Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 213

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15:42 Tue, Jan b RITA

Thornhill Academy.

When Armies Gather

260

Cage

Nightfall bleeds slowly over the ridge as we finally reach the Wall. The last of the sun sinks like a smothered ember, painting the sky in bruised purples and heavy iron–grey clouds. The land here feels wrong – stripped bare by decades of weaponised magic, carved into unnatural flat lines and trenches that funnel troops like cattle toward slaughter. The Wall itself looms ahead of us, a monolith of stone and spellwork thick enough to swallow entire battalions whole, tall enough to erase the stars where it cuts the sky. It hums faintly, a low vibration that crawls up my teeth and into my skull, a reminder that the Council

did not build it to protect anything. They built it to cage things on the other side. And tonight, they’ve brought another army determined to burn whatever

lies beyond it. Tents stretch for nearly a mile along the base of the Wall, all orderly, colour–coded, marked with runic brands denoting division and rank.

Firelight spills between them in glowing veins, reflecting off armour polished to a white–gold sheen. Soldiers stand in perfect lines as we pass, some

sharpening blades, some adjusting gauntlets etched with sigils, some distributing spell–infused arrows sorted in crates the size of coffins. This is not a patrol

force. This is a war machine. And it is prepared to slaughter. As we approach the central barracks, a man steps out to meet us. He’s broad, hard–eyed, his

uniform is black and silver, marked with three vertical bars denoting high command. His expression is severe, but not surprised. He was expecting us.

“Lieutenant D’Altair,” he says, giving me a curt nod before his cold smile shifts to the enforcer beside me. “Your father messaged ahead. Said to expect your

unit and that you’ve brought… good news.”

My throat dries. So he already knows.

The commander gestures sharply. “Inside. Quickly.”

We’re ushered into the barracks. A vast rectangular room lit with lantern light. Maps and charts sit among metal tables covered in weaponry. Officers cluster

around the centre table, muttering in taut voices as markers shift rapidly across the parchment. A massive map dominates the wall, showing the Wall

dividing the left margin, the wild forests on the right covered in drawn circles, potential camps, and red Xs marking old failed leads. But now there’s

something new. A blinking rune etched in fresh ink. A location…Their location. My stomach plummets.

The commander strides toward it like a man approaching a long–awaited treasure. “You see this?” he says, tapping the blinking mark with two fingers. “This

is the first concrete position we’ve had in decades. A breakthrough, your father assured

would come.” me,

The room murmurs with excitement. Real excitement. As if this is a game they’ve finally cracked.

“The runaway professor,” another officer says, stepping forward to adjust the map. “His locator chip pinged on the far side of the Wall. Which means

whoever he’s with-”

“-the rebellion,” someone adds.

“And the siphon,” the commander adds, almost gleeful.

My pulse stutters violently.

He gestures to the surrounding officers. “We’ve always known they were somewhere beyond the Wall, but never where. They’re constantly on the move. Hiding in every little hole they can crawl into. They’re ghosts.” His eyes gleam. “But not anymore. The professor led us straight to them.”

A cold sweat breaks, on the back of my neck. Cassian… He didn’t even know the chip was in him. He had no chance of hiding.

The commander straightens, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a feast rather than a massacre. “We assemble two battalions at dawn. Full armament. Spellcasters in the rear ranks, infantry along the primary line. We march at sundown tomorrow, approach under darkness, descend through the ravine—”

“The ravine?” an officer asks. “Steep drop. Risky footing.”

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15:42 Tue, Jan 6

When Armies Gather

“That’s exactly why it’ll work,” the commander replies. “The rebellion would never expect us to come through a terrain that dangerous. They assume we’re

predictable.”

He smiles in a way that makes my stomach twist.

“At nightfall tomorrow, they’ll be asleep. Relaxed. Unprepared. One strike, and we wipe them out. We take no prisoners.” His jaw sets. “The siphon dies

first.”

–

My breath punches out of my lungs like someone knocked the air from me. The bond throbs in my chest a pulse of fear, faint and distant, like she felt a cold wind through a dream. I clench my fists. The officers continue like vultures circling over a carcass.

“This time tomorrow,” the commander says, “we end it. All of it.”

Cheers rise from the table. Toast glasses clink. Weapons flash in the lamplight as they’re lifted in triumph. They’re celebrating. Celebrating the idea of slaughtering people in their sleep. Celebrating the thought of killing her. My stomach turns, My hands tremble once before I force them to still. She has no idea this is coming. No idea an army is assembling with her name written at the top of their kill list.

And if they march tomorrow night… I have less than twenty–four hours to reach her. Less than twenty–four hours to cross the Wall, locate her camp, warn

her, and return without being missed.

Impossible. Except it isn’t. Not if I move tonight. I must go tonight.

The commander turns sharply, his gaze landing on me again. “Lieutenant D’Altair. Your father said you’d be an asset. He expects a full report of all tactical

movements before nightfall tomorrow.”

I nod stiffly, masking the churn of emotion behind my ribs. “Understood.”

Because that is the last thing I intend to give them. The officers disperse, setting tasks into motion

refining offensive wards designed to burn through flesh”

No one notices the way my breathing has changed.

scouting rotations, siege preparations, spellcasters

magic alike. The entire barracks becomes a storm of movement. No one notices me step back.

one notices the way my eyes drift toward the side door leading out into the dim, cold night. No one

notices anything at all. Because to them, I am only Cage D’Altair son of their greatest weapon, their most promising lieutenant, obedient, useful and

predictable. Not a threat. Not someone who would betray them. I am a boy on a leash, one I have been taught not to fuck with. What they don’t realise is

how prepared I am to be strung up by my neck, if there is even a possibility I can save her. I have to warn her. Tonight.

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Thornhill Academy.

Committing Treason

360

Cage

Darkness pours over the Council encampment in thick, oppressive strokes. Lanterns flicker between rows of tents, casting long, rigid shadows that sway over armour racks and weapon stands. The air hums with residual magic, the kind that tastes metallic on the tongue and makes the back of my neck prickle. I’m shown to a barracks tent along the western edge. It’s nothing luxurious, just a cot, a basin, a rack for armour. They offer me food, a place to wash, and a few hours of rest before tomorrow’s “historic strike.” I nod, thank the officer, and play the obedient soldier I’ve spent my whole life learning how to be. I eat

enough to avoid suspicion. I shower fast, scrubbing away dirt and the stink of smoke until my skin burns. Then I sit on the edge of the cot, staring at the tent wall while outside, soldiers laugh and clink their cups together, already celebrating a slaughter that hasn’t happened yet. Then the camp quiets slowly and methodically. One fire goes out.

Then another. Then voices fade into snores and murmurs, except for the patrols. There are always patrols. I wait until the exact moment the second rotation begins–the footsteps are different, heavier. The new commander of this patrol group drags his left heel; the one before him didn’t. Patterns. Everything has patterns if you pay attention.

I slip off the cot and move like smoke. The tent flap lifts without a whisper. Cold air whips across my face, sharp enough to sting my eyes, but the night hides everything: my breath, my fear, my resolve. The bond pulses once beneath my ribs. Light. Quick. Like she’s dreaming. I’m coming, I think, even though she can’t hear me. But the bond stirs anyway, as if some part of her does hear, somewhere deep in the dark. I keep low, cutting between tents, avoiding lantern glow. Every shadow becomes cover. Every gust of wind masks the sound of my steps. Patrols, move predictably–too predictably. Their arrogance is a gift. They believe nobody would dare leave this camp. They believe fear will keep us leashed. They never accounted for love. The thought stops me cold.

Love? But the bond throbs, warm and aching, before I can deny it. Footsteps approach–two guards in full armour, voices low.

“…commander says the siphon dies first. Even before the demons.”

“Good. Filthy creature should’ve been dead years ago.”

My fingers curl so hard my nails cut skin. Not tonight. Not her. When they pass, I exhale and slip into the darker stretch beyond the last row of tents, where the trees begin again, and the Wall casts a shadow like a mountain blotting out the moon. The Wall dominates the horizon, an endless sweep of stone carved with runes that shimmer faintly–wards meant to repel, humiliate, break. Up close, it’s worse. Up close, it feels alive, humming with old cruelty. I choose a section far from the main torches, where guards are fewer, and no one important ever walks. I pull a slim, rune–carved chip reader from my pocket -the one I stole before leaving the barracks. It pings once, showing Cassian’s location…on the other side. That’s where she is. That’s where I need to be. And this time tomorrow, that’s where the slaughter will begin. I pocket the device, roll my shoulders, and whisper the incantation under my breath. Warm, familiar magic coils around my legs like an invisible rope. Levitation is one of the first spells we learn–simple in theory, deadly if mistimed. I step back, brace, release the spell, and the world drops away beneath me. I rise silently, the air thinning around my ears, the Wall’s carved surface sliding past in cold, grey streaks. The runes hiss as I pass them, tasting me, trying to reject my magic. I grit my teeth and push harder. The spell flickers once but holds. When I reach the top, I don’t waste a second. I drop.

The wind rips at my cloak as I fall the hundred feet on the far side, landing in a crouch that sends a shock through my calves. Pain flares, but I breathe through it. I’ve felt worse. The forest on this side is different–alive in a way the Council’s sterilised land never is. The air is damp and deep, full of sap–rich earth and rustling leaves. Even in the dark, life moves everywhere. Branches shift overhead. Small creatures scurry through roots. And beneath it all, the bond pulses steady, Pulling me west. I run. Not recklessly, though, never recklessly. I moye swiftly, calculating everything: tracks in the soil, broken branches, faint magical residue that clings to the bark like smoke. The rebellion has wards, hundreds of them, layered and subtle. But the bond leads me through them like a thread caught in my chest. Hours bleed into each other. The moon travels overhead. My boots grow damp with dew, then mud. Every time I feel the bond tug harder, my pace picks up until my lungs burn. Then there is light. Faint, golden, flickering against the base of the trees ahead and voices that are low and guarded. The rebellion camp. I slow instantly, dropping into a crouch behind a thick trunk. I study everything. Two guards near the perimeter, leaning on spears but alert. A third perched in the trees, eyes scanning the darkness. Magical tripwires woven between branches. Shadow wards etched into the soil. Smart. Very smart, I watch long enough to memorise their rotations, the moments they glance away, the exact heartbeat between one sweep of vision and the next. When the moment comes, I slip through the shadows, threading myself between the wards with careful breaths. The camp unfolds before me in glowing shapes of canvas and lantern fire. Rebels laugh softly near a pit where embers smoulder. A healer tends to someone’s wrapped arm. A baby cries somewhere far to the left. It’s nothing like the Council told us. It’s not an enemy camp… It’s a village. A life. A family. And they intend to slaughter it.

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15:42

Committing Treason

My pulse spikes, sharp and vicious. Focus. I move between tents, kept low by instinct and years of training. The bond leads me deeper, past the cluster of weapons racks, past the long field table covered in cookware, past a row of sleeping soldiers. Every time it pulses, I turn. Until – There. Her tent. Canvas pale in the moonlight, edges shadowed, a soft lantern glow barely visible within. The bond thrums so hard I grip a nearby post to steady myself. She’s in there, Sleeping. Unaware that the world is about to end. My heart slams so hard into my ribcage it hurts. I step forward, inch by inch, until my hand hovers

over the flap, disabling the wards, just enough to slip past them. The night holds its breath, and I breathe in the scent of her through the cloth and know

with absolute certainty: This is where everything changes. I cannot leave without warning her.

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Thornhill Academy.

His Last Chance to Choose Right

Allison

60

Sleep is a thin, fragile thing tonight. It clings to me in wisps rather than blankets, slipping every time my mind threatens to wander into dreams. Rhaziel’s shadows curl over my ankles as I try to quiet my thoughts. The soft weight of Kael’s legs draped over mine. The warm, steady brush of Evander’s presence just behind my shoulder. The faint, constant hum of Cassian’s mind linked to mine, calm but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. Even surrounded by them,

sleep hardly comes. I drift somewhere between waking and dreaming, hovering on the edge of something uneasy, when a sound cuts through the darkness. It

is subtle at first, the whisper of canvas shifting. My eyelids twitch open, and my heart rises into my throat. My senses stretch outward in all directions,

instinctively searching for minds around us. I find Kael’s familiar sleepy haze and Evander’s light–drifting awareness. There’s the sharp hum of Cassian’s

consciousness resting just outside my own, and Rhaziel’s focus is steady, warm, ever–present. And then something else… Something sharp and frantic.

Something that feels like a storm caught in a ribcage. Before I can name it, the tent flap flings inward, and a figure stumbles through. Cage. His chest

heaves quietly like he sprinted through ten miles of night. His hair is damp with sweat. Leaves cling to the shoulders of his cloak. His eyes are wide and

wild, drawn instantly to me as if he were tethered to me by something he could no longer pretend did not exist. All four men move at once.

Evander jumps from the bed, shadows of fire flickering in his eyes. Kael surges to his feet with a snarl caught behind his teeth. Cassian’s magic sharpens,

the air tightening with invisible pressure. Rhaziel’s shadows whip through the air in dark coils already wrapping themselves around Cage’s throat.

444

“Wait,” I gasp.

Because Cage is not attacking…He looks terrified. He stands there, soaked in moonlight and panic, and his gaze is fixed on me alone.

“Allison,” he chokes out, and my name as Rhaziel withdraws his shadows.

Kael bristles, stepping in front of me like a wall of muscle and protective fury. “You have about five seconds to explain why the hell you are here before I rip

out your tongue.”

Cage lifts his hands, palms open and shaking. “I am not here to fight. I am not here to harm anyone.”

Cassian’s jaw clenches. “That is unfortunate. I currently want to tear your spine out.”

“Cass,” I murmur, brushing his mind with mine. “Let him speak.”

He goes still. Not relaxed, not trusting, only still. Cage swallows. His eyes flicker across the four men who could end him before he drew a second breath.

Then he looks back at me, and something inside my chest tightens until it hurts.

“I came to warn you,” he says, voice cracking, “You cannot stay here. It isn’t safe,”

Rhaziel steps forward, voice deep and even. “Explain. Now.”

Cage drags a hand through his hair. He looks like a man drowning in guilt.

“They know everything,” he breathes. “Your exact location. The size of your camp. They are assembling two battalions as we speak. Spellcasters. Infantry. Siege units. High ranking officers.”

Evander’s expression darkens into something frightening. “How?”