Thornhill Academy. Chapter 70

**Cassian**

She’s fidgeting. That’s the first tell. Her fingers tap against her thigh in uneven beats, too fast, too sharp. Her pupils dilate, not from fear exactly, but from calculation. She’s deciding what to say before I even finish speaking. And I’ve seen it before, students trying to hide the truth, trying to mask their power, trying to keep something buried beneath the surface. But not like this. When I reach for her mind again, when I brush against that familiar door that all gifted minds have, the threshold between their thoughts and mine, she moves. Fast. It’s like hitting a mirror. My power reflects back at me, twisted and heavier. For a split second, I feel my own magic turn on itself. The air around us shudders, vibrating with shared energy. My breath leaves me in a low, dangerous growl as realization sets in. She’s not just blocking me. She’s using me. In two strides, I’m in front of her. The desk scrapes lightly against the floor as I move past it. She stiffens, caught mid-step as I close the distance between us, and when I speak, it’s barely above a whisper.

“You should really ask before you borrow someone else’s power… I lean in, close enough that I can see the way her pulse hammers at her throat. “…little siphon.”

Her breath catches with a sharp, audible sound that cracks through the air. She stumbles back a step, shock flickering through those bright, frightened eyes. Oh yes, she knows that word. I step forward again, deliberate and unhurried. She backs into the wall with a soft thud, and I stop only when the space between us disappears, when her breath trembles against my chest, when the hum of our overlapping magic buzzes through the air like static.

Her gaze lifts to meet mine, defiant despite the fear. She doesn’t shrink away. Good. I lower my head slightly, bringing my mouth level with her ear, letting my voice roll through the quiet like distant thunder.

“Do not fear me,” I murmur. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I tilt my head, just enough to catch her gaze again. “But you,” I continue softly, “need someone to help keep you safe, little siphon.”

Her lips part like she’s going to say something, deny it maybe or fight it, but I can feel the way her magic trembles beneath her skin. Raw. Hungry. Untrained. And if I’m right, and the research last night says I am, then she’s standing at the edge of a storm she doesn’t even know she’s summoning. The council would use her. The academy would dissect her. But me? I’ll teach her to control it before they ever get the chance.

I can see every thought flicker across her face like a storm behind glass. Fear. Hope. Disbelief. That endless instinct to run. Her magic hums against mine, wild and uncertain, like a pulse trying to find rhythm. She’s breathing too fast, and the air between us feels charged, like something living in it, something watching.

Then, finally, her lips part. Her voice is soft, cracked at the edges. “You’re not going to… turn me in?”

The words hang between us, fragile and trembling, and I want to reach out. Just to brush that single stray strand of hair from her face. Just to steady her chin so she’ll stop looking so damn breakable. But I don’t. I can’t. I keep my hands where they are, clenched at my sides, because touching her right now would undo me.

“No,” I say quietly, the word carrying more weight than I expect. “I’m not going to turn you in.”

Her eyes, gods, those eyes, search mine like she’s looking for the catch, the lie buried under the promise.

“Why?” she asks.

*Why.* A simple question, and yet it hits harder than any spell. Why not turn her in? Why risk everything—my position, my credibility, my life—for a girl I barely know?

Because I’ve seen the council strip power from beings like her before.

Because I’ve watched what happens when they decide magic is a weapon instead of a life.

Because when I look at her, I don’t see a siphon or a threat, I see a terrified young woman carrying more power than she knows what to do with.

But none of that fits into words that won’t break her open further. So I breathe out slowly and tell her the only truth I can manage. “I don’t know why,” I admit, voice low. “But I know what the council would do if they found out. And it wouldn’t be right.”

Her throat works as she swallows, gaze locked on mine. “So I’m going to help you,” I finish softly. “Learn to control it. Hide it. Whatever it takes to keep you safe, little siphon.”

The words shouldn’t sound gentle, but they do. For the first time since she walked into my office, she doesn’t look like she’s about to bolt. Her shoulders loosen, the smallest fraction. The exhaustion catches up to her, and beneath all the chaos, there’s something else there. And I realize then what a dangerous promise I’ve just made. Because protecting her from the council means standing against it. And teaching her means letting her in. And that, perhaps, is far more dangerous than anything she’s capable of.

I keep my voice low. “Have you ever had anyone teach you?”

She hesitates, blinking slowly as if the question confuses her. Then she shakes her head. “No.”

Something cold settles in my chest. I study her, the tightness in her shoulders, the exhaustion that runs deeper than sleepless nights. There’s a kind of emptiness there that doesn’t come from ignorance or inexperience. It comes from being denied everything.

I swallow, ot making an effort to create distance between us. “Have you ever had anyone in your life?” I ask, softer this time.

Her lips part, and for a heartbeat, I think she’s not going to answer. “Not… not really.”

Her voice cracks on the second word. She looks down at her feet, fingers wringing together like she’s trying to hold herself in one piece.

“I just remember,” she whispers, “always being alone. Always being on the run… until I wasn’t.”

I inhale through my nose, forcing down the sharp ache that threatens to crawl up my throat. She isn’t lying. I can feel it. The truth vibrates in the air between us like a pulled string. She’s a siphon, a creature the world was never kind to. No family. No guide. No one to tell her that she wasn’t a curse wrapped in human skin. And she says it like it’s nothing. Like loneliness has always been her shadow. I don’t reach for her, though the instinct to wrap my arms around her is almost unbearable.

“You’re not running anymore, Allison,” I murmur. “Not from me.”

Her head lifts slightly at that, eyes glimmering with uncertainty and I can’t blame her. I'll just have to show her.