Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 6

Homework.

The boy beside me hadn’t stopped. Every time Professor Vey paused, he muttered something under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. A running commentary of snide remarks and sharp little jabs, all paired with that smirk that looked stitched to his mouth. I clenched my jaw, refusing to take the bait

Finally, Vey’s head snapped up, her crystalline eyes locking on him. “Mr. Pierce,” she said, her voice sweet as poisoned honey, “since you seem determined to distract your neighbour, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

Pierce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head like he owned the place. His dark brown and auburn eyes glittered with mischief, and

something sharper, like he knew exactly what he was about to do.

“Actually,” he drawled, “yeah. I do. Is there any magical that’s exempt from the Weave’s effects?”

My pen froze in my hand. My breath hitched. It was the exact question I’d been choking on since the demonstration.

Professor Vey tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “That,” she said slowly, “is an excellent question.”

The room hushed, every student leaning forward.

“Yes,” Vey went on, her voice carrying easily through the hall. “There is one kind among us who stands apart. One breed of magical that does not answer to

the Weave’s laws. We call them siphons.”

The word hit me like a punch to the gut.

“Siphons,” she repeated, pacing slowly before the glowing lattice she had conjured earlier. “Extremely rare. Extremely dangerous. They do not take from the

Weave itself, but from others. From secondary sources. From you.”

Her eyes swept the hall, sharp and deliberate.

“Say a siphon were to pull a great deal of magic from you. The backlash would not touch them. The Weave would not punish them. You, however…” her

mouth curved faintly, “you would bear the consequences. It is your thread that would snap. Your body that would break. Your life that would burn.”

A ripple of unease spread through the students. I felt it, an instinctive shift, shoulders tightening, eyes narrowing. The word dangerous clung to the air like

smoke.

A girl in the front row raised her hand, her voice steady but curious. “Professor… if siphons are real, where are they all now? Why are they so rare?”

Professor Vey clasped her hands together, her faint smile returning. “Another excellent question. Siphons are rare not by accident, but by circumstance. Their

power is… unique. Dangerous. Being able to replicate another’s magic, or strip it entirely, makes them invaluable to the Council. Most of those born with

siphoning ability are sent to the front lines in the East.”

Murmurs rippled through the room, but my blood turned to ice. The East. Even in the scrub lands, I’d heard the warnings. Travellers with weary eyes and

voices hoarse from too many nights at the fire would whisper about the war brewing there. Whole villages burned to ash. Armies of magicals turned to

corpses in a single day. Stay away from the East, they always said. Stay far away.

“They are some of our most useful soldiers,” Vey finished crisply.

Useful. Always useful.

G

My stomach twisted. Was that where my parents were? The question rose unbidden, raw and sharp. I didn’t even know if I had parents still alive.

remember them. Couldn’t remember… anything, really. No warm hands holding mine, no soft voices whispering lullabies. Just gaps. Silence. And then the

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Homework.

scrub lands, and me…alone. Mostly alone. Sometimes I’d stumble across others, magicals like me, hiding in the edges of human towns, desperate to avoid the Council’s gaze. Illegals, we called ourselves. Strays. Survivors. But they always got caught. Or worse, we lost each other in mad dashes through the bush, boots pounding dirt, enforcers howling behind us. And now I sat in this classroom, surrounded by polished uniforms and clean faces, listening to a fae professor talk about siphons like we were nothing more than weapons. Like we weren’t people at all.

The bell rang, a deep, resonant chime that seemed to rattle through the bones of the building. Chairs scraped back, parchment rustled, voices rose as students spilled from their seats like water breaking through a dam. I shoved my things into the bag Hill had saddled me with, ready to make a break for the

door before anyone else could corner me.

“Ms. Rivers.”

Professor Vey’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, smooth and impossible to ignore. I froze. A dozen eyes flicked toward me, curiosity sparking in their gazes, before they quickly looked away again. My heels felt too loud as I made my way down the stairs to the front, every step dragging. Vey stood waiting, a thin stack of parchment in her hand. Up close, her fae aura shimmered stronger, brushing over my skin like frost. Her eyes, glassy and sharp, studied me

with unnerving precision.

“You are behind,” she said, her tone flat but not unkind. She extended the stack to me.

I hesitated, then took it. My fingers brushed hers for the briefest second, cold seeping into my skin.

“These,” she continued, “are texts you will study if you wish to catch up. Foundational works on magical law, Weave theory, and recorded histories. You have

missed years of structured training, Ms. Rivers. I expect you to close that gap.”

I stared at the list. Names of books and tomes scrawled in her neat hand: The Twelve Pillars of the Weave, Origins of Arcana, Ethics of Power, Histories of

the Eastern War.

My stomach sank. Catch up on years? They really thought I was going to swallow all this down and regurgitate it like their little model student?

Vey’s gaze sharpened, as if she had read the refusal brewing in my chest. “Do not mistake this for a suggestion. If you wish to survive here, if you wish to be more than a feral stray, you will learn. Am I clear?”

I tightened my grip on the papers until the edges cut into my palm. “Crystal.”

Her mouth curved faintly, and then she turned away, already dismissing me. I shoved the list into my bag, the weight of it pressing heavier than stone. Years behind. No memories. No parents. No freedom. And now, I had fucking homework.

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