Thornhill Academy

Welcome To Thornhill Academy. : Allison Thornhill Academy’s large iron gates stand tall in front of me, black and sharp, twisting into shapes that look more like barbed wire than decoration. They loom so high I can’t see the tops without craning my neck. For a moment, I think the bars might bend and curl around me like a trap closing in. The enforcer on my left tightens his grip on my arm, as if I might make another attempt to run for it. Spoiler: I had. Twice. The first time was a dash through the scrub bush before he tackled me into the dirt. The second ended with me tripping over his damn boot and face-planting. My pride still hurts more than my ribs. The enforcer on my right… Well, he has kept a healthy distance. I don’t blame him. Yesterday, when they first found me, I’d blasted him in the face with a spell I didn’t even know I could conjure. His eyebrows still haven’t grown back properly, which is both satisfying and slightly horrifying every time I look at him. The way he keeps darting side glances at me, like I might set him on fire again, almost makes me want to smile… Almost. The gates creak open soundlessly, like the whole place has been waiting for me. Perfect green lawns stretch out in neat squares, too flawless to be natural. Marble pathways glisten under the morning sun, not a speck of dust or cracked stone in sight. Stone towers rise in the distance, their windows catching the light and throwing shards of gold across the ground. Magic hums in the air, pressing against my skin like static before a storm. Then there are the students. Dozens, possibly hundreds, spill across the courtyard. They move in tight little groups, uniforms crisp and pressed, dark blazers with silver embroidery, ties knotted perfectly at their throats, shoes polished until they catch the light like mirrors. None of them looks like they have ever trudged through scrub land with dirt under their nails and smoke in their lungs. They all stop when they see me. It’s like watching a ripple spread across a pond, one head turning, then another, then another. Magic falters mid-air, and conversations cut off. Every eye in the pristine courtyard is locked on me. They stare like I am some wild thing that has wandered in from the forest. They aren’t exactly wrong. I tug my arm, but the enforcer’s grip only tightens. His hand is a cuff, digging into the flesh of my bicep. I straighten my shoulders and meet their stares head-on. If they want a rabid animal, fine. I’ll give them one. I realise now how many magicals there are. Shifters with glints of fur under their skin. Fae with silver-lined eyes. Witches trailing sparks from their fingertips. A siren’s laugh gets caught on the breeze. I’ve never seen so many in one place before. Never even dreamed of it. The scrub lands I came from don’t have people like this, just broken magicals and scraps of freedom. Now that freedom is gone, shrinking behind me with every step deeper into this perfect little prison. The enforcers don’t slow. We cross the courtyard and climb the wide marble steps that gleam like bone. The doors ahead are massive, carved with sigils that pulse faintly as I approach. They open on their own, and I am shoved through into a hall that makes my chest tighten. The inside of Thornhill is worse than the outside. The air is thick with incense and magic. Chandeliers float overhead, crystal shards dripping starlight down the walls. Banners are hung in deep reds and silvers, embroidered with the crest of Thornhill, a phoenix made of fire and chains. The floors gleam so perfectly I can see my own scowling reflection in them. We march past students lining the hall, whispering behind their hands. Their eyes follow me, their expressions ranging from curiosity to disgust. I catch words like feral, unmarked, and illegal. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. “Move it,” the enforcer mutters, steering me toward a wide staircase. The steps seem endless, and we climb higher and higher. The walls are lined with portraits of grim-faced magicals glaring down at me like I am already guilty of something. At the top, heavy doors loom, their brass handles are shaped like coiling serpents. The enforcer knocks once, and the door swings open with a groan. I am again shoved inside. The office is all dark wood and smoke. Tall shelves line the walls, stacked with books so old their spines look ready to crumble. A fire roars in a stone hearth, heat crawling over my skin. Behind an enormous desk sits a man who looks like he’d been carved from stone and then set on fire for good measure. His hair is the colour of ash, his eyes like molten embers that burn hotter the longer they stare at me. Fredrick Scorched. Principal of Thornhill Academy. “Sit,” he says, voice a rumble that seems to vibrate the floorboards. I stay standing. My boots planted firm, my arms crossed. His eyes narrow, but I’m not about to play the tame little stray just because a dragon shifter with a fancy chair tells me to. Scorched flicks his hand toward the enforcers. “Leave us.” The one with missing eyebrows looks like he might protest, but the other nudges him out the door before he can open his mouth. The latch clicks shut, and suddenly, the room is too quiet. Just me and the dragon. “What is your name?” he asks. I raise my chin but don’t answer. “And what sort of magical are you?” His words are clipped and precise. I stare back, unblinking. The silence stretches until it’s cracked. He tutts softly, shaking his head as if I were a misbehaving child. Then, with one deliberate finger, he presses a brass button set into the corner of his desk. “Send in Professor Hill,” he says into the intercom. I feel my pulse jump. He leans back again, those ember eyes pinning me in place. “Never mind, we’ll get those answers out of you one way or another.” A few seconds later, the door opened and in walked trouble. Professor Hill is the kind of tall that makes you instinctively want to look up and keep looking. His frame is lean but strong, shoulders filling out the dark, tailored jacket he wears. His skin is a warm bronze tone, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and his dark hair falls just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt. His eyes are a startling shade of storm-grey, sharp and knowing, as if he can already see straight through me. His mouth… Full lips, curved like he’s one smirk away from my ruin. I swallow hard, my throat dry. Scorched gestures lazily toward him, smoke puffing from his nostrils as he speaks. “Professor Hill, although a master of potions and poisons, also has a rare gift. He can read minds.” My stomach drops. My mind is currently replaying about six different filthy scenarios involving storm-grey eyes and what that mouth could do...Shit. ad.readinkapp.com

🌟 WILD GIRL from the scrub lands gets thrown into magical prison academy where EVERYONE stares like she's a rabid animal 🦎 But when the mind-reading professor walks in with storm-grey eyes she can't stop thinking DIRTY thoughts 💫 He's about to read her mind and discover her filthy fantasies 🔥 ===== Thornhill Academy’s large iron gates stood tall in front of me, black and sharp, twisting into shapes that looked more like barbed wire than decoration. They loomed so high I couldn’t see the tops without craning my neck. For a moment, I thought the bars might bend and curl around me like a trap closing in. The enforcer on my left tightened his grip on my arm, as if I might make another attempt to run for it. Spoiler: I had. Twice. The first time was a dash through the scrub bush before he tackled me into the dirt. The second ended with me tripping over his own damn boot and face-planting. My pride still hurts more than my ribs. The enforcer on my right… Well, he kept a healthy distance. I didn’t blame him. Yesterday, when they first found me, I’d blasted him in the face with a spell I didn’t even know I could conjure. His eyebrows still hadn’t grown back properly, which was both satisfying and slightly horrifying every time I looked at him. The way he kept darting side glances at me, like I might set him on fire again, almost made me smile. Almost. The gates creaked open soundlessly, like the whole place had been waiting for me. Perfect green lawns stretched out in neat squares, too flawless to be natural. Marble pathways glistened under the morning sun, not a speck of dust or cracked stone in sight. Stone towers rose in the distance, their windows catching the light and throwing shards of gold across the ground. Magic hummed in the air, tangible, pressing against my skin like static before a storm. And then there were the students. Dozens, possibly hundreds, spilled across the courtyard. They moved in tight little groups, uniforms crisp and pressed, dark blazers with silver embroidery, ties knotted perfectly at their throats, shoes polished until they caught the light like mirrors. None of them looked like they’d ever trudged through scrub land with dirt under their nails and smoke in their lungs. They stopped when they saw me. It was like watching a ripple spread across a pond, one head turning, then another, then another. Magic faltered mid-air, and conversations cut off. Every eye in that pristine courtyard locked on me. And they stared like I was some wild thing that had wandered in from the forest. Maybe they weren’t wrong. I tugged my arm, but the enforcer’s grip only tightened. His hand was a cuff, digging into the flesh of my bicep. I straightened my shoulders and met their stares head-on. If they wanted a rabid animal, fine. I’d give them one. I realised how many magicals there were. Shifters with glints of fur under their skin. Fae with silver-lined eyes. Witches are trailing sparks from their fingertips. A siren’s laugh caught on the breeze. I’d never seen so many in one place before. Never even dreamed of it. The scrub lands I came from didn’t have people like this, just broken humans and scraps of freedom. And now that freedom was gone, shrinking behind me with every step deeper into this perfect little prison. The enforcers didn’t slow. We crossed the courtyard, climbed wide marble steps that gleamed like bone. The doors ahead were massive, carved with sigils that pulsed faintly as I approached. They opened on their own, and I was shoved through into a hall that made my chest tighten. The inside of Thornhill was worse than the outside. The air was thick with incense and magic. Chandeliers floated overhead, crystal shards dripping starlight down the walls. Banners hung in deep reds and silvers, embroidered with the crest of Thornhill, a phoenix made of fire and chains. The floors gleamed so perfectly I could see my own scowling reflection in them. We marched past students lining the hall, whispering behind their hands. Their eyes followed me, their expressions ranging from curiosity to disgust. I caught words like *feral, unmarked,* and *illegal*. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. “Move it,” the enforcer muttered, steering me toward a wide staircase. The steps seemed endless, climbing higher and higher, lined with portraits of grim-faced magicals glaring down at me like I was already guilty of something. At the top, heavy doors loomed, their brass handles shaped like coiling serpents. The enforcer rapped once, and the door swung open with a groan. I was shoved inside. The office was all dark wood and smoke. Tall shelves lined the walls, stacked with books so old their spines looked ready to crumble. A fire roared in a stone hearth, heat crawling over my skin. Behind an enormous desk sat a man who looked like he’d been carved from stone and then set on fire for good measure. His hair was the colour of ash, his eyes like molten embers that burned hotter the longer they stared at me. Fredrick Scorched. Principal of Thornhill Academy. “Sit,” he said, voice a rumble that seemed to vibrate the floorboards. I stayed standing. My boots planted firm, my arms crossed. His eyes narrowed, but I wasn’t about to play tame little stray just because a dragon shifter with a fancy chair told me to. Scorched flicked his hand toward the enforcers. “Leave us.” The one with missing eyebrows looked like he might protest, but the other nudged him out the door before he could open his mouth. The latch clicked shut, and suddenly the room was too quiet. Just me and the dragon. “What is your name?” he asked. I raised my chin but didn’t answer. “And what sort of magical are you?” His words were clipped, precise. I stared back, unblinking. The silence stretched until it crackled. He tutted softly, shaking his head as if I were a misbehaving child. Then, with one deliberate finger, he pressed a brass button set into the corner of his desk. “Send in Professor Hill,” he said into the intercom. I felt my pulse jump. He leaned back again, those ember eyes pinning me in place. “Never mind, we’ll get those answers out of you one way or another.” A few beats later, the door opened. And in walked trouble. Professor Hill was the kind of tall that made you instinctively want to look up and keep looking. His frame was lean but strong, shoulders filling out the dark, tailored jacket he wore like it had been cut for him alone. His skin held a warm bronze tone, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and his dark hair fell just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt in loose waves. His eyes were a startling shade of storm-grey, sharp and knowing, like he could already see straight through me. And his mouth. Full lips, curved like he was one smirk away from ruin. I swallowed hard, my throat dry. Scorched gestured lazily toward him, smoke puffing from his nostrils as he spoke. “Professor Hill, although a master of potions and poisons, also carries a… rarer talent. He can read minds.” My stomach dropped. Read minds? *My mind* was currently replaying about six different filthy scenarios involving storm-grey eyes and what that mouth could do...Shit. ad.readinkapp.com