneath

the skin like recognition. A memory of fire, of wind whipped into spirals, of scales glinting beneath a merciless sun.

“Evander?” Kael asks, turning toward me with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

I lift a hand for silence as a warm breeze threads through the camp, carrying the faint smell of smoke and stone. Heads rise. Conversations pause. Even the forest hushes. They’re here. They would never fly directly over the camp. Dragons do not reveal allies through carelessness. They land far beyond the ridge, in a hollow of stone where their wings can fold without shaking the ground, where their scale–light won’t draw unwanted eyes. And then they walk in their

human forms, the last kilometre.

I exhale slowly. “My family.”

Allison turns sharply, eyes widening, fingers tightening on her knee. “Your parents?”

There is a tremor of nerves in her voice, subtle but there. She’s brave – gods, she’s brave – but meeting a dragon matriarch is no small thing. I kneel beside

her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

They’re not here to judge you,” I say softly. “They’re here because I told them that you are worth crossing armies for.”

Her breath catches, just barely.

Kael whistles. “Smooth, flame boy.”

Cassian mutters, “For once, he’s right.”

Rhaziel huffs a quiet laugh, shadows curling in agreement.

Before I can retort, a ripple moves through the camp – people turning, straightening, nudging each other as shapes emerge from the trees. Tall figures, strong figures, wrapped in cloaks that subtly shimmer with heat beneath them, moving with the unmistakable grace of dragons choosing to walk instead of fly. At their centre is a woman with hair like molten bronze, braided over one shoulder, eyes the deep gold of fire caught at dusk. She carries authority in every line of her posture. Beside her walks a man broader than any warrior here, his dark beard threaded with silver, his expression carved in stone but softened by the quiet pride around his mouth–my mother and father. My chest tightens. I have missed them. Allison inhales sharply, and I can feel her nerves flicker like candlelight. They stop before the fire and my mother smiles first a slow, radiant expression that could melt frost from iron. “Evander.”

I bow my head. “Mother.”

She steps forward, cups my face briefly in her warm hands, then turns to Allison with an expression that shifts into something astonishingly gentle.

“So,” she says softly, “this is the girl who has stolen my son’s loyalty, his sleep, and likely his sanity.”

Kael coughs. Cassian covers a smirk. Rhaziel raises a brow.

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15:42 Tue,

The Dragons Arrive

Allison’s cheeks flush pink. “I… I don’t know about sanity.”

“Oh, darling,” my mother says warmly, “none of the boys who imprint on a siphon keep their sanity.”

Allison blinks. “I- what?”

I sigh. “Mother.”

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But she’s already stepping closer, lowering herself to sit at Allison’s level so their eyes meet without pressure or expectation. “You don’t need to be afraid of us. We came because Evander asked. And because there is a war coming, and dragons do not ignore wars that threaten those we claim.”

My father inclines his head. His voice is deep, steady, and resonant. “You are under our protection now.”

Allison looks between them, her throat working slowly. “Why? You don’t know me.”

It is not uncertainty in her voice; it is disbelief, shaped by years of being alone. My mother reaches out, brushing Allison’s cheek with the back of her knuckles like she is something fragile and precious.

“We know enough,” she murmurs. “We know a child with no parents survived long enough to become a woman capable of shaking the Council. We know that

Evander’s heart steadied the moment he first saw you. And we know the scent of destiny when it brushes our st

Allison’s eyes shine.

Kael nudges me, whispering, “Okay, holy shit, your mum loves her.”

و”

“Quiet,” I mutter.

But Kael is right. My mother is fire wrapped in silk. My father is stone wrapped in heat. And together they kneel before the girl who holds all our futures in

her small, fierce hands. They wouldn’t do that if they didn’t already love her.

My father speaks again, voice carrying across the camp. “The flights are gathering beyond the ridge. By the hour, we will have thirty warriors here, and more at first light.”

Gasps rise from nearby rebels. Thirty dragons in human form means the skies above them are shielded in fire. The Council has no equivalent. They will not

expect this.

Rhaziel inclines his head respectfully. “We welcome your alliance.”

Cassian adds, “Your timing couldn’t be better.”

Kael, ever tactful, grins. “We might actually win this thing.”

My father’s lips twitch into a small smile, but my mother keeps her gaze on Allison, studying her with eyes that have witnessed years of empires rise and

fall.

“You are tired,” she murmurs. “And frightened, but you are not broken.” Her fingers glide over Allison’s braid. “You stand in the centre of a storm and expect yourself to weather it alone.”

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