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Chapter Text

Welcome to Legacies...

👑 ˚ · . 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐃 ✦ copyrighted © 2025 by stxrysmxth. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author/publisher.

👑 ˚ · . 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✦ I must specify that I only own my original characters, storylines, and plots. I do not own any of the Descendants' properties or anything included in the aforementioned movie trilogy or its properties. The Descendants franchise belongs to Walt Disney!

👑 ˚ · . (𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒) 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ✦ This book contains the following:
• Mature language
• Sickness
• Death descriptions
• Mentions of violence and injuries
• Mentions and depictions of the use of potions on non-consenting individuals (drugging)
• (Vague) depictions of intimate intercourses
• Manipulation
• Depictions and mentions of various abusive family lives
• Familial manipulation
• Mentions and depictions of physical, emotional, and mental abuse
• Cheating
• Mentions of dead family/mourning
• Mentions of murder
• Coercion
• Exploitation
• Exploration of insecurities
• Degrading terms
• Depiction of police brutality
• Eugenics
• Bullying
• Classism
• Literal segregation
• Mentions of generational trauma
• Inclusion of child marriage
• Allusions to eating disorders (EDs)
• Discussions about mental health
• Dark depictions of life on the Isle
If you read and believe there are some I missed, please let me know. Reader's discretion is advised!

Note: Trigger warnings will be posted at the top of every chapter, if you feel you need to skip it, feel free to comment or dm me for a summary.

Happy reading!
With warmest wishes,
stxrysmxth❤️

Chapter Text

"Once upon a time" Oh, what a sentence.

There was a time when every kingdom existed apart, each with its own rules, its time, its destiny. Some kingdoms flourished in grand castles of marble and gold, where enchanted roses bloomed and ballrooms shimmered under candlelight. Others lay nestled in forests, where dwarfs mined for jewels and queens spoke curses into their cauldrons. Still more sat beneath desert suns, where thieves danced on rooftops and genies granted impossible wishes.

No two stories seemed alike, and yet they all existed together in a world governed by nothing else but magic.

The lands of heroes and villains were once scattered across different ages and places, each unfolding their legends. But magic has a curious way of bending time, so the world's great and small stories did not exist in a simple sequence of past and future. Instead, they coalesced in a single, eternal age-the Age of Ever After-where all stories reached their endings and all kingdoms found themselves neighbours.

It was in this golden age that King Beast and Queen Belle sought to unite the kingdoms of good, bringing all together different origins under one confederation: The Goodwills. With the magic of the Fairy Godmother and Merlin's wands, a new order was created.

For those who had fulfilled their stories, time became kinder. Kings and queens who had once been young found themselves seemingly ageless, held in a state of grace where they would never grow old too soon nor fade into legend. Heroes like Snow White, Cinderella, and Aurora remained in their prime, while those like Jafar and Maleficent-who had once aged in pursuit of their wicked ends-were frozen at the moment of their exile, forever trapped in the form they last held.

But their children were untouched by this enchantment. Born after the great fairy tales had been told, the new generation would grow as normal, unbound by the magic that had stilled their parents.

Though many kingdoms sought peace, the villains refused it. Maleficent, Jafar, the Evil Queen, and countless others had once tried to rewrite life itself. The war that followed-the last great war between light and darkness-ended with the exile of all evil to the Isle of the Lost, a lowly populated and impoverished land where no magic could take root and no villain could escape.

Not all lands embraced the new order of Auradon. Wonderland, a kingdom of paradox and nonsense, had always existed outside the rules of time and space. It was a realm of shifting landscapes, where yesterday could be tomorrow, and the Queen of Hearts could sentence someone before a crime was even committed.

When King Beast and Queen Belle sought to unify the kingdoms, Wonderland resisted. It had no interest in the concepts of laws, no care for peace, and no patience for the logic of the Mainlanders. Even the villains of the Isle could not reach it-Wonderland's chaos was its own kind of prison, one where no exile could be sent, and no escape could be made.

And so, one day, Wonderland simply vanished.

No one knows whether it sealed itself away or whether Mainland magic shut the door forever, but the Looking Glasses shattered, the portals closed, and the Well of Wonder could never be caught. Wonderland remained a forgotten dream on the edge of memory, untouched by the Mainland's rule and unreachable by those on the Isle.

Some say it still exists, hidden between the seconds of a ticking clock, waiting for the right mind to find the way back.

But if that were true, then surely someone would have returned by now.

Wouldn't they? Wouldn't Miss Alice Kingsleigh?

No consequence to them, as the Mainland flourished. The kingdoms stood side by side, their people living as one despite their differing pasts. Time no longer mattered; what was once long ago was now simply.

But stories never truly end.

Chapter Text

ʀᴇᴍᴀᴅᴇ

ONCE UPON A TIME, IN A LAND FAR, FAR AWAY, IN A WORLD AFTER ALL THE HAPPILY EVER AFTERS, AND THE EVER AFTERS AFTER THAT, ALL THE VILLAINS OF FAIRY TALES WERE BANISHED TO THE ISLE OF THE LOST.  A floating prison of rock and ruin, encased beneath an impenetrable magical dome built by Merlin and the Order of Fairies. No escape, no magic, no hope. The barrier not only kept the Mainlanders sure of their safety but also prevented all kinds of evil and dark magic from the clutches of their prisoners.

King Adam himself once said the Isle's inhabitants were "more zombies than people"—which was precisely why this wasteland was chosen as their eternal cage. Once the terrors of kingdoms, the villains had become shells of their former selves: stripped of crowns, of fire, of magic, reduced to husks bound to human form.

The wicked, the ruthless, and the treacherous—all now shells of their former selves—lived their resurrected lives, devoid of the power that once defined them. Stripped of magic, many were forced into human forms, a bitter reminder of the price they paid. Now they were seen as the weak, the forgone, the defeated.

The conquerors had become the conquered.

There, beneath their watchful eyes, the villains would remain forever powerless.

Forever, as it turns out, is a much longer sentence than anyone could have imagined.

Longer than the years a genie spends in a lamp.

Longer than the time a queen lived alone in her icy palace.

Longer even than the sleep of a cursed princess awaiting true love's kiss.

No question about it: forever would be a very long time indeed.

Twenty years, to be specific. For twenty years, these villains lived in destitution on this poverty-stricken floating land. Stripped of their crowns, their powers, even their livelihoods, they became little more than beggars in a crumbling city of rock and rust. To live without their gifts was worse than death.

Many of them, having been brought back from the dead, spoke from experience.

Once mighty sorcerers and high-ranking officials, now reduced to hawking scraps and bartering for slop in grimy alleyways. They no longer inspired fear—only pity and contempt. Their children never knew their days of glory. Former leaders now lived humdrum lives, stealing from and selling scraps to one another, their terror confined to rivalries with their minions and offspring.

And the memories of their glory days faded over time, becoming nothing more than old wives' tales.

Dull. Trite.

Dare it be said: sad.

So it was with great curiosity and excitement that the Isle gathered for what would be the first—and unknowingly the last—celebration of a very special holiday.

The Day of Love.

And there was something endearingly pathetic about the children of this expansive landfilth attempting to celebrate something as heartwarming as True Hearts Day. Yes. The day of hearts, love, family, and joy. But most importantly—romance. Well, whatever romance or joy such children could scavenge from the muck. And despite the laws against such celebrations (and against any holidays at all, birthdays included), Gwendolyn Tremaine, daughter of Anastasia Tremaine, had devised and organized a great secret True Hearts Day party.

She spread the word with secret letters exchanged on the streets. Soon enough, word caught fire, and everyone was pitching in for the party. And what better place to hold such festivities than the gated lands of Everfree?

And festive it was.

Despite the shabby materials and bleak lives of the Isle of the Lost, the creativity and love poured into this enchanted garden party radiated with warmth. The dilapidated kiosks and makeshift decorations shimmered in the children's imaginations, transforming the grounds into something truly and magically romantic.

The kiosks—though rusted and chipped—had been beautifully repurposed. Tattered yet vibrant fabrics in reds, pinks, and muddy whites—scraps salvaged from discarded clothing, curtains, and anything else at hand—draped from the roofs and walls of homes, temporarily disguising the Isle's ugliness.

With no access to traditional decorations or real magic, the children and some of the other folks of Everfree crafted makeshift flower garlands and paper hearts. Ornaments of recycled paper, painted and dyed with natural pigments from crushed berries and leaves, hung gracefully from kiosks and seating areas, infusing the space with life. Twigs, stones, and shards of glass scavenged from the beach were artfully arranged on the tables, creating an illusion of magical crystals and enchanted stones.

To bring out the garden theme, Miss Mariam and Robin Hood salvaged broken clay pots from garbage heaps and planted them with weeds, stray grass, and the occasional wildflower sprouting from cracks. These makeshift centrepieces were adorned with pebbles and scraps of colourful cloth, adding flair to the arrangements.

Old wooden crates, barrels, and mismatched chairs served as seating, while the tables—pieced together from scrap wood—stood uneven and worn but sturdy. Patchwork fabrics were spread across them as tablecloths, creating bursts of colour and warmth.

Though the Isle lacked abundance, what little food was available was displayed with ingenuity. Scavenged fruits—mouldy clusters of grapes and shrivelled berries—were piled into makeshift bowls carved from hollowed gourds. Slices of bread salvaged from the Candy Witch accompanied small portions of homemade slime-jam. Drinks were served in rusted, repurposed glass bottles. Bottles of flat fizz, bowls of pickled fish eggs, and plates of grainy cocoa porridge lined the tables.

And all this was led and orchestrated by the orders of a little girl—Evergreen. She and Gwendolyn had put in the work to recruit and organize all of the fanfare.

This celebration was all to honour love.

They invited everyone—and everyone showed up.

Well, almost everyone.

One malicious, petulant little fairy remained absent.

Mal knew it was no accident; her invitation had not gotten lost in the wind or forgotten. It was never addressed to her.

Even though she had been out and about when Evergreen and Gwendolyn—mostly Evergreen—had approached her and asked her to come, even making a silly little joke about "not needing a spindle to get a true love's kiss," Mal had noticed the glare in Gwendolyn's eyes and knew then and there she would never go.

And so, from her high balcony overlooking the lively festivities below, ten-year-old Mal twisted and pulled at her thick purple locks, watching the vibrant celebration of everyone else's joy.

Or at least, what little she could see of it.

From her perch, Mal observed the little enchantress regarded as the most beloved of them all. Sitting on a crate with her stupid, ugly pet owl perched in her lap, her hair shimmered like pearls, cascading in lustrous waves, while her grey-blue eyes sparkled with steely brightness. Her lips, tinted red, rivalled the pinkest of roses. Her hair was elegantly styled, twisted back into a high braid, with wild tendrils framing her face.

The fairy's sweet laughter danced through the air as she giggled with her friends, swinging her feet with carefree abandon. Even the coldest hearts, hardened by the Isle, softened in her presence. The brooding Helga Sinclair cracked a smile at the girl's pure delight, and even the cantankerous Lucifer purred contentedly under her gentle caress. A drunken Captain Hook, in reckless abandon, dared to thrust his hand into the jaws of another crocodile—willing to lose the rest of his arm just to keep that angelic smile glowing.

She danced and laughed with her friends—those who adored her as much as she adored them—bouncing on their feet, swaying to the songs of the Pied Piper and his gifted girl, Tune.

Pairs of peers had coupled off to themselves.

Gwendolyn, face redder than her natural blush, handed the wanna-be pirate Shrimpy a tattered, withered piece of paper cut into the vague shape of a heart. The teal-haired witch stared at her, stunned, before taking the letter. Soon enough, the two were sitting together, giggling and intertwined.

Gaston Jr.—or Gaston III, Mal could never tell—sat with little Catherine-Maria Frollo, who knelt with rosemary in hand. He offered her a cup. She glanced at her father, who nodded, and she accepted with a little smile Mal hated from afar.

It was as if everyone else had also forgotten their misery, finding their hearts warmed with what Mal could only describe as non-misery.

Captain Hook and his wife joined the dancing, clearly drunk from whatever they had smuggled in. Madam Mim sat nearby with her baby daddy, Edgar, cheering on her daughters—Ravenna, Sophia, and Delphinium—and her many grandchildren. Ravenna and Sophia, both shackled up with the Stabbington Brothers, had popped out child after child. Those tens of grandchildren filled the party, from toddlers to babbling babies.

Gaston was wooing his three wives—cough greedy man-whore cough—with the same charm that had won them before, lifting all three at once and sweeping them each into dances. He even let his little daughters dance atop his boots when they tugged at his arm for attention.

Drizella, believe it or not, was lost in the romancing of her husband, Cliff—whom Mal dearly wished she could throw off a cliff—his whispers in her ear, his twirls with her in his arms, and even feeding her the revolting fruits from their shared plate.

Facilier wooed his wife, Narcissa, with a new mirror and syrupy praise. It didn't take much to please her.

Robin Hood and Marion enjoyed their time tucked away from the crowd, their boy Lark nestled between them as they basked in the small joys of the day.

Evergreen had brought the families together.

She and Gwendolyn had brought happiness—if only for a day.

Yet Mal could not escape the shadows. She sat brooding on the balcony, her slouched form heavy with despair, when the illegal, mouthwatering aroma of something tooth-achingly sweet drifted to her nostrils. A contribution from the Candy Witch's daughter—her baking skills on display. A lopsided two-layer cake stood proudly, its rocky sweetness adorned with wilted strawberries and bruised peaches, topped with garish green icing.

Mal's heart began to grow heavy and black with tar. She would show them all the uselessness of love.

One day, she vowed, she would prove herself better than them all. She would be the most wicked of them all, outshining even the darkest villains. She would become crueller than Frollo, more selfish than Mother Gothel, and more cunning and manipulative than Gaston or Ursula.

She would show them the true meaning of being the daughter of her—

"Mother!" Mal squeaked, startled by the looming shadow. High, curved horns were silhouetted against the fading light as her mother approached, with Diaval, the raven, swooping in closely behind, landing gracefully on her shoulder.

There she stood: none other than the Mistress of All Evil herself.

Her mother—Maleficent.

The ancient fairy's dark cape trailed behind her, swallowing the entire balcony entryway. Her voice, rich and cold, held the same bitterness that only King Stefan would recognize.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her tone a command rather than a question. Mal knew better than to hesitate. While the festivities below continued in oblivious merriment, Mal felt the icy weight of her mother's deadly glare, directed squarely at the back of Agatha's head.

Maleficent's expression soured at the sight of Agatha's victorious, haughty smile as she presided over the children. Their delighted squeals at Dr. Facilier's shadow puppet show echoed in the courtyard. "It's a True Hearts Day spellabration," Mal muttered, her voice tight with resentment. "They didn't want me there."

"Is that so?" Maleficent's voice dripped with incredulity, her eyes flicking disdainfully over Mal's head to the scene below. Mother and daughter watched, both simmering with envy. Mal thought her mother would do something wicked, as she usually did. Maybe send some of the knuckleheads to ruin the party, have they toss mud on the decorations, something. But no.

Instead, Maleficent turned her head to Mal and tilted her head and said, "So then, what do we do?" every word said with deliberate drama.

Mal looked at her mother for a minute, unsure and nervous to try and guess.

But then she looked down at the party and then at her mother again. Finally, she turned and slipped into the castle. She barely made it down before she was caught—Mecaria and Silver, her little sister and brother, blocking her path with arms outstretched, faces pale in the torchlight. Their eyes were wide, their voices a tangle of panic.

"Please, Mal! Don't!" Mecaria's voice cracked with desperation, her little hands gripping the banister as if she could anchor her sister by force alone.

Silver tugged on her sleeve with trembling fingers. His voice was small. "Just leave it alone. Please."

But Mal's steps didn't stop. Their words were not heeded in the slightest. She brushed past them, her eyes fixed ahead, out into the night.

The laughter of the festival grew fainter as she walked, replaced by the hollow echo of her boots on the broken street. Lanterns flickered against the crumbling walls, and above it all came the sound she had been waiting for: the metallic clink of armoured boots, the rasp of swords against scabbards.

There—a patrol. Three dozen guards trudging their circuit, their heavy steps sinking into the silence of the Isle. Lantern light bounced off dented helmets and scratched breastplates. Enough muscle to scatter a crowd if given the slightest reason. Which didn't mean much. Mal crouched low, her pulse sharp in her ears, and picked up a jagged rock from the roadside. The weight was solid in her palm, a decision made real. She drew in a sharp breath and hurled it.

The stone cracked hard against one guard's shoulder. He staggered back with a grunt, his torch swinging wildly, scattering sparks into the dark.

The patrol spun as one. Eyes narrowed beneath dented visors, hands flying to weapons. A shout rang out, and the guards gave chase.

Mal darted down the street, her small frame weaving like a shadow between alleyways. The air tore in and out of her lungs. At the split, she veered right—away from Bargain Castle and straight toward Everfree's crowded grounds. The guards thundered behind her. She bolted past startled faces, ignoring the curses hurled her way, shoving through the mass of children and families still basking in the glow of True Hearts Day. She quickly threw herself into an empty house and peered out the window.

Once the guards had a handle on the situation at hand, they flew into a rage.

From her cramped hiding place, she watched as everything went to hell in that moment.

The guards moved like wolves through the celebration, their fury unleashed upon everyone within reach. She pressed her face against the rough wood, peering through a gap as wide as her thumb, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain they would hear it.

"Everyone on the ground! Now!" The captain's voice cut through the night like a blade. Those who hesitated were shoved down by armoured hands. She watched Old Crone Dina, the oldest woman on the isle, stumble and fall as a guard's boot caught her behind the knee.

The decorations—hours of careful work, paper hearts and silk ribbons that had transformed the square into something magical—were being torn down with vicious efficiency. A guard ripped a garland of roses from between two posts, the thorns drawing blood from his palms, but he didn't seem to care. He hurled it into the dirt and ground it under his heel.

"Where are the organizers?" another guard bellowed, grabbing a young woman by her hair. "Who planned this treasonous gathering?"

No one remembered to shield the cake. A guard's boot stomped it flat, frosting oozing into the dirt, and the guards kept going, lashing out with sticks and open-handed slaps. The Pied Piper, who'd been playing his lute, tried to talk them down, and they broke his instrument over his head, splinters catching in his beard.

Tables laden with food were overturned, sending precious bread and fruit scattering across the ground. The musicians' instruments were smashed—she watched a guard bring his boot down on a fiddle, the wood splintering with a sharp crack that made her flinch. The old minstrel who'd been playing it reached out desperately, only to receive a club to his ribs that doubled him over, gasping.

"Illegal assembly!" a sergeant roared, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. "Forbidden celebration of a banned holiday! You all know the penalty!"

They were dragging people away now, binding their hands with rough rope.

Through her peephole, she could see the square transforming from a place of joy into something nightmarish. The colourful banners that had fluttered so cheerfully now lay trampled and torn.

One of the guards was questioning an elderly man, his voice a threatening growl. When the man's answers didn't satisfy him, the guard struck him across the face with the back of his hand. The old man's spectacles flew off, the lenses cracking as they hit the ground.

Once they had driven everyone away, leaving Agatha crouched down and covering her child, the guards seemed to have satiated their appetites and left the scene languidly. 

There was no light left in the lanterns.

Nor in the hearts of the islanders.

Chapter Text

Just an ocean away..

ONCE UPON A TIME, IN LANDS FAR, FAR AWAY, THE HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAIRY TALES WELCOMED IN A NEW ERA OF PEACE INTO THE REALM. A lush expanse of endless greenery, dotted with magnificent infrastructures, stretched beneath a perfectly blue sky, where soft clouds floated lazily. Health thrived in abundance, kingdoms flourished, and hopes were realized. The people slept soundly each night, knowing their paradise was safeguarded from corruption, which was locked away, kept under lock and key.

The fairest, the bravest, and the gold-hearted all flourished, basking in the prosperity of their hard-won victory. Renewed by peace and joy, they lived their lives free from the shadows of war. Stronger than ever, their magic flowed freely once more, allowing them to pursue their deepest desires, as they rightly deserved. After the torrid war, the Coalition of Crowns stood before their subjects, proclaimed the Mainland free of evil, and deemed those who wielded banished from that day to the end of their days.

Out there, with a firm eye on their defeated foes, the heroes would frolic about freely, forever.

20 years of forever.

In the two decades that followed, these sovereigns and heroes rebuilt their homes from the ashes of war. The once-chaotic ruins were now vibrant lands, full of flowers, song, and joy. What was once at the mercy of evil is now ruled with respect and good hearts. No longer were they the objects of pity or pain.

Their children, born into the glow of power, lived amidst their parents' glory. Where once they were obscure, they now thrived, trading in wealth and authority, their influence stretching across vast kingdoms. The conflicts of the past became nothing more than distant legends-epic tales of suffering and triumph, long since forgotten.

They were exceptional. Remarkable.

Life on the Mainland had not just improved-it had blossomed. Hunger, fear, and squalor became foreign concepts, banished as thoroughly as evil itself.

So when an event as grand as this one was announced, it came as no surprise to anyone. It was a moment of excitement hosted by none other than King Adam and Queen Belle. No one dared refuse such an invitation: a celebration of twenty years of freedom and the dawn of a new alliance between Ulstead and Auradon. The alliance began here, at this grand celebration of two young royals: Prince Benjamin Montclair and Princess Audrey Charming, both just ten years old.

And what a celebration it was.

The lush grounds of the Bellerose Palace are adorned in magnificent splendour for a dual celebration. The walls are draped with rich tapestries in stunning hues- royal blue and gold, pale pink, and passionate red-the house colours of both families.

Massive chandeliers, glittering with hundreds and thousands of crystals, hang from the vaulted ceiling, catching the light like stars overhead. The floors are gleaming marble, each tile carefully buffed to a mirror-like finish, reflecting the twinkling lights.

Long banquet tables are spread across the hall, laden with an array of mouthwatering dishes. Roasted meats, glistening fruits, and Mrs. Potts' most intricate pastries are arranged like works of art, their aromas mingling in the air to create a heady blend of sweetness and spice. Goblets of the sweet wine are poured freely, their ruby liquid shimmering in the flickering light.

Musicians, positioned on a raised dais, play lively tunes with flutes, harps, and violins, their melodies filling the air with a festive, celebratory rhythm. The music shifts from energetic jigs to softer ballads.

Everywhere, the castle gleams. Golden accents on the high-backed chairs, the silverware on the tables, and even the armour of knights standing at attention are polished to perfection like dolls. Flowers- roses, angrecums, apple blossoms, and every possible bloom-spill from artistic vases, their vibrant colours on a stunning display.

Guests in their finest attire dance, laugh and toast the victory and the union soon to be made. The next generation of princes, princesses, ladies, and lords played without a care. The air rang with the sound of their laughter as they roamed freely across the vast space, chatting their little hearts away at the side or clinging to their parents' sides.

"Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord. He led them through the stormy haze, oh lei oh lai..." the children sang, dancing in circles around each other as they had been doing for the past hour. Their voices rose and fell with the rhythm, some giggling between verses.

"Sing it again!" one boy called out as the group fell apart in fits of laughter, breathless from the song.

"I want to dance more," a little girl in a silver dress exclaimed, twirling on her own with her arms outstretched.

Suddenly, the blaring trumpet players cut through it all, a hush swept over the crowd growing until even the smallest giggles from the children faded into the stillness. All eyes turned to the balcony at the top of the two-sided staircase at the front entrance of the ballroom, doors that were now slowly being pulled open.

There, under the glittering archway, stood King Adam and Queen Belle with King Phillip & Queen Aurora, their regal presence commanding the attention of every soul in the room. King Adam, tall, strong, fierce and brown-bearded, wore his royal blue and gold colours with an air of effortless dignity. Queen Belle, ever the embodiment of grace and intellect, shimmered in a gown of blinding gold, her warm smile lighting up her face.

As the royal family approached the end of the balcony, the music softened, a single violin taking up a delicate melody. Guests gave their undivided attention, bowing respect.

"Friends," King Adam's voice boomed, "We gather tonight not only to celebrate twenty years of peace but to look toward the future where our children will know naught but endless joy."

The golden banners of Auradon shimmered in the sunlight as King Adam stood tall upon the grand balcony of his castle, his voice echoing across the ballroom below. Royals, nobles and commoners alike gathered in admiration, hanging on to every word of their ruler's speech. His presence was mighty, his words regal, and just beneath him, peeking between his legs was a much smaller figure, one far less composed but equally watchful.

Little Prince Benjamin, no older than ten years of age, crouched at his father's feet, his hands gripping the hem of Adam's royal coat for balance. His wide, curious brown eyes peered through the gap between his father's legs, gazing down at the vast crowd below. He had never seen so many people in one place before upon rows of eager faces.

And amongst them, scattered like tiny stars in a sea of silk and gold, were other children. Young princes and princesses, future rulers of the kingdoms beyond Auradon's borders, standing beside their parents. One day, they would be his allies, his friends. The thought didn't trouble him; if anything, it made his little heart beat faster.

From his hiding spot, the world seemed endless. A kingdom stretched before him, waiting. One day, it would all be his to lead. But for now, he remained beneath his father's towering form, watching, waiting, dreaming.

The room erupted in applause as the young royals exchanged nervous smiles, their small hands clasped together more in hopes of comforting each other than anything.

To the future indeed...

Chapter Text

note: all the characters start off split off into their own family trees/region and then the rest were placed together.

THE CHARMINGS
children of the Charming Brothers family tree
Crown Princess Audrey-Rose, 17; daughter of Queen Aurora & King Phillip Charming of Ulstead

Crown Prince Chad, 17; son of Queen Consort Cinderella & King Kit Charming of Beaubonne

Crown Princess Chloe Charming, 15; daughter of Queen Consort Cinderella & King Christopher Charming of Grandzona

Crown Princess Desiree, 18; daughter of Queen Snow White & King Florian Charming of Grimmwald

THE BOBOLONIUS
children of Sultana Jasmine & Sultan Consort Aladdin Bobolonius of Agrabah
Crown Princess Rania - 18 years old
Prince Cassim - 18 years old

THE BURNEYS
children of Farrah & William Burney, the Grand Duke of Grandoza
Lady Jane - 17 years old
Lady Daphne - 15 years old

THE LIS
children of General Li Shang & (Fa) Lieutenant Mulan
Meilin & Yu - 18 year old
Lady Lanni - 17 years old

THE FITZHERBERTS
children of Queen Rapunzel & King Consort Eugene Fitzherbert of Corona
Crown Prince Maximillian 'Max' - 17 years old
Princess Aurianna 'Ari'- 15 years old

THE DESAIS
twins of Queen Consort Tiana Rogers & King Naveen Desai of Maldonia
Crown Princess Evangeline 'Eva'- 16 years old
Prince Louis 'Lou' - 16 years old

Crown Prince Alistair of Dun Broch, son of Queen Merida of Dun Broch, 17
Crown Prince Benjamin 'Ben' Florian, son of Queen Consort Belle & King Adam Florian of Auradon, 18
Doug, son of Dopey & Rhuel, the Blue Fairy, 16
Freedom, son of Esmeralda & Phoebus de Châteaupers, 17

Crown Princess Iduna Bjorman, daughter of Queen Anna & King Consort Kristoff Bjorman of Arendelle, 17
Lady Marilyn 'Lynnie' Winston, daughter of Charlotte La Bouff & Christopher James, 16
Sibylla, daughter of Merlin & Gwendolyn Ambrosius, 15

.

Chapter Text

note: all the characters start off split off into their own family trees/region and then the rest were placed together.

THE 'PIXIES'
children of Hades and Maleficent
Mal-Bertha - 18years old
Mecaria-Briar 'Marcy' & Silver-Diaval 'Silver' - 15 years old

THE GASTONS
children of Gaston Gaston and his three wives; Claudette Laurette, & Paulette(The Bimbettes)
Gaston Jr. & Rosette, twins of Claudette, 18 years old
Gaston III 'Gus' & Lynette, twins of Paulette 17 years old
Gil & Marinette, twins of Laurette, 17 years old

THE TREMAINES
Gwendolyn 'Gwen' & Anthony Tremaine, daughter of Anastasia Tremaine & Lathyn
Wynona 'Wynnie' Tremaine, daughter of Lady Madonna Tremaine & General John Radcliffe
Francis II , Priscilla & Dizzella; children to Lady Drizella Tremaine & Clifford Bourdeaux
Francis II - 1 8 years old
Gwen - 1 7 years old
Wynona - 16 years old
Anthony - 15 years old
Priscilla & Dizzy - 13 years old

THE GOTHEL-FROLLOS
twins to Dame 'Mother' Gothel & Claude Frollo
Blume - 18 years old
Catherine-Maria 'Cathy' - 18 years old

THE SEA WITCHES
daughters of Poseidon
Uliana, daughter of Morgana
Uma, daughter of Ursula
Uma - 16 years old
Uliana 'Uli'- 15 years old

THE HOOKS
children of Captains James & First Mate Emma Hook
Trinity - 20 years old
Harriet - 19 years old
Harry - 17 years old
Calista-Jane 'C.J' - 16 years old
Killian - 15 years old
Samantha 'Sammy' - 9 years old

THE FACILIERS
children of Queen Narissa & Dr. Baron Facilier
Princess Frederica 'Freddie' - 17 years old
Princess Celina 'Celia' - 13 years old

Carlos De Vil, son of Cruella De Vil & John Clayton, 15
Jassim 'Jay' Sinclair, son of Jafar & Helga Sinclair, 17
Lark Hood, son of Robin Hood & Madame Mariam, 16
Mordecai 'Morgie' Le Fay, son of Morgana Le Fay & Merlin, 15
Zevon 'Zee' Pepikrankenitz, son of Yzma & Kronk, 17

Ambrosia 'Bonbon', daughter of Dionysus & the Candy Witch, 17
Delphinium 'Delphie' Balthazar, daughter of Madame Mim & Edgar Balthazar, 19
Princess Evelyn 'Evie' Grimhilde-Westergaard, daughter of Queen Regina Grimhilde & Prince Hans Westergard, 19
Evergreen 'Eve' Encanta, daughter of Agatha; The Enchantress & Apollo, 18

.

Chapter Text

8 ʜᴏʀʀɪᴅ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ - ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ʟᴀʏꜱ ᴀ ʟɪʟʏ

ᴛᴡ!!: ᴀʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀɴɴɪʙᴀʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴏʟɪᴄᴇ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟɪᴛʏ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɢʀᴏᴘɪɴɢ

「 EVERGREEN 」

__________.𖥔"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ERIS?" the young girl muttered, rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.

"I must have hit my head..." she said uncertainly. She found herself kneeling on cold, uneven stones, the coolness seeping through the thin fabric of her gown. She glanced around, her heart pounding, taking in the towering walls of what seemed to be an ancient castle.

Vines thick with blooming flowers twisted around the weathered stone. Her fingers brushed against the delicate cerulean satin of her gown. She didn't just look like a princess; she felt like one, as if the dress had always belonged to her, the feeling wholly unfamiliar.

"This has to be a dream..."

She rose and touched the vine—and flower—covered stone walls. The sensation was as real as the sweet scent of ripe roses and the smooth fabric brushing against her skin. She lifted her head toward the windows, catching the faint sound of music drifting from above. It piqued her curiosity, urging her to explore.

Cautiously, she followed the sound up the stairs, marvelling as the stainless sunset spread like liquid gold across the horizon, staining the sky with vivid streaks of pink and violet.

At the top of the stairs, she tried to peer through the cracks of one of the many stained-glass windows but could make out little more than what appeared to be magical instruments playing. Her attention shifted to the two grand doors before her—strong oak encased in shining gold. She knocked gently, and almost immediately, the doors swung open on either side, allowing her to glide into what appeared to be an old tower-turned-ballroom.

Outside, at the centre of the balcony, a glowing rose encased in glass was on display.

She let out a light puff of air as she stepped into the room. The space was vast, illuminated by the soft glow of chandeliers that hung like delicate jewels from the towering ceiling. Marble floors gleamed beneath her feet, reflecting the shimmering light like a mirror. At the centre of the room, her gaze locked on the balcony where a single, glowing pink rose hovered, encased in glass.

"Where am I...?" she muttered in confusion. Suddenly, a hand grasped her own, startling her. She whipped around to face the newcomer, unsure what to make of this strange presence in what she thought was a dream.

"Why, you're in Auradon, of course. Where else?" The boy's tone was casual, as though he knew her—as though she belonged here. He was undoubtedly a prince, stranger than anything she'd seen thus far: his honey-brown hair neatly combed, a heartwarming smile playing on his lips, and hazel eyes that must have captured the hearts of countless princesses.

But she wasn't a princess.

"Who are you? And why am I here?" she asked, not sure she wanted the answer. Her gaze flickered over him warily.

"You know me. I'm your prince."

That did it. The mould in her room had finally driven her asinine.

"So I did hit my head," she hollered, "Princes don't exist."

"And yet, here I am." His voice was calm, matter-of-factly, as he pulled her closer. Her free hand landed on his shoulder, and she could feel his breath warm on her cheek.

Before she could respond, something shifted in the air. The music faltered, the soft notes fading into an eerie silence, and then the first rays of sunlight pierced through the stained glass windows. It was blinding.

She raised her hand instinctively to shield her eyes, but it was too late. The brilliant light swallowed everything-the ballroom, the prince, the rose—all dissolving into a golden haze.

When Evergreen opened her eyes, reality crept back in—the reality of Isle. Lifting her head from the windowsill where she had dozed off, she was greeted by the dreary sight of her family's decaying garden. Damp stone benches sat in uneven rows, brown moss clung to what little remained of the once-grand fountain, and struggling flowers wilted beneath the weight of neglect. The ground, more sludge than soil, reeked of damp rot.

Beyond the crumbling walls, the workers moved in silence—once simple inhabitants villagers of a remote isle—, long exiled by King Adam. They tended to the garden with buckets of thick, murky water drawn from the half-destroyed well, their sunken eyes betraying no emotion.

Evergreen coughed as a thin cloud of dust rose from the pages of her book. She shut it with care, setting it aside as she pushed herself upright from her makeshift seat. It was a patchwork of old, threadbare blankets and frayed quilts, stuffed haphazardly with scraps of wool, discarded towels, and the remnants of her childhood clothes. The lavender she had hung along the window frame had long since dried, but she kept it there if only to mask the creeping scent of mildew from the rotting wooden rims. Twin curtains faded and brittle, framed the space where she had tucked herself away, like a princess in a storybook tower—hidden from the world until a prince would whisk her away.

But princes did not come here.

Instead, the curtains were yanked open with little ceremony, the fabric groaning as it was dragged from its place of rest to reveal something else.

"Enjoy dreamland, Evergreen?"

The girl blinked as the dim, dry palette of the hallway came into focus, replacing the soft haze of her fading dream. This was not a forgotten castle from a tale of old. It was just her home-dusty, broken, and the same as ever.

"Yes, Mama," she answered, her voice carrying the last remnants of warmth from sleep. She shifted, smoothing the wrinkles in her worn dress before rising to her feet. Standing before her, poised and imperious, was Agatha-the Enchantress.

Her mother.

Agatha's presence filled the narrow corridor with an almost tangible weight. Her sharp eyes flickered briefly to the book still resting on the windowsill, but she said nothing of it. She looked regal, even in this decrepit place. Her pale blonde hair was wound into an intricate twist, each strand perfectly in place. The deep emerald of her gown stood in stark contrast to their grey, crumbling surroundings. Time had not withered her beauty-it had only refined it, carving her features into something colder, more formidable.

Her high cheekbones cast subtle shadows across her face, and her sculpted jawline gave her an air of untouchable elegance. Her lips, eternally poised in a careful line, never curved beyond the hint of a smirk.

"Still dreaming about those storybook princes?" Agatha asked with a soft smile, brushing loose strands from Evergreen's forehead. Her voice was gentle, amused more than anything. "You always did have a heart full of stories."

Evergreen's eyes sparkled for a moment, "I know they won't put food on the table, Mama."

Agatha's expression softened even more, and she reached out, placing a hand over her daughter's. "Maybe not," she said quietly, "but dreams have their place too. Just... make sure you bring home the bread along with them, alright?"

Evergreen laughed under her breath and nodded. "Alright."

Moving toward the window, Agatha looked out over the garden—overgrown but still holding a few proud green shoots—and then beyond, to the worn paths and faded buildings. "We're running a bit low again. Bread, milk... just the basics. Could you go before the shops close?"

"Of course, Mama," Evergreen said, picking up her coin purse and wrapping her shawl across her shoulders. The air beyond the door was cool, but not unkind. For a moment, she let herself imagine walking beyond the market, past the noise and the clutter, to the far edge of the Isle where sky kissed sea.

"Don't take too long," Agatha added gently, her voice filled with more concern than command. "They're rationing again, and I'd rather not have you caught in the crowds."

"I won't," Evergreen promised, "I'll be back before you miss me."

A cool hand cupped Evergreen's cheek for a fleeting moment, "I already do."

The thick, rancid air clung to Evergreen's throat as she stepped onto the uneven grounds of her home. The stench of damp rot and smoke from distant fires curled up her nostrils and almost pried her breakfast—if you could call it that—from her belly. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself as her eyes swept across the people already bustling about their daily business.

Grabbing the handle of a tilted, one-wheeled cart, she maneuvered it toward the pens where rafters of chickens and sounders of hogs awaited. The animals rustled and shifted at her approach, sensing what was to come. Despite the gloom that clung to the Isle, Evergreen's face lit with a bright, unwavering smile as she entered the enclosure, careful not to let the mud-slicked ground ruin the hem of her dress.

She moved deftly, securing the animals with practiced ease, looping makeshift rope harnesses around their necks and tying them to the cart. A chorus of clucks and squeals erupted as they protested their fate, but Evergreen merely patted one of the hogs on the side, offering a reassuring nod.

"I thank you in advance for your sacrifice, good men and women," she said lightly, though none of them understood beyond their instinctive panic.

With one last firm tug, she secured the encasement and set off, rolling her burdens toward the market.

"Bonjour, Evergreen!" called Dina, the old crone, hobbling down the path with her cane tapping against the uneven cobblestone.

"Hello!" croaked Gregory, a merchant to her left, his voice as gravelly as ever.

"Salut! Good morning! Ciao!" voices chimed in from all around her, a symphony of greetings from the people of her mother's domain.

Evergreen returned their words with a faint but warm smile as she passed through the wrought iron gates of her neighbourhood. With a soft click, the gate shut behind her, and for a moment, all was quiet save for the rhythmic creaking of her cart's uneven wheel.

And then, the inevitable happened.

"Ever," a voice called out, bitter and sharp as broken glass.

Ah. She knew that thick cloud of tar would find her eventually.

She turned, already bracing herself. And there, standing at the boundary between their worlds, was Mal-Bertha—'Mal.'

Her cousin.

Mal stood at the gate of her own family's territory, a crumbling expanse of cracked stone and thorned vines, a stark contrast to Agatha's dominion. The bridge between them-the fragile truce that kept their mothers' war at bay-spanned the brown, murky ravine that divided their two realms.

Agatha had built this neighbourhood, a small kingdom of her own, nestled just across the bridge from Maleficent's own domain. A kingdom that did well. A kingdom that was loved and loved her and her daughter.

And Mal hated her for it.

Despite being kin, no one would mistake one for the other.

Evergreen was draped in flowing ivory and pale green dresses, as elegant as one could be on the Isle. Mal's attire was the opposite—tight, dark leathers hugging her wiry frame, accentuating her sharp edges and coiled tension.

White-gold waves vs. dark purple straight strands.

Indigo flecked with silver vs. green flecked with gold.

Beloved vs. Feared.

Mal's fear tactics were not just a product of her mother's influence—they were born from something far more personal. The grudge she held against Evergreen, the girl who was loved, admired and looked upon as if she had shattered the barrier itself.

Evergreen could see it now, as she did every day—the resentment simmering in Mal's gaze, the silent promise that one day, she might just shove her into the murky depths below the bridge.

Today was no different.

Evergreen tilted her head, smile never faltering, and said with mock sweetness, "Why, hello. Have an enchanted day, Mal."

Evergreen stepped into the market, the rancid air thick with the scent of decay and desperation. Her gaze swept over the familiar sight of men and women hunched over their stalls, trays of pitiful merchandise laid out in the open. The same rotting pastries, the same curdled candies, only more grotesque with time. Two months had passed since the uprising, and the consequences still festered like an open wound.

It had been doomed from the start—underfed, unarmed Islanders against trained, well-fed enforcers. The rebellion had been crushed beneath Auradon's iron heel. Bodies littered the streets, some left to rot in the dirt, others reduced to ash in the fires that burned for days. Evergreen could still hear the echoes of suffering, the raw cries of parents clutching lifeless children, the moans of the wounded that she, her mother, and the women of their home had nursed around the clock. Those memories haunted her, etched into her mind like a scar.

She took a shaking breath, wiped away a stray tear, and forced a smile as she spotted sweet little Ambrosia struggling to keep up with the bustling demands of her stall. Ambrosia and her mother—the infamous old Candy Witch—ran the only place in this wretched market where one could find a halfway edible meal. Like her own father, Dionysus had taken a peculiar interest in the witch, and their union had borne Ambrosia, a child of mischief and sweetness alike.

The two witches kept many bellies from caving in entirely. They made food from anything they could find—sometimes to questionable results, but hunger cared little for consequences. Evergreen approached from the side, dropping off her delivery before making her way to the front, where Ambrosia was hurriedly trading off freshly made rations.

"Well, bon matin, BonBon!" Evergreen greeted, her voice light and warm.

Ambrosia, her arms filled with an assortment of dubious cakes, glanced up briefly. "Mornin', sweets! You off somewhere?" she asked, ever direct.

"The bookshop," Evergreen replied brightly, reaching into the basket and taking an armful of loaves and cakes. "I just finished the most wonderful story. It's about a new world, a chosen one, and a–"

"Love to hear it, darl'. My cargo?"

Evergreen let out a laugh, linking arms with her friend as they moved to the back. She gestured towards the rolling cart, its contents neatly concealed. As Ambrosia pulled back the cover, her tense posture slackened, relief washing over her features.

"You turned them–"

"Yes. I figured it would be lighter on your conscience than last time."

"How did you–"

"I couldn't tell you."

And she truly couldn't. The alchemical experiment had been a desperate gamble, one she had little faith in, yet somehow, it had worked. She had transmuted them, shaped the unthinkable into something more palatable.

With a final smile and a wish of good luck, Evergreen departed, her basket filled with twenty loaves of bread, three gallons of thick, yellowed milk, the last scraps of meat, and a handful of bruised fruit and vegetables. She continued, making her way to her next destination—LaPage, the only bookstore on the Isle.

LaFou, the shopkeeper, greeted her with a half-toothless grin. Since being sent to the Isle, he had abandoned Gaston's shadow and his brutish ways, opting instead for a quiet life with his husband in their humble apartment above the shop.

"Ah, Eve! Bon matin! Returning the history book?"

"Bon matin, Monsieur LaFou," Evergreen said as she handed it over, her face alight with excitement. "Finished already! Do you have anything new?"

LaFou chuckled, shaking his head. "Not since the last shipment, little one."

"That's alright," Evergreen replied, picking up another worn volume from the shelf. "I'll take this one."

LaFou squinted at her choice. "That one? You've read it twice already!"

"I suppose now it will be thrice," she said with a laugh. "It's my favourite, after all. Far-off castles, magical history, a dashing prince..."

LaFou waved a hand, cutting her off. "If you like it that much, it's yours. Garde-le."

"Mais, Monsieur–"

"I insist," LaFou said firmly. "It's yours."

Evergreen's smile widened as she threw her arms around him in a tight hug. "Mais merci! Je vous en remercie beaucoup!"

She pulled away, clutching her prize with glee as she stepped out onto the street once more, flipping open the book as she walked. Behind her, whispers trailed in her wake.

"Quite the strange girl," one muttered.

"Always has her nose in those silly books," scoffed another.

"Fairy tales? Happily-ever-afters? Ha! There's no such thing here."

"In a place like this, what does she hope to find in those pages?"

Evergreen heard them. She always did. But she only smiled, turning another page as she carried on through the dreary streets, her mind wandering to worlds far beyond the Isle.

✧˖°

「 MAL 」

LOCATION - DRAGON HALL HIGH

_______________.𖥔"ALRIGHT YA LOT! SINGLE FILE LINE! MOVE IT!"

The brutish guards of Dragon Hall shouted, their voices gruff and unrelenting, as they ushered students into formation. The line lurched forward as another student was shoved past the checkpoint, clutching bruised ribs. Dragon Hall swallowed them whole, the darkness of its halls leading naught but their redundant day and subjugated lives.

No one wanted to be here—not in this crumbling excuse for a school. Dragon Hall High was as much a school as a corpse was still a person, barely held together by rusted nails and the desperation of those forced to inhabit it. The walls were riddled with cracks, their surfaces slick with creeping fur that thrived in the ever-present dampness. Water stains bled through the ceilings, forming grotesque patterns where leaks had long since been ignored. The faintest touch against the walls left fingers smeared with grime and something unsettlingly sticky.

The floors groaned underfoot, warped from years of humidity, their wooden planks rotting away with the damp. Holes gaped between the boards, some large enough to swallow a careless step whole, while others provided nesting grounds for cockroaches and rats that scuttled at the edge of vision. Every step threatened to unearth something foul—whether it was an old wad of chewing gum, a forgotten puddle of something unidentifiable, or the bloated corpse of an insect that had given up trying to escape.

Light fixtures flickered sporadically, their bulbs buzzing and swaying from loose wires that sparked ominously. The familiar scent of burnt wiring mixed with an array of stomach-turning scents—stale sweat, mould, rotting food, and something metallic, like dried blood.

Space was a luxury Dragon Hall did not grant them. Classrooms were crammed with too many students. And the smell. It was everywhere. A nauseating cocktail of mildew, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of decay. It clung to everything—clothes, hair, skin—no matter how hard one tried to wash it away. The stench was inescapable, just like the school itself.

A prison in all but name. A prison where enforcers relished in their misery. Grim and Red had finally made it through the treacherous security line with probably the most excessive amount of aggression used since the riot, with Harry having to tug little Uliana from stepping up to the guards for a fight she'd lose her teeth in.

About five students ahead of Mal, Blume Gothel stood stiffly, practically held at pistol-point as she emptied her satchel. Another guard smeared his hands over her person with unsettling scrutiny, his touch lingering too long, his expression far too pleased with his power.

Mal had started the morning fast and fiery, but now her day had slowed to a dull crawl, dragging through the dreary foyer of Dragon Hall. The building was as neglected as its inhabitants—doors barely hanging on their hinges, floors warped with rot, walls hiding secrets best left undiscovered. The scent of mildew and something far worse clung to the air, but the guards paid no mind. They weren't paid to. They were paid to dictate and punish the guilty. And punish they did, far too gladly.

Mal swept her bangs from her face, sketchbook balanced on the bent back of little Princelet Jones. To her left, Evie was trying—and failing—to check her reflection in a pocket mirror without drawing attention. The last time she got caught, they shattered it against her skull. Carlos was pressed against Silver's back with Portia covering his ears to distract him from the barking, human-sized dogs quivering slightly. At the same time, Jay and Delphinium stood with Mecaria wedged between them. Hades forbid the guards caught a couple holding hands-out came the batons then. And Zevon? Zevon was just being Zevon, grinning at the guards with just enough insolence to annoy them but not enough to warrant a real beating. A practiced art, Mal could swear.

"Move it along, lizard!" One of the guards barked, and Mal snatched her sketchbook back as she stepped forward. A sharp smack to the back of her head made her grit her teeth. "Empty your bag!"

She did, though not gently. Her tattered sketchbook, a pouch of Evie's contraband bubblegum, and a punch of a few emergency coins—all of them were examined at a torturous pace. Mal kept count. Two minutes per item. Just long enough for the guard patting her down to whisper all sorts of violations in her ear that made bile replace the fire in her belly. While the officer in front of her kept shifting through her things, a battered lighter, a switchblade—Bertrand snatched those fast.

"You ought not to have this, freak," he mused.

"Neither should you have shit breath," Mal quipped. "Guess it must have been hard keeping it fresh through all that metal."

Bertrand's nostrils flared. Mal could see the barely contained fury in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched as he threw her blade into the confiscation bin. She smirked, almost wanting to laugh—until he stepped closer.

She felt it before she saw it.

The blunt crack of his baton across her face sent her stumbling right side, palms slamming against the table. A dull ache spread through her face as her head pounded, but Mal bit down the sharp gasp, threatening to escape. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

The other guards chuckled lowly.

"Watch your mouth, lizard," Bertrand growled. "Or I'll make sure it's wired shut just like mine was."

Mal exhaled slowly, tightening her fists.

Jay shifted beside her, but she shot him a quick glare—don't interfere.

She reminded herself not to even look the guard in the eyes, simply bent down, scooping up her sketchbook and Evie's gum with deliberate slowness. Her fingers grabbed at her leather coin pouch just as the officer's stupidly heavy boot slammed down over it. A shrill cry ripped through Mal's throat as she tried pulling her hand out. The jingle of the meagre coins inside barely registered over the sound of blood rushing in her ears.

"You finally payin' taxes now?" he sneered, pressing down harder.

Mal forced herself to smile. "Didn't realize you'd taken a second job as a toll collector. The jaw wire must have cost an arm and a leg."

Bertrand ground his heel against the pouch as if he was snuffing out a cigarette before finally removing his foot and simply stealing the pouch away and shoving it into his sleeve, tossing Mal's fully emptied bag to her head.

"Next!" Bertrand barked, but not before giving Mal's shoulder one last shove, knocking her off balance as she stumbled into Jay.

Evie moved before Mal could. Quick as lightning, she darted forward and helped Mal steady and off of Jay's chest, as the guards gave the rest of their squad less of a hassle but hassles nonetheless.

She fell into step with Jay and Silver, who had already been cleared, their bodies tense as they leaned against the chipped stone walls. Carlos was still pressed against Silver's back, looking anywhere but at the guards.

Jay nudged her. "They got it out for you today."

"They always do."

Across the hall, Zevon was still grinning like a damn lunatic, but even he was watching the guards more carefully than usual. And Blume—who was usually the first to snark back at authority—stood stiff and silent, playing around with the sash of her dress, the classic Gothel glare locked in on those pigs by the line.

The group's silence was interrupted by Catherine-Maria pulling at the rackety, rusted bell atop the school, signalling the beginning of another dull day.

"Let's roll," Jay muttered, wrapping his arm around Mal's shoulders and leading off down the hall.

✧˖°

The relentless churn of back-to-back classes had finally slowed. For Mal, only a handful were worth any attention—art, which she always enjoyed; magiconomics, she supposed study wasn't so horrible; free period, which was always welcome; and science, which she had promptly ditched. Now, lunchtime had arrived, offering yet another round of vomit-inducing horrors courtesy of the cafeteria's culinary experiments.

The dining hall, for once, was free of the enforcers, allowing the students to let loose. Rosette had roped some poor, hapless soul into surrendering his time to help her with work she had no intention of actually doing. Killian and Morgie swung from the chandeliers in a reckless competition, seeing who could outlast the other. At one table, the three Gaston siblings engaged in a drink-off while Harry conveniently "counted" the rounds—his blatant cheating tipping the scales in Gil's favour. Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Uma and Uliana chatted in hushed tones while trading off their bruised fruits.

Each member of Mal's crew was absorbed in their endeavours. Evie, ever the multitasker, flipped through her alchemy notes while somehow managing to sketch new designs into her fashion book. Carlos tinkered with his latest gadget, partially assisted by Portia, who kept getting distracted by her reflection in the back of a rusting spoon. As for Jay and Delphinium, there was no question they would spend their free time doing anything other than counting the spoils of their latest five-finger discounts, stealing kisses between inventory checks.

And Mal? Mal could barely even flex her hand.

It had been hours since the injury, and yet she still couldn't hold Evie's hand, grip a pencil, or even lift her bag. Now, with her left hand-shaky and unsteady—she prodded at the sludge masquerading as a casserole on her tray.

The bench beside her gave a soft creak under added weight. Mal turned her head slightly, eyes landing on Evergreen, who looked utterly worn down from the day's events. Without a word, Evergreen placed a woven basket on the table, flipped it open, and reached for Mal's injured hand. Her touch was careful, her movements steady as she wrapped it with precision, securing the makeshift bandage with practiced ease.

"It needs a month," Evergreen murmured as she fastened the last knot. "Don't push it."

And with that, she stood, leaving just as the bell rang, signalling their dismissal from lunch.

✧˖°

Mal hunched over her sketchbook, fingers smudged with graphite as she darkened the jagged edges of a fractured dome. The barrier cracked like shattered glass across the page, wisps of imagined magic seeping from the ruptures. She worked leisurely, settled within her mind, filling the empty spaces with shadows that stretched toward an unseen sky.

It was always there. That barrier. Towering, impenetrable, suffocating. She had spent her whole life underneath it, breathing in the stale, magicless air of the Isle, listening to her mother curse it and watching others glare up at it with hopelessness or bitterness. But up close? Old Crone Dina had said it shimmered. That it pulsed with power so ethereal and so perfect that it was almost beautiful.

Almost.

The sketch sprawled across the page, intricate and chaotic. The cracks in the barrier spiderwebbed outward, some pieces still clinging together while others drifted away into the air like weightless shards. Through the broken sections, glimpses of what could be—a vast sky. Magic poured from the gaps, dark and light twisting together in curling tendrils, unsure if they were meant to heal or destroy. She shaded the edges to make it seem like the entire thing was vibrating with some invisible force, moments from crumbling entirely or snapping back into place.

She pressed harder with the pencil, defining the largest fissure. What would it even mean, really, if it broke? Would it be freedom? Or just a different kind of prison? If it ever happened, it wouldn't be because of some great prophecy. It would be because something bigger and badder had come along to tear it down. And in the end, all it would do was let Maleficent's magic reach her again.

That ought to terrify her.

But magic was magic. And Mal had never seen real magic before. Not the kind that thrummed with life, that could be moulded into the user's desire. Not the kind she had only ever been able to dream of feeling in her fingertips. It had to be incredible. It had to be intoxicating. And if the barrier broke, maybe, just maybe, she would get to touch it.

"Mal?"

A shadow loomed over her desk.

She stiffened for only a moment before glancing up, already recognizing the voice. Professor Lyndon stood beside her, hands clasped loosely before her, a warm yet curious expression on her face. Unlike most teachers at Auradon Prep, Lyndon never seemed to tiptoe around Mal, never watched her with that barely concealed wariness. If anything, she always seemed interested—genuinely interested—in whatever Mal put out.

"That's quite the piece," Lyndon continued, gesturing toward the sketch. "The detail on the fractures, the movement in the shading... It's stunning."

Professor Lyndon had been at Auradon Prep for ten years, but five years ago, when Auradon introduced a program sending professors to the Isle to improve its education system—or lack thereof—she had been the first to volunteer. One of only three professors willing to go. That was how she and Mal had met—not in a classroom, but in a half-lit hallway, where Mal had been caught spray painting a mural across a classroom wall. Instead of turning her in, Lyndon had studied the piece, nodded, and simply said, "What a lovely piece. Do be careful on your way home."

The next day, an art class appeared on the schedule. Lyndon's class. And Mal, for reasons she still didn't fully understand, had taken the first spot.

Mal shrugged, attempting indifference. "It's just something I'm messing with."

Lyndon smiled knowingly, taking a seat beside the purple-haired fairy. "And what exactly are you 'messing with'?"

Mal hesitated. The words sat heavy in her throat. "The Isle's barrier," she admitted, tapping her pencil against the page. "Breaking."

Lyndon tilted her head. "An exciting prospect, I'm sure?"

Mal frowned at the sketch, running her thumb over a particularly dark line. "I don't know, I guess," she said honestly. "If it ever happened, it would probably just mean my mother could finally use her magic on me and my siblings to keep us in line." She snorted dryly.

Lyndon's gaze softened. "Is that all?"

Mal tapped the edge of her pencil against the paper, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Old Crone Dina always went on about how awful the barrier was—how it caged us in, how it kept our parents down. But she also said she'd never seen a spell so powerful up close. The way the energy rippled through the air." Mal's fingers twitched slightly. That was the real hope, wasn't it? To see magic—real magic—the kind that shimmered, the kind that rested just in the palm of her leather-gloved hands. To feel it in her bones, running through her veins, fiery and alive. To hold it in her hands.

For a long moment, Lyndon said nothing, only observing Mal with that same calm patience. Then, quietly, she asked, "Do you ever dream about it?"

Mal froze, shoulders tensing. A dream? That was childish. A fantasy. And she wasn't some wishful Mainlander girl spinning in a meadow.

She forced a smirk. "Dreams are for people who don't know better."

Lyndon let out a small chuckle, unfazed. "Is that so?"

The bell rang before Mal could come up with a reply. She snapped her sketchbook shut, already rising from her seat when Lyndon's voice stopped her.

"It worked for the Mainlanders, didn't it? Tiana wished upon the evening star. Snow White and Aurora sang about dreaming of their princes. Cinderella never stopped dreaming." The professor's voice was light, but something about the way she said it made Mal pause.

Lyndon smiled as Mal slung her bag over her shoulder. "Why can't you?"

Mal scoffed, rolling her eyes as she turned away, but the words stuck with her as she walked out of the classroom, her fingers still dusted with graphite.

Chapter Text

「 BENJAMIN 」

__________.𖥔THE LIGHT WAS SOFT AND STRANGE.

Almost milky, as though pieces of the moon had melted into the waters of the Enchanted Lake, and it swirled slowly, muting all colour into silver-grey haze. Ben stood at the water's edge, the reeds unmoving despite the ripples that danced outward from nowhere. The air was warm, and his vision, for reasons he could not place, was uncooperative. A thick fog blurred everything.

There was someone beside him. A figure, feminine, lovely in silhouette, seated languidly against a patch of moss where the lake met the stony surface. Her voice curled toward him—a hum, some noise, words maybe—but they were distorted, as if spoken underwater. He assumed it must be Audrey. Who else would it be?

Audrey. His fiancée. Surely, he'd finally brought her here to share his favourite place, for some reason, the secret lake he'd loved since childhood, where the lilies lit up like little lanterns in the dark, and the tall, luscious willow trees tickled your skin just slightly.

And yet... something was off.

His limbs were heavy as if they were asleep, and a persistent itching tremor in his chest. Something inside him tugged in the wrong direction. A flicker of confusion passed over his mind as he lifted his head to ask her a question—but what question? And why couldn't he see her properly?

Then there it was.

That scent. Soft and strange, like mint crushed between rose petals. It wrapped around him with unsettling ease.

The scent came closer, enveloping Ben's senses completely and lulling him from his concerning confusion. The figure beside him—Audrey, surely Audrey—kissed him. Her lips pressed to his gently, reverently. And for a moment, he surrendered to it. But—

His hands. They noticed first.

The body in his arms didn't match what he remembered. Less hourglass, much more rectangular. Broader shoulders. And the kiss—less gloss, no longer with the taste of cotton candy, and more... soft and bare.

Confusion twisted in his gut. He opened his eyes.

And the world snapped into sudden focus.

Indigo. Not brown. Not hazel. Indigo eyes, deep as a dusk sky, were gazing up at him. Wide, wondering, brimming with something unspoken. She had ivory skin, pale as candlewax, and hair like frost-threaded moonlight—not Audrey's warm chestnut waves, but something colder, more arresting.

Ben's breath caught.
This wasn't Audrey.
This wasn't... anyone he could name.

He knows her. She came back.

"Ben..?" she whispered, her voice clearer now, threaded with confusion.

His brows knit together. "Wait... who—?"

But the question crumbled on his tongue.

The lake caught the moonlight. It shimmered, then flared—an explosion of white brilliance refracting off the glassy surface. He winced, blinded. His hands instinctively rose to shield his eyes—

And he woke.

Ben shifted his head only slightly from being completely buried in his silk pillows, hair damp with sweat, despite his cool room. Rich navy curtains fluttered faintly as the maids moved about the chamber, drawing them back with fluency. Sunlight spilled into the room, golden and uninvited. 

His bedchamber in the royal apartments of Bellerose Castle was as immaculate as always—silken sheets in deep sapphire, carved oak furniture polished to perfection, the faint scent of lavender rising from a dish of fresh petals by the hearth. Everything was in its place. As it always was.

And yet, he felt... out of place.

The girl—whoever she was—still lingered in the corner of his mind like the last note of a lullaby. The press of her lips, the colour of her eyes, the shape of her face—all dissolving now in the light of morning. He ran a hand through his hair, bewildered, and exhaled quietly.

Mint and roses.

From the open window, the birds began to sing. The lake was miles away.
But the ghost of that kiss remained.

"Rise and shine, my prince," Cogsworth chimed with a prim note, drawing open the tall wardrobe doors to select the day's attire. Today's garments were particularly ornate—layers of rich blue and gold embroidery, polished brass buttons, and ceremonial regalia Ben would normally loathe. But this was no ordinary day. Even he, groggy and half-submerged in the comfort of his dreams, knew better than to protest.

Ben stirred from the warmth of his sleep, still trying to chase his dreamscape. Still, a prince cannot shirk his duties. This morning marked the commencement of the Confederation Council—a grand monthly assembly of the reigning crowns of the Goodwill Confederation, converging upon Bellerose Castle for deliberation and statecraft. There would be status reports from the Isle of the Lost, petitions from citizens and minor lords, and above all, today, the5r heirs were to deliver formal proclamations of their own that would be put to a proper vote, as a rehearsal of sorts.

Ben's proposal—his true proposal—remained a closely guarded secret. While he had casually misled his peers and even Audrey with vague or entirely fictitious descriptions of his intended speech, he had confided in only three trusted advisors: Madam Potts, Monsieur Lumière, and Monsieur Grosevnor. Their counsel had been wise and useful. Grosevnor, in particular, had been visibly conflicted, and his opinion in particular was what opened Ben's mind.

Before the mirror, Ben gazed at his reflection. His chestnut eyes were troubled, his brow faintly creased with apprehension. The royal valets continued fastening his garments: the collar sat higher than he usually liked it, the trousers pinched slightly at the hips, and the ceremonial epaulettes were heavier than anything he's ever had in his book bags.

"Your tea, my prince. For the nerves."

The gentle voice came like a balm. Madam Potts stepped forward, her presence warm and unhurried, presenting him with a porcelain cup, gilded at the rim and filled with steaming golden tea. The scent—a delicate blend of lavender, mint, and honeyed bergamot—was almost enough to soothe his quaking heart.

"Madam Potts," Ben called softly as she turned to depart.

She turned back with a knowing smile, that same look she'd given him since he was small and uncertain of his footing.

"Do you still believe this is the right thing?" he asked, fingers tightening around the teacup.

Her expression softened, and she stepped forward, brushing a hand gently along his cheek.

"Oh, Ben," she murmured, "this idea was forged from the gold within your heart. And a heart as good as yours could do the wrong thing."

He held her wrist gently, grounding himself.

"It wasn't fair," she continued, her voice quiet but firm, "when your father was cursed for a childish mistake. Nor was it just when baby Aurora fell into sleep for the absence of a single fairy's name. Again and again, children have borne the punishment for the sins of their elders. But you, my dear, have seen this. You've understood it. And as long as your heart remains strong and true, you need not fear being led astray, and you lead others to prosperity."

Ben nodded slowly, taking a final sip of the tea. Its warmth settled his nerves.

"Breakfast is served, my prince," came Cogsworth's crisp voice from the doorway. Ben set down the empty cup, squared his shoulders, and strode from the room. He joined his parents in the royal solar, where breakfast had been eaten in silence as far as Ben was concerned.

His mother, Queen Belle, chipperly took a spoonful of her porridge. Gone were her modest empire waists and scholarly satchels she favoured in daily life. Today, she was regalia incarnate—her gown a shimmering orchestration of gold and pale yellow, its design a tribute to the very dress in which she once tamed a prince's curse. Her dark brown hair was swept up in an elaborate braid crowned with indigo-blue gemstones that glimmered like midnight stars. Long golden opera gloves clung to her arms, and at her brow rested the royal circlet—fine goldwork adorned with glowing ruby roses.

Across from her sat King Adam, tall and broad as ever. His tunic gleamed in stark white, pressed and laced to perfection. Over it hung a navy surcoat, partly obscured by the voluminous royal blue cloak clasped with beast head-shaped fastenings. Leather boots, a braided sash, and rings set with sunlit citrines completed the ensemble. He was every inch the sovereign, and Ben, seated before them, felt a little more like the child they had raised than the prince they expected him to become.

Ben barely touched the food before him. His thoughts twisted and turned. He didn't hear the calling of his mother or dad clearing his throat. Their concern went unnoticed—Ben's gaze fixed absently on the polished silver cutlery, catching glimpses of distorted reflections that seemed more real than the room itself.

When he came to his senses, his whole setting had changed.

Somehow, he had crossed the hours in a fog—been helped into the royal palanquin, carried into the marble-clad halls, passed beneath the carved archways of the Assembly Wing—without realizing any of it. Now he found himself seated at the great mahogany table that curved like a crescent moon through the room, flanked by his father to his right and Audrey to his left.

The chamber was vast, built in the wake of the last war, an architectural peace offering between kingdoms. Grand pillars of white stone framed tall windows that caught the late morning light. Murals adorned the vaulted ceiling. The air was laced with the scents of lavender oil and ancient parchment.

Around the council table, the future of Auradon sat adorned in splendour: heirs and their families, each house proudly bedecked in their ancestral colours.

Grandoza's representatives wore gentle hues of baby blue with pale yellow silk trims. The House of Grimmwald glowed in regal reds, pure white, and warm golds. Ulstead's delegation bore shades of dusky rose and deep crimson.

From Agrabah, the Bobolonius' displayed in their deep turquoise and antique gold, while the Fitzherberts of Corona presented a darker palette—forest green and royal purple. The Desais of Maldonia shone in their vibrant lime and deep emerald greens, and the Don Brochs of the Highlands arrived with black tartans laced with turquoise and gold.

The Tremaines of Andolaisa shimmered in maroon and sun-gold silk, and the Bjormans of Arendelle arrived cloaked in juniper and emerald green.

Ben's eyes moved across them, trying to fix on something that could keep him focused. But every time he so much as shifted, everything felt like he was navigating his body with a fish bowl over his head. But he could only nod mutely when anyone said anything to him.

To distract himself, he lifted the goblet before him. He drank deeply like a thirsty fish.

"Let us begin with the petitions, shall we?" King Florian Charming declared.

A trumpet sounded crisply overhead, followed by the booming declaration from the royal herald perched high in the alcove:

"Let it be known now! The voices of our lords and people alike shall all be heard! Should you have any business with the highest governance of our most blessed lands, let them be heard now—or else hold thy peace!"

There came a rustling as various lords, ministers, and dignitaries across the hall straightened their scrolls, cleared their throats, and adjusted their insignias.

Ben shifted in his seat, spine straight, hands folded before him in perfect princely posture—though his attention probably had a better chance of being stimulated by drying paint. He had already reviewed today's list of petitions. None were of dire urgency, though that was something they were fortunate enough for.

The first to step forward was a noblewoman from the western court, her lace train trailing behind her as she curtsied gracefully.

"On behalf of the Order of Botanical Patrons," she began, "we humbly request the Royal Botanical Gardens remain open through golden hour, to allow our artists and courtiers their lighted portraits and engagements in an optimal setting."

A pause.

"I have always said those gardens are underutilized in the evenings," murmured Queen Belle quietly, casting a side glance at her husband. "It's rather reasonable."

King Adam gave a courteous nod. "So long as the groundskeepers are compensated for the added hours."

The vote passed without issue, and the royal scribe stood to decree it official.

Ben barely registered the next petition until the words colour regulation were dropped.

"We submit, most humbly, that the autumn banners festooned across the northern districts are in poor harmony with the agreed seasonal palette," spoke a particularly haughty aesthetician from Marchpane. "The current ochres and burgundies clash dreadfully with the powder blues of the town square façades."

King Florian leaned forward. "I refuse to let our governance dissolve into matters of bunting."

"A vote against," Queen Snow added, her voice like polished glass. "Let the people suffer clashing banners and count it as character," she teased.

Ben smothered a faint smile behind the rim of his goblet.

Next came the Bliss Fest delegation—flushed with hopeful energy, their spokes-villager speaking with a lilting cheer: "We ask that the festival, currently five days, be extended to a full month! Our physicians have remarked on rising cases of what we're calling joy deprivation—"

King Adam raised a brow.

"That is not a condition recognized by any court physician," muttered Queen Belle, already scribbling her vote against.

A few nods of sympathy were exchanged, but the motion failed.

Then, most memorably, came a sprightly older gentleman, wobbling slightly as he read his petition from an oversized scroll:

"We humble denizens of the eastern valley seek a regulation of rooster crows—no earlier than six bells after dawn. Sleep is a sacred right of the people!"

"To be fair," Audrey whispered beside Ben, "those roosters by the border are relentless."

The vote passed to general amusement. A minor decree would be drafted. Roosters of the realm would henceforth be subject to curfew.

And so the petitions continued. Some silly, some earnest, some landing somewhere between whimsical and woeful.

A sculptor's guild proposed more statues of relatable people—"no more stiff heroes with swords; we want bakers mid-dough, and grandmothers with laundry baskets."

A debate ensued.

Ben perked up slightly at this one.

"A compromise," offered King Naveen Desai with a winning smile. "Heroic grandmothers, perhaps. Those who saved villages or raised seven children on a farm."

The chamber laughed, and a limited measure was passed for 'Figures of Familiar Virtue'.

A final curious petition came from a guild of gastronomes and palace kitchen enthusiasts.

"A single day each year," proposed their delegate, "when the Royal Kitchens open to the public for one course—just a taste of the palace life."

"Not," snapped a Tremainian delegate. "Let them earn their truffles."

"Food is a language of love," Prince Naveen said, offering a helpless shrug. "And ours is very persuasive. Maldonia will gladly open its kitchens whenever for its people."

"Ain't like we close it anyway," Evangeline chimed, taking a drink of her wine, inciting laughter from the court. Though Ben's surprise came when his parents supported this petition, and soon enough, the majority voted in favour.

Ben began to settle once more, his mind idly drifting toward the heavy velvet curtains at the end of the room, until a more serious tone suddenly shifted the air.

King Florian rose again, and the council quieted. All humour and levity seemed to recede like the tide.

"Let us now turn to the Commander of Forces and his report on the state of the Isle of the Lost. Tell us, Lord Commander, what news of those lost causes, Lord Starkling?" King Adam's booming voice filled the room.

"As of the last fortnight, patrols along the Isle perimeter remain at full capacity. No breaches recorded. Surveillance of high-risk sectors remains vigilant and under firm control."

Ben's jaw flexed faintly.

"Requests for additional provisions, including medicinal supplies, have been denied by command directive. All standard rations remain at quota. There was a minor disruption in Sector Three involving unauthorized gatherings, but no injuries. Dispersed within the hour. The schools are unsettled, but the soldiers hold the peace. The streets remain orderly, and crime has diminished significantly since the riot's suppression two months prior."

Ben's hand curled slightly around the stem of his goblet. Audrey noticed.

"The Isles remain secure. That is the report," the Commander concluded, bowing stiffly.

"And what of yesterday's Harvest Day, Lord Commander?" inquired King Christopher Charming, his voice firm, motioning for the Commander and his flanking officers to step forward toward the dais.

The three men exchanged uneasy glances before obeying. Their boots echoed dully across the stone floor as they approached, each step weighted with hesitation. The silence of the court pressed in as they stood beneath the scrutiny of the assembled monarchs.

"Well?" Queen Aurora prompted sharply, her delicate fingers tightening around the armrest. "Out with it. The Harvest Day reports."

Or, as Prince Ben often called it privately, Dump Day.

To his mind, it was a grievous misnomer. A "harvest" implied nourishment, bounty, a gift from one's labours. What came down on the barrier was anything but—a stinking cascade of rotted food, broken goods, expired medicine, and torn remnants of old uses. He would never say so aloud in this company. After all, most of those present were either indifferent or more than pleased with this part of the Isle's punishment.

"How was the harvest, ser?" Merida pressed further, her tone sharp with impatience.

"It began as it always does, Your Graces," the Commander answered slowly. "The inhabitants lined up as expected. There was no initial resistance. The supply truck completed its dump, and we could not, at first, detect any deviation. But then—an arrow, from the eastern rooftops. It struck a stall, and before any of us knew it, everything was in flames. Many of us abandoned our posts to put it out and usher the rats from it."

He drew a slow breath.

"It appears the residents were in the know of these rebels. Young ones, unmistakably. Hood's brood, by the reports. More than a dozen cloaked figures ambushed the guards stationed over the goods. They struck swiftly and made off with the bulk of the delivery."

A wave of stunned silence swept the chamber.

"Were they armed?" King Arthur of Camelot asked, his brow raised.

"Yes, Your Grace. Arrows, blades, and smoke bombs. We attempted pursuit—caught up with them—but the group split. Many of our men returned badly injured. Several... did not return at all. One body remains unaccounted for. We suspect he was... devoured."

A collective shudder ran through the hall.

"By the ogres and such of the Isle, yes?" asked Princess Galinda of Andolaisa, her voice unsteady, visibly recoiling.

"No, Princess," the Commander confirmed grimly. "By the isle's people, by all accounts, it would not be the first time."

Disgust rippled across the table. Even Ben felt a sour rise in his throat.

"How did so many slip by you?" Queen Merida demanded, voice low and brimming with ire. "Ye outnumbered them, aye?"

"We were already spread thin when the rebels first broke formation. The smoke scattered our visibility, and then they split again. We believe they picked our men off one by one. Another contingent of attackers—hunters, by some accounts, intervened next. Efficient. Lethal. And among them... a girl."

The Commander hesitated.

"A girl?" asked King Eugene, incredulous.

"Aye," the Commander muttered, glancing uneasily around the table. "We were... brought down by a bird girl."

A long pause.

King Eugene raised his hand slowly. "Stop. A fucking what, now?"

"A... bird girl, Your Majesty."

For a breathless moment, the court was silent. Then, all at once, it burst. Laughter, boisterous and loud, drowned the chamber. Nobles chuckled. Even Ben found himself half-smiling in disbelief.

"Oh, come now," scoffed Queen Tiana, wiping a tear from her eye. "At least your earlier excuses had some fat on 'em. But a bird girl? What next, did Maleficent rise from the ashes with her wings?"

The Commander's jaw tensed. "Indeed, Your Grace."

The laughter stalled.

"Come again?" Aurora asked, her hand swiftly finding her husband's.

"The bird girl, Mecaria, the youngest daughter of the Mistress Maleficent. Registered in our system. The girl possesses wings—functional, feathered wings."

A stunned quiet settled.

"She was born with these?" Queen Rapunzel asked, curious and concerned.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Fairy Godmother, seated near the end of the table, leaned forward, visibly startled. "Biologically plausible. Though her elder siblings were wingless, such a mutation—if natural—is rare."

"I swear on my life, Your Graces," said the Commander solemnly. "We were wholly unprepared. Had we known, we would have secured her."

"Is this why your men go missing?" King Eugene asked, his voice tightening. "You believe this... thing is consuming them?"

"No, Your Grace. Quite the contrary. My junior officer here—he knows where they're going."

He stepped aside, and a young, wiry cadet was nudged forward. He nearly tripped on the hem of his trousers as he bowed.

"Cadet Wilkman, Your Majesties," he stammered, "My unit discovered a palace. Not one charted on the island's maps. We were told a small patrol was assigned to check in regularly with its mistress—The Enchantress."

At this, King Adam visibly stiffened, his expression unreadable.

"We approached the estate," Wilkman continued. "It appeared benign. A voice greeted us from within. Gentle. Inviting. She offered rest. Food. Hospitality."

"Stories warned us of the place," added Cadet Grogians, stepping forth. "We'd faced everything the Isle could throw—thieves, beasts, anarchists. But this...this was different. Our men were powerless."

"What was it?" asked Queen Rapunzel.

"A woman," Wilkman said plainly.

"A woman?" echoed King Kit with a blank stare.

"She spoke only two words," said Grogians. "Come inside." He mimicked the voice—low, lyrical, unsettlingly delicate.

"She was beautiful," Grogians added. She and her daughter. Our seniors went in more than willingly. We patrolled outside and did our rounds around the neighbourhood as planned. But they didn't return."

Wilkman picked up again, his voice trembling slightly. "When we finally entered, they were seated at the table. The woman served them a dish—grotesque—but they ate all the same. And within minutes..."

"They began to change," Grogians said grimly. "They howled, grew snouts, tails. She told them to 'let their inner ugliness flourish to the surface'—and they did. They turned. From men...into pigs."

"Utter nonsense," Merlin grumbled from the high seat, shaking his snowy head. "Magic cannot pass the barrier. It is a well-known fact. This is trickery, nothing more."

"We saw it, my lord," Grogians insisted.

King Edward leaned in, brow knit with fascination. "Transmutation. Not impossible. Magic is but refined chemistry, in many cases. Alchemical reactions can be triggered without overt enchantment. I've read of such things. Animalic shifts. It's volatile, but feasible."

"My word," Queen Anna murmured, more in awe than horror.

King Florian raised his hand for silence. "We shall revisit this matter on the morrow. Reul—" he gestured to the Blue Fairy, already rising from her seat, "—you will depart at once and assess the situation fully." "As you command, Your Majesty," she said, wings folding behind her as she turned to leave.

The soldiers were dismissed with a nod, and a long silence stretched afterwards. The chamber had not yet recovered from the revelations.

Queen Aurora leaned into her husband, her face pale beneath the soft golden light. "Wings. Wings, Phillip. What kind of creature is that girl? Maleficent creates another abomination and this is how we find out?" Phillip said nothing, jaw locked in thought.

"She turned them into pigs," Rapunzel whispered, almost incredulous. "With food."

"Yes, well, I've heard worse things from cooks at coronations," Naveen said with a dry humour.

Across the table, King Adam sat statuesque, his fingers twitching restlessly. Belle noticed. "You're thinking of her," she said quietly. "The Enchantress." "She changed me once," he replied. "With a flick of her hand. And left me a beast for years. Now she's changing soldiers into livestock and feeds off them?" The beauty did not know how to comfort her husband.

King Eugene, now reclining with a wine glass in hand, shook his head in disbelief. "Wings. Pigs. Magic on the isle. I need a fucking nap."

"The topic is tabled for the time," Belle cleared her throat, "Now...shall we find some cheer in our children's undoubtedly brilliant proclamations?" Everyone was quick to agree, murmuring over one another.

Chapter Text

TW!!!: mention of cannibalism(but no depiction or explicit description), mention of starvation, mention of child deaths, mentions of dying of starvation, arson

LOCATION - NEAR THE BROKENS' BRIDGE

____________.𖥔HARVEST DAY HAD FINALLY RETURNED TO THE ISLE, AND WITH IT, THE GNAWING HUNGER THAT LIVED WITHIN ITS PEOPLE. The square swelled with desperate bodies; gaunt faces turned toward the golden-bricked road, eyes hollow with expectation. Hunger twisted their stomachs, sharper than the cruellest blade, and still, they waited.

A young mother near the front of the line clutched her fussing baby close, rocking him in slow, tired motions. Her lips were cracked, her arms trembling from both exhaustion and malnourishment. Beside her, an old man hunched over a splintered cane, muttering to himself as his knees creaked beneath him. The silence was thick, an unspoken tension stretching between them like a frayed rope, moments from snapping.

Far ahead, a hulking truck rumbled across the golden stone bridge-a familiar, hate-to-love sight. Rust marred its iron frame, and the crest of the Mainland was painted hastily on its side, as though the rulers beyond the barrier wished to make their actions a spectacle. The truck moved with agonizing slowness, dragging the weight of Mainland indifference behind it. Once, long ago, Mother Gothel had watched one of these shipments arrive and sneered, "Cinderella still feeds the rat. How rich."

At the end of every month, like clockwork, the rulers of the Mainland sent their scraps-rotted and half-eaten fruit, stale bread, hardened grains-to the forgotten prisoners of the Isle. The rations were a mockery, a leash held tight around the throats of the condemned.

Things only worsened after the riot by Robin Hood and the Stabbington Brothers. The uprising was a desperate bid to rebel for better, a reckless gamble, and the punishment was severe.

The old man shifted on aching legs, exhaling sharply. "All that trouble, all those broken bones, and for what? They cut us off for two months after the riot. I can still feel it in my joints."

The mother adjusted her grip on her child. "We did what we had to. Better to fight than to starve quietly."

Was it? The old man had been there, swinging a broomstick at a guard twice his size. He'd heard the crack of wood against armour; he felt the bruises that followed, the aching ribs that never quite healed right. But he had also been there when the Isle went without. He had seen children waste away, their bodies thin as weeds, their bellies swollen with hunger. He had seen the Hook family weep as they mourned over the cold body of young Harriet.

And he had seen what came after-when hunger twisted the mind, when desperation turned neighbours into something else. When the last scraps of meat were gone, the Islanders were left with nothing but their dead. The corpses found on the streets, the ones too weak to survive the famine, were gathered up and given to the Candy Witch and her daughter. They made do with what they were given, and no one dared to ask what was in the broth that kept the living from joining the fallen. It had not been a mystery. He had seen their shop repurpose bones too clean for any animal and had watched as stews thickened with meat no one on the Mainland had probably ever had.

In those nights, the Isle had fed itself the only way it could. The line stood in brittle silence, eyes flickering with the last embers of hope. The hunger had worn them thin and had turned their fury to exhaustion. Dark shadows clung to their faces, deepening with every slow roll of the truck's wheels.

Someone in the crowd muttered, "What do you think the Mainlanders feast on today?"

"Fire-roasted hare, me thinks," another replied, bitterly. "Fat, red meats, honeyed fruits, and sweet wine."

A scoff. "A feast they'd throw away without a second thought."

The truck groaned to a stop. Guards moved in, shoving the crowd back into a single file, their armour gleaming, their expressions impassive. The shimmering dome barrier flickered as it allowed the truck to pass, sealing the Isle off once more like the steel jaws of a trap. The cargo hold remained shut, forcing the hungry to stand and wait just a little longer as if their suffering was part of the ritual.

The old man wiped his brow. "This line never felt this long before."

The mother sighed. "Feels longer every month."

Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.

The sound was faint at first, but no one could mistake it. The old man's ears perked up, and before he could react, the heads of the crowd snapped upward in unison.

A shooting star suddenly filled the sky-no, not a star. An arrow, blazing with fiery orange and gold, arced high above the market before plunging downward with deadly precision.

The mother gasped, clutching her baby tighter. "No...Oh gods, no..."

The islanders felt the pit form in their stomachs. They knew what was coming. Everyone had seen it before.

The Hood never missed.

The arrow struck a wooden kiosk with a loud, echoing thunk. For the briefest moment, the world stood still.

Then, the fire roared to life.

Flames exploded from the arrow's shaft, tearing across the kiosk stand with unnatural speed. Dried sacks of herbs-rosemary, thyme, sage-caught fire in seconds, their brittle leaves feeding the ravenous blaze. The flames twisted and crackled like the gnashing jaws of a beast unleashed. Nearby bottles of oil sat like kindling, glass shattering with a deafening crack as thick, dark liquid spilled into the fire, feeding its insatiable appetite. The scent of burning spices mixed with the acrid smoke was a cruel mockery of a feast that would never come.

Whoosh!

The flames leaped higher, consuming everything in their path. Heat surged through the market, a rolling wave of destruction that sent the crowd scattering in all directions.

As all of the guards rushed to extinguish the fire, chaos erupted at the front of the square. Hooded figures emerged from the shadows-first four from the left alley, then more from the rooftops, until dozens filled the streets. Their movements were swift and deliberate, practiced hands filling sacks with stolen supplies as others created distractions, hurling stones at the guards."It's Hood and his Rebels again!" the mother choked, clutching her child tighter.

The rebels spread like wildfire, some ripping food from the carts while others turned on each other with feral aggression. Teeth bared, weapons drawn, fists swinging, they fought viciously over scraps, clawing, biting, and shoving with the fury of the starved. A girl no older than seventeen drove her elbow into another's ribs, seizing a half-rotten apple from his grasp. Another youth, wild-eyed and snarling, wrestled a sack of grain from a scrawnier boy, sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones. The old man saw one of them - a boy no older than five - dart past with a sack of bread.

But there wasn't enough food here for everyone.

The market fell into frenzied desperation. The rebels scattered. The fire roared. The guards fought to regain control. And those who arrived too late found nothing left-only smouldering ruins, the embers of their hope reduced to ash.

Once the fire had been contained, the guards barely had a moment to collect themselves before the rebels vanished into the shadows. Shouts erupted as the guards gave chase, their heavy boots pounding against the cobblestones. With practiced efficiency, the rebels bolted toward the crumbling alleyways, darting past overturned crates and smoke-choked corridors. Some hesitated for only a moment before diving into the maze of underground sewer lines, the filth-ridden tunnels swallowing them whole. The echoes of their retreating footsteps mingled with the furious cries of the pursuing guards, their torches casting frantic, flickering light against the damp walls. But the rebels had done this dance before, slipping away like ghosts, leaving behind only smoke, ash, and the distant wails of those left behind.

✧˖°

The two dozen thieves emerged from the pipe tunnel, the scent of damp metal clinging to their clothes. As expected, they found themselves around the corner from Witch Academy, their escape route bringing them safely into a quieter neighbourhood, far from the chaos they'd left behind. The air was thick with tension, but the only sound was the laboured breathing of the group as they took a moment to recollect themselves and trade their goods.

"Figures the guards aren't too hot on our tails," Jay muttered, ears straining for any hint of pursuit. Nothing but the distant murmur of the Isle.

That was good enough for now.

"Not bad for a night's work," Zevon smirked, flipping a small vial of something luminous between his fingers. "I call dibs on whatever's in here."

"Think again, Zev," Mal snapped, eyes sharp. She barely spared him a glance before storming toward Uma, her hands clenched at her sides. "Where are Mecaria and Silver?"

Uma met her glare with an impassive expression, arms crossed. "They're waiting for the right entrance," she said, leisurely waving Mal off.

Mal's jaw clenched. She hated how casual Uma was about this. Mecaria and Silver had long since chosen not to run with her crew, instead sticking close to Uliana, Killian, Morgie, and Owen-meaning Uma's lot by extension. Mal loathed it. The idea of her siblings cozying up with her greatest rival made her stomach turn. But now?

"That better mean alive," Mal shot back, narrowing her eyes. "Because if something happens-"

"You'll what?" Uma interrupted smoothly, lips curling in a smirk. "Scowl me to death?"

Before Mal could retort, a voice scoffed behind them. "I'm insulted they mistook you suckers for one of our lot."

A boy ripped off his hood with an annoyed huff, his blond hair dishevelled from the heist. Robin Hood's brat, shook his head, eyes filled with disdain.

"Aye, Hood, what an insult indeed," Harry Hook sneered, peeling off his hood with an exaggerated grimace. "Bein' grouped wit' rats like you? I may have to scrub my ears raw."

"Or cut them off, it would suit ya, Hooker," Lark scoffed, stalking toward Harry with his bow gripped tightly.

Harry's smirk widened, unbothered. His hand casually rested on the pistol at his hip. "Tread carefully, birdie. Ye know what happens when ye bring a curved stick to a gunfight." He flashed the weapon lazily.

"I ain't afraid of a glorified fisherman's rusty tool," Lark shot back, stepping chest-to-chest with Harry, muscles tense. But he didn't swing his bow just yet.

The atmosphere thickened as the groups subtly circled each other, old tensions bubbling beneath the surface. A fight was seconds away from breaking out.

"Enough drama queens," Blume snapped, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder as she sheathed her Escrima sticks. "We've got bigger problems than your pissing contest."

"She's right," Gus chimed in, his voice edged with impatience. "In case you forgot, we're on a clock."

"Bet we wouldn't be if Arlette had worked faster," Gaston Jr. commented, his passive-aggressive tone hard to miss.

"God!" Arlette snarled, spinning on him. "I'm the reason we even piggybacked off Hood's circus stunt. What have you done lately? En plus de tiré un muscle en soulevant votre ego?"

"Eh bien, la voilà qui s'en va..." Gaston Jr. rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"Maybe you should get good at hacking these harvests instead of leeching off our loot!"

"Be grateful we left you anything; we coulda have taken the whole of it."

"Like hell you could've!"

"Oi! There they are!"

The unmistakable pounding of boots on cobblestone followed each heavy footfall. A collective shudder ran through the group-every Isle kid knew that sound, the brutal rhythm of enforcers closing in.

Mal's head snapped toward the alley mouth. Torchlight flickered against the walls, shadows stretching long and menacing.

"Shit!" she barked, her instincts screaming at her to run.

Too late.

The guards surged into the street like a wave of iron and fury, weapons drawn, their faces alight with the thrill of the chase. The lieutenant-a burly brute with a permanent sneer-stepped forward, baton tapping against his gloved palm.

Another squad of armoured guards rounded the corner, weapons drawn, torches blazing. The orange light cast harsh shadows over the group, illuminating the chaos that had only just settled. The lead guard sneered, stepping forward, baton tapping against his palm. "Finally caught up with you little shits!"

Harry Hook's smirk deepened as he edged backward, eyes darting toward a nearby alley. "Looks like it's time to sail, mates."

Before anyone could react, Lark moved. He sprinted toward the nearest guard with catlike agility, vaulting over the man's head and knocking his helmet askew in one fluid motion. As he landed behind him, he threw a smoke bomb to the ground. A thick cloud billowed outward, swallowing the street in a dense fog.

Mal launched herself forward, using a guard's shoulder as a springboard to flip over him, landing smoothly before driving her elbow into another's ribs. Jay followed suit, twisting past a swinging baton and kicking a guard square in the chest.

Carlos ducked low, weaving through the tangle of bodies as Portia snatched a dagger from a fallen opponent and hurled it, pinning a guard's sleeve to the wooden post behind him.

CJ cracked her whip, snapping it around a torch and yanking it from the guard's grip, plunging their part of the street into shadow. Harry roared with laughter as he engaged two at once, his blade clashing against their weapons.

Across the chaos, Gil swung a massive crate at an approaching guard, knocking him clean off his feet, while Gaston Jr. grappled with another, fists flying.

Lark loosed an arrow at the torches lining the street, dousing the area in darkness. "Scatter!" he barked.

Smoke bombs exploded, filling the air with a thick, suffocating fog. Red and Grim darted through the haze, snatching valuables off fallen guards before vanishing into the side streets. Zevon cackled as he slipped through the chaos, pocketing what he could before disappearing into an alleyway.

"C'mon!" Jay commanded, passing through his crew and pulling Mal along, the order barely cutting through the pandemonium.

One by one, the thieves melted into the night, their escape swift and absolute. Though not without pursuit.

✧˖°

「 MAL 」

The noxious air chilled cold against Mal's cheeks as she sprinted down the cracked stone streets of the Isle, her boots slamming against the pavement. Behind her, the rhythmic rattling of pursuing patrol guards grew louder, their torches flickering faintly in her peripheral. Seven of them. Seven against six.

"Move, move, move!" Jay barked, vaulting over a pile of discarded crates and landing smoothly beside her.

Carlos, breathing hard, shot a glance back. "They're gaining on us!"

"No kidding!" Delphinium snapped, frustration clear in her voice.

Evie panted, hiking up her skirts to keep pace. Portia let out an exasperated laugh. "Not much of an improvement."

They twisted through the tight streets of the Isle, the uneven ground threatening to trip them at every step. The flickering light from the torches behind them stretched their shadows long against the alley walls, merging and distorting like ghosts in the night. The Witch Academy loomed in the distance behind them, then shrank as they sped past, their sights locked onto the distant Bargain Castle, still frustratingly far.

The guards adjusted quickly, fanning out to cut off their escape. Two leaped ahead, blocking a side route. Mal growled, clenching her fists in frustration. If she had her magic, this would be over in seconds. But here? It was all fists and footwork.

Jay, never one to waste an opening, lunged at the second guard with a cocky grin. He dodged a sluggish swipe of a baton, then twisted the weapon from the guard's grip, flipping it in his hands. "This is mine now, thanks." A well-aimed strike sent the man reeling.

Delphinium cackled. "I like this game."

"Less playing, more running!" Carlos reminded them. A third guard lunged from the shadows, nearly grabbing his collar, but Portia grabbed the man's wrist and yanked him forward, using his own momentum to send him stumbling past her. "Pick on someone your own size," she quipped before shoving him straight into a crumbling cart.

A crossbow bolt whizzed past Evie's head, embedding itself into a wooden beam. "Okay, that was too close to my pretty face!" she gasped, ducking behind Mal.

Another guard caught up, reaching for Jay's arm. Jay twisted, using his superior agility to spin out of reach, before slamming his elbow into the guard's stomach. "We've got to pick up the pace!" he said between breaths.

Mal's mind raced. The guards were disciplined, but they weren't creative. She needed to break their formation. "Split up! Meet at the castle!" she shouted.

Without hesitation, the group fragmented. Jay vaulted onto a ledge and scrambled onto the rooftops, using the height to his advantage. Portia darted through a narrow shortcut, disappearing into the darkness with Carlos. Evie veered down a side alley while Mal and Delphinium pressed forward toward the castle's outer wall.

The guards hesitated for a moment, unsure which target to chase. Then they split as well, three continuing after Mal and Delphinium, two pursuing Carlos and Evie, and the last two attempting to track Jay and Portia.

Jay used the moment of confusion to drop from above to where Portia and Carlos were running, striking another from behind and grinning down at the unconscious form. "Five down."

Carlos, still sprinting, called out, "Less counting, more escaping!"

Portia tugged at his sleeve. "Turn here!" She pointed toward a narrow passageway barely wide enough for them to squeeze through. Carlos hesitated for half a second before ducking inside. One of the guards tried to follow but got stuck for a crucial moment. Portia took the opportunity to chuck a few loose bricks from a rooftop ledge, sending them tumbling down onto the trapped pursuer's helmet with a loud clang. "Four now," she muttered, smirking.

Meanwhile, Mal and Delphinium reached the castle gates first. Mal clenched her jaw. If she had magic, she could've blasted the doors open, but without it, they had to rely on brute force. "Come on, come on!"

Delphinium, bringing up the rear, twisted around and yanked a broken cart into the narrow path behind them, creating a makeshift barricade. The remaining guards barreled straight into it, stumbling blindly. Jay landed beside them moments later, Portia, Carlos, and Evie close behind, all heaving their lungs out.

One last guard lunged into the clearing, his baton raised. Jay intercepted him mid-swing, twisting the weapon out of his hand and delivering a sharp kick to his knee. The man crumpled. "And that makes six," Jay said smugly.

Carlos and Evie arrived moments later, flushed but victorious. "That should buy us some time," Carlos panted, glancing back at the pile of fallen and dazed guards.

Portia leaned against a crumbling wall, wiping sweat from her brow. "Well, that was fun."

Evie gave her a tired glare. "We really need to define 'fun.'"

Jay flipped his stolen gold badge between his fingers, grinning. "And with a souvenir."

Mal, glancing back at the fading torchlight beyond the castle walls, smirked. "They won't forget this night anytime soon."

Delphinium stretched, rolling her shoulders. "I'm sure they'll live."

Carlos chuckled. "Agreed. Now, let's get back."

✧˖°

「 BLUME 」

Blume's lungs burned as she sprinted down the uneven path, her body pushing past exhaustion. A glance over her shoulder confirmed their pursuers were gaining ground, heavy boots throttling against the floor, their formation knitted and well executed. The rattling of heavy metal echoed like laughing in her ears, their shouts growing louder.

"Faster, dammit!" Grim snarled, yanking Red forward just as a crossbow bolt embedded itself into a tree trunk mere inches from them. The scent of burning oil and sweat filled the air, thick with the heat of pursuit.

"I don't feel like having a corpse in the crew today," Lark panted, pressing himself against the gnarled bark of an ancient oak as he nocked an arrow with remarkable precision. He loosed it without hesitation, and a pained cry confirmed its mark.

Heidi gritted her teeth, her grip tightening around the hilt of her jagged sword. "We should be rid of them before they have us cornered."

"No time!" Zevon barked, securing the satchel over his shoulder. "Raptor's Nest. We scatter there. If we get pinned down here, we're dead doves."

Blume barely registered the plan before a guard burst from the undergrowth, blade slicing the air toward her. She twisted, but the edge of his sword still found flesh, sending a sharp bloom of pain through her arm. She let out a strangled cry, her footing faltering as warm blood slicked her palm.

She recovered herself instantly, pulling her dagger from her thigh holster and plunging it deep into the guard's heart, twisting the knife for good measure. "Move!" Heidi barked, pulling Blume forward. The man collapsed, choking up his blood, but there was no time to finish the job. More guards emerged, their heavy boots pounding against the forest floor.

Blume led the counteroffensive, her blade carving a brutal path. She drove her boot into one soldier's knee, the sickening crunch signaling its destruction. Pivoting, she intercepted another strike, ripping his helmet forward before ramming her knee into his unguarded face. Bone shattered, blood sprayed, and the man dropped, lifeless.

A horn sounded from the rear of the formation.

"Damn it!" Lark hissed. He slashed through an approaching attacker's arm, sending the severed limb spinning through the air. The guard shrieked, dropping to his knees before Lark ended his suffering with a second strike.

"Keep moving!" Zevon shouted.

They broke from the treeline, boots skidding against the jagged rocks at the forest's edge. Ahead lay the precarious descent to Raptor's Nest-uneven terrain that could mean either salvation or disaster.

Lark fired another arrow over his shoulder. "They're still coming!"

Blume muttered a curse, her injured arm sluggish as she gripped her stolen satchel tighter. "Then we cut them down."

Zevon extracted a glass vial from his coat and hurled it behind them. The resulting explosion sent two guards sprawling, their screams lost in the deafening burst. Smoke swallowed the scene, granting the thieves a few precious seconds.

Grim turned just in time to deflect an incoming strike, his short sword clashing with an iron-forged blade. He shoved forward, overpowering the guard and ramming his knee into his ribs. The man stumbled back, and Red seized the moment, lunging with his dagger, slashing deep into the man's exposed throat. Blood sprayed as he gurgled his last breath, collapsing against the rocks.

"Go, go!" Grim snapped, nearly dragging Red as they scrambled down the incline.

Blume stumbled, her vision swimming with pain, but Lark steadied her, his grip firm. "Almost there," he murmured, guiding her forward.

Then came the guttural roar of a guard launching an attack. A blade arced down toward Zevon.

Heidi intercepted in a brutal flash, her sword carving clean through the attacker's wrist. A strangled scream erupted as severed fingers scattered against the rocks. She showed no mercy, a savage kick sending him tumbling, his body breaking against the unforgiving terrain below.

More arrows whizzed past, one narrowly missing Blume's ear.

Blume gritted her teeth against the pain, following Lark as they slid down an embankment, stones scraping their skin. They hit the ground hard, but Lark pulled her up without hesitation. Another pair of guards broke from the trees, closing in fast. Lark barely managed to loose another arrow before one tackled him to the ground, blade raised.

Blume reacted instinctively, yanking a rusted iron spike from her satchel and driving it into the man's eye. He screamed, convulsing as she twisted the weapon deeper, silencing him. Lark shoved the corpse off, breathless.

"We need to keep moving," he gasped, gripping her uninjured hand.

Elsewhere, Zevon and Heidi fought back-to-back, fending off three guards at once. Heidi spun, her blade catching the flickering torchlight as she cleaved through an opponent's throat. Zevon ducked a strike, countering with a brutal elbow to his attacker's gut, following up with a dagger to the heart.

Grim and Red sprinted toward the lower path, throwing makeshift explosives over their shoulders, forcing the guards into disarray. But they were gaining again.

A horn echoed in the distance. More reinforcements.

Zevon spat, blood staining his shirt. "Jump!"

One by one, they hurled themselves down the final drop, crashing onto the rocky shore of Raptor's Nest. Grim groaned, rolling onto his back, but there was no respite.

Blume seized his collar, yanking him upright onto his feet.

Without hesitation, they scattered into the cliffs and towards home.

✧˖°

「 UMA 」

The resonance of alarm bells fractured the nocturnal stillness as the Witch Academy's patrol forces swarmed into the courtyard, their enchanted staffs radiating an eerie luminescence. Uma barely had time to cast a sharp glance at Gus, who still clutched his sack of goods.

The crew sprang into action, their strained, leather boots striking the cobblestone streets with rapid, urgent footfalls. They wove through a labyrinth of alleyways as projectiles sizzled through the air behind them. The guards were vicious, their overwhelming numbers making confrontation impossible.

"Pick it up sissies," Uma commanded, leading her crew through the labyrinthine streets of The Demon's Den. She could hear the guards shouting orders behind them, their footsteps pounding closer, undeterred by the obstacles the gang threw in their way.

A guard lunged at Uliana, his fingers snatching at her braids. In an instant, Uma spun, her longsword drawn and slicing through the air in a swift arc. The blow forced the guard back just as Gus yanked Uliana free. "Stay close, Uli!" Uma ordered before pivoting to witness Harry and CJ positioned back-to-back, locked in combat with two guards. Their swords are struck in intricate slashes and parries. Steel clashed against steel, sparks flying with each strike.

"Care for a dance?" Harry quipped, grinning as CJ vaulted over a knight, toppling him with a quick strike.

"This isn't the time, Hooks!" Uma snapped. "Move it!"

They continued forward, barreling through narrow passageways as more guards emerged from side streets, attempting to cut them off. Morgie murmured a quick incantation, and tendrils of enchanted vines lashed out, ensnaring some pursuers, though others nimbly evaded the trap. One guard managed to break through, swinging his staff toward Gus, but Gil intercepted, tackling the man into a pile of barrels. The impact sent debris flying, momentarily slowing the others.

The group surged into the Forest of Misery, darting between ancient, gnarled trees. The dense foliage provided momentary cover, but the guards were still gaining. A sudden cry rang out as a guard seized Killian by the collar. "Got you now, boy-"

A roar from behind signalled that more guards had caught up. The group tore through the underbrush, ducking beneath low-hanging branches, their breath ragged from exertion. Just as they reached the forest's edge, a fresh wave of guards blocked their exit, cutting off any escape routes. The gang spun in all directions, their backs nearly pressed together as the guards formed a tightening circle around them.

"Now would be a great time for a miracle," Gus muttered, gripping his weapon tightly.

Before anyone could respond, a powerful gust of wind sent leaves and debris swirling into the air. A feathery shadow streaked across the moon, and suddenly, Mecaria dove from above, wings spread wide. Her arrival knocked several guards off their feet. With a fierce cry, she grabbed Uliana and Gus, hauling them out of harm's way.

"Follow me!" Silver's voice rang from the shadows. He had found a narrow, concealed pathway leading toward Pirate's Bay, hidden beneath the thick underbrush. Without hesitation, Uma led the crew through, breaking through the last barrier of guards as they followed Silver's route.

The tight passage forced the patrol to stumble and slow their pursuit, their larger numbers working against them in the confined space. Morgie cast another stink bomb, sending a thick mist into the corridor, further disorienting their foes. By the time the guards forced their way through, the gang had already emerged onto the docks and blocked off the route.

There it was-the Hook family's ship, the tide just beginning to rise. They were safe for now. One by one, the crew scrambled aboard, narrowly avoiding magical strikes from the persistent guards. Gil and Gaston were the last to board. On the deck stood Trinity, arms crossed, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Took your time, didn't you?" she called.

As the vessel pulled from the dock, Uma stood at the railing, cutlass still in hand, meeting the infuriated gaze of the patrol captain. His face contorted with rage, but Uma simply smirked. "Gotta love a dramatic entrance," she taunted before turning back to her crew.

The moment they reached their ship, the tension snapped, and exhilaration flooded the deck. Harry let out a triumphant laugh, tossing his hat in the air before catching it effortlessly. "Now that's how you make an exit!"

Trinity stood at the helm, arms crossed, her smirk betraying the hint of pride beneath her usual stern exterior. "You lot sure know how to make a mess."

"We get results," Uma countered, rolling her shoulders as she sheathed her cutlass. "The job didn't go as planned, but we made it out in one piece."

"And we got what we went for," Gus added, holding up the pilfered artifact with a triumphant grin.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Trinity called, kicking over a barrel that had been left unattended. "Get the drinks out! We deserve a feast."

Within minutes, the deck transformed into a proper pirate celebration. Barrels were cracked open, stolen bottles passed around, and laughter rang through the salty air. Gil, Gus, and Gaston playfully shoved at each other over a chunk of bread while Killian clambered onto a crate to regale James with a wildly exaggerated version of their escape.

Morgie, leaning against the mast, flicked glowing embers between his fingers. "You know," he mused, "for a bunch of reckless criminals, we do make a pretty great team."

"Obviously," Silver replied smugly, lifting his drink in a toast. "To another successful heist."

"To another narrow escape," Uma corrected, raising her tankard with a wry grin. "And to the next job whenever we get around to it."

As the day sailed deeper into the night, their victory echoed in every laugh, every boastful retelling, and every clink of their cups. They had outrun the guards, secured their prize, and lived to steal another day.

Chapter Text

「JANE 」

LOCATION - BELLEROSE PALACE

__________.𖥔"WHAT WAS THAT?" The grand dining hall doors burst open, revealing a thoroughly incensed Princess Audrey—her face flushed crimson, fists clenched against the silken folds of her gown, if she had lesser regard, she would've ripped the fabric to tatters in her state. Everybody else trailed behind in uneven formation, each fresh from the council chamber's dismissal after its final, decisive session.

The last item on the agenda? Ben's motion for a villain kid program. For anyone hoping for a shocking defeat—spare your tears. It passed. Easily. To Jane's chagrin.

The writing had been on the wall the moment the "in favour" votes began stacking up: Grandoza, Beaubonne, Grimwald, Agrabah—shockingly—, China, Corona, Maldonia, DunBroch, Auradon—begrudgingly—, Arendelle, Tirulia, Enchancia and its neighbours, Avalor, Andalasia—get the gist?

Phillip and Aurora, despite their stubborn resistance, were hopelessly outnumbered as the sole votes against. Perhaps they might have had King Adam's backing—if Belle had been anyone else.

A humiliating landslide, if you asked Audrey.

And, unfortunately, someone had. That was the spark to this entire dramatic scene.

"Are you upset, Audrey?"

Naturally, Chloe had been the culprit. That blue-bouncing ball of joy could never ignore a frown. She lit the kindling, then skipped off with her friends to chase butterflies—or whatever it was the younger ones did.

Audrey's reply came not in words but in shrill cries, punctuated by her dramatic storming from the council chamber, across the manicured gardens, and straight into the palace halls. At least she'd had the sense to ditch her heels before stomping like a stampede of horses.

No, Audrey was not fine. And poor Jane could scarcely imagine what it meant for her friend to welcome the children of the woman who had tried to obliterate her family tree three times over.

Of course, she was upset. Not that Jane blamed her. If the Order of Fairies and Magic had seats at the table, the vote would never have been so lopsided. Merlin—hopelessly in over his head—had dared to speak out of turn, horrified at the thought of villains leaving their well-deserved ditches.

Jane understood Ben's bleeding-heart intentions, but why not direct them toward something—anything—more useful? Why squander resources on a brood of delinquents destined to unravel the Mainland's peace? It could only end in calamity. Jane would bet every shred of magic in her tiny pinky.

"Calm down, Audrey." Cassim appeared behind her, resting steadying hands on her shoulders, murmuring something meant to soothe her. Audrey turned abruptly to face him and shot back a sharp quip, eyes with fire for pupils, then pouted at him while he answered in Arabic—words that, to his credit, seemed to soften her just a little.

"Oh, please! Your vote was nothing if not biased!" Chad's voice cut across the room, aimed squarely at Desiree, who was peeling off her ivory gloves with no care for her cousin's tone.

Desiree didn't bother denying it. Why would she? Her partiality was no secret. She was one of the few of those on the Mainland with family—well, step-family in her case—trapped on the Isle. When she discovered her step-aunt Evie, who was their age, she'd been elated. An only child of two only children, who were also orphans, rattling around in a castle all alone, she found the promise of a lively, age-matched companion irresistible. Her hand had shot up in favour faster than Mulan launched Shan-Yu skyward.

And Desiree hadn't been alone. Her father's kin—the famously compassionate Charmings of Grandoza and Beaubonne—had followed suit, advocating for the Cinderellas' stepsisters to be released as well, though not their wicked mother. Not even Lady Cassandra's thunderous disapproval could sway Queen Rapunzel from welcoming her would-be adoptive sisters.

The fallout was swift. Lady Cassandra resigned on the spot, storming out in fury and vowing to exile herself before sharing Corona's palace with her mother's demon spawn.

Trouble, Jane thought grimly. If this was the chaos before the villain kids even arrived, what would it be like after? If she had her way—not that she ever did—she'd have snapped her mother's wand in two before indulging this farce. Children of monsters who had burned cities, toppled kingdoms, and slaughtered innocents—sharing their classrooms, their tables, their luxuries. Stupidity, pure and simple. It could only spiral the Mainland into ruin.

After all, no one had asked those wicked creatures to reproduce. Why reward them for it?

Some people should not have children. Maniacal, power-hungry psychopaths topped that list.

"Quick, Chad! Spell 'biased.'" Alistair's accent dripped with mockery as he reached lazily for a goblet, cackling beside Ben. "Hint for ya, dobber—no silent h." He and Ben chuckled, the golden prince emboldened by his oldest friend's backing.

If anyone knew how to stir the pot, it was Alistair. He and Ben had been inseparable since diapers, joined by Freedom, who Jane envied for living happily without the weight of noble life on him, free to come and go at a snap. Alistair and Freedom had been the troublemakers, rabid dogs on the leash, while Ben played handler.

"You're not taking this seriously, Alistair," Jane blurted, unable to stop herself, even though she knew she had no business speaking up. "Do you realize the trouble this will cause?"

"Aww, chill out, yeah? What's life without a little trouble? About time something interesting happened on the Mainland. A man can only hunt so many deer." He collapsed into Ben's arms like a swooning damsel.

"This is not funny, Alistair!" Audrey stormed up to Ben, fury still blazing. "WHAT were you thinking, Bennyboo?"

"That a denser school population wouldn't hurt." Ben's casual shrug was infuriating. Audrey let out a strangled cry, spun on her heel, and paced like a caged peacock. Her handmaids hovered anxiously, fanning and fussing over her.

It was odd, Jane thought, seeing Ben hold his ground. Normally, whenever he and Audrey clashed, he caved. If Audrey wanted more balls, Ben threw one on a random Wednesday. If Audrey swapped mountain camping for a spa retreat, he packed his nicest shoes and left the fishing rod behind. If she demanded an apology after snapping, he murmured "sorry" and kissed her hand.

"And I can't believe you and Rania didn't vote against this," Chad said suddenly, his disbelief aimed at the twin crowns of Agrabah.

Rania's head snapped around, her wild hair flaring as she glared. "What's that supposed to mean, boy? You do remember my father was once lumped in with those you call... street rats?"

"Yeah. Street rats. Not every runt's as lucky as your dad, snagging a princess and a genie." Chad leaned back smugly. Cassim had to slide between them before Rania buried him in the desert sands.

Lumiere, reading the moment, rang a bell sharply.

"To the table, if you please, young masters and madams."

Servants lifted polished domes to reveal towers of canapés—paper-thin pastry shells filled with whipped goat cheese, jewelled with pomegranate seeds; miniature tarts crowned with caramelized onion, truffle shavings, and sprigs of thyme, as though painted on with a brush.

Golden goblets caught the stained-glass light, filled with jewel-toned drinks: deep garnet wine laced with candied orange peel; pale gold cordial floating with violets; and Jane's favourite—sparkling water in slender flutes, bubbles chasing pearls of lemon zest.

Velvet baskets overflowed with steaming rolls brushed in butter, dusted with sea salt or rosemary, flanked by gilded bowls of spiced almonds and glossy olives marinated with orange zest and pink peppercorns.

At the far end, pyramids of sugared grapes, ripe figs split to reveal their jewelled centers, and rounds of cheese sat beneath glass domes crowned in filigree. Even the Brie had to live up to Cogsworth's standards.

Finally, Jane thought. She was starving.

Chapter Text

「CARLOS 」

LOCATION - DRAGON HALL HIGH

__________.𖥔"WHAT'S YOUR BIG BRAIN GOT YOU TINKERING WITH, LITTLE MAN?" Delphie leaned over Carlos's desk, resting her chin on his shoulder. The faux fur tail on his jacket tickled her cheek, though she probably didn't mind. Delphie liked being in his space, and Carlos never minded it either; her stepping into his bubble was nicer than his mother's—hers was more like stabbing into his space. Literally.

The gang—Jay, Evie, Zevon, Delphie, and Carlos—were currently trapped in the loud and chaotic classroom of Tall Tales and the Tellers Who Tell Them, taught by Professor Betella. She was one of the three teachers who had come to the Isle from the Mainland with Professor Lyndon. Carlos never had Lyndon as a teacher, but he liked her anyway—because every time Mal came from her class, she was in a really good mood. And if Mal was in a good mood, she wasn't taking out a bad moon on the rest of them. On the days she had Lyndon, she'd just drag them to their hideout after they snagged—stole—some food.

Carlos liked Professor Betella even more; she was the reason he had skipped so many grades. When she caught him hiding in the janitor's closet trying to study away from his house's chaos, she took him to her classroom and helped him. She even convinced Dr. F to let him jump up to this grade level, which impressed Carlos—how do you hustle a hustler? But she pulled it off.

Before that, the gang actually hung out with Carlos's big sister, Octavia. She was cool, smart, ruthless, and had the best fashion sense. Carlos always wore her jacket, one of her very first fashion pieces, made back when their mom still had her wits about her. He kept the only picture he had of her tucked inside his right glove. He liked hearing stories about her, since he'd been so young when everything went down.

His dad never really talked about Octavia, but that didn't surprise Carlos. His dad had a very pre-Isle Gaston mentality about children: no use for daughters, only wanted strong, burly sons. And it was safe to say Carlos and Octavia didn't live up to expectations. Octavia had been the cunning, ruthless "son" he wanted—but she was still a girl who liked fashion. Carlos was... well, Carlos. Small, skinny, weak, queasy at the sight of blood, with a soft spot for animals—not dogs—and zero leadership instincts. His dad never let him forget it.

Meanwhile, his mom had swan-dived off the deep end years ago. She could barely remember breakfast, let alone memories from eight years back. And the stories she did remember? Carlos didn't care to hear them.

He preferred the gang's stories about Octavia—how pretty and ambitious she'd been, how much they'd loved her. She had this thick English accent, true and thicker than Carlos' own—mostly non-existent—one, and was thinking two steps ahead of everyone and everything.

Carlos sometimes thought maybe that was why Mal tolerated him more than the others (except Jay). He heard endless stories—never from Mal herself—about how she and Octavia had been inseparable. Octavia had been Mal's backbone as a kid, standing up to the Mistress of All Evil herself. When Octavia got bangs, Mal got them too. When Mal spray-painted a wall, Octavia was right there beside her. Two artists at heart.

Carlos loved knowing people saw him as like her. His big sister was a tech genius, just like he aspired to be. She had built the washing machine in the square, and it was her journal that inspired his latest invention. They'd both been AP students and straight-As in Weird Sciences—his favourite class. Not like Tall Tales and the Tellers Who Tell Them.

Mal wasn't in this class—she had Alchemy right now, which meant a blissful skip period for her. Usually, she'd spend it with Freddie, causing chaos. Carlos wasn't much of a fan of Tall Tales anyway. History felt like a sham; everyone knew the victors wrote the pages. Jay always snickered, calling it "Tall Piles of Crap."

Jay sat on Carlos's left at their two-person table, with Zevon and Delphie behind them. Evie, on the other hand, sat across the room with the Tremaines—Francis, Anthony, Wynona, and Gwendolyn—with the girls ignoring the lesson in favour of braiding hair, painting nails, and basically acting like they were in a salon.

They even used the time to groom fat, old Lucifer.

Carlos respected Evie’s ability to keep her distance from them whenever Mal was around. He doesn't think he'd be able to pull off a duality like that himself. Evie had come late to the gang, and her bond with them mostly stems from their shared schemes, like their stunt to steal Maleficent's ugly sceptre. Outside of that, Evie had found another circle. 

Still, she was a part of them all the same. Just as much as anyone else in the group. But she'd spent ten years locked away, castle-schooled by her (unhealthily) beauty-obsessed mother, Queen Regina, and her passive, vain father, Prince Hans. She'd almost spent all of it alone—all because her mother wouldn't let her invite Mal to her sixth birthday.

During that banishment, nearly everyone obeyed Maleficent's decree to treat Evie's family as if they were dead. Nearly everyone. The Tremaines weren't among them. Wynona and Gwendolyn had snuck over constantly for "Princess Sleepovers," keeping Evie updated on Isle life. To Evie, they were sisters. The same held true later with Dizzy and Priscilla, especially Dizzy, who'd become Evie's fashion protégé.

Mal never liked the Tremaines—especially Wynona. She even cut off Freddie F for an entire year while she dated Francis—a torrid affair, those two. Whatever Mal's beef was with that family, it ran deeper than Wynona.

No one else in the crew cared much about Evie's interests. Carlos and she shared a love for science, so for once, he had a leg up on the others.

In truth, the gang was probably closer to one another than any of them were to Mal. Not that they'd ever dare tell her. Their bond wasn't just about growing up together; it started when they'd all lived on Hook's ship under Trinity's watchful eye, trying to avoid their parents. Six whole months of bunking together, climbing sails, and wasting time. And they were free from their parents. And even though Carlos hated the pirate's life, it was fun while it lasted. Until Mal—well, Maleficent's orders through Mal—banned them from the docks. Naturally, their parents enforced it. No one risked angering the Mistress of All Evil. After all, what good is scheming without a good partner?

"Earth to Little Man!" Jay interrupted, ruffling Carlos's hair until it stood on end. Jay and Delphie had been closest to Octavia—thick as thieves—and it was only natural they'd stepped in as his surrogate siblings after she died. Carlos always laughed, remembering how, as kids, Delphie would pretend she and Jay were married and he was their baby.

She still pretended sometimes. And funny enough, Delphie made a better mom in those times than his real one had in fourteen years.

"Just a little something." Carlos padded down the curls Jay had messed up and kept tinkering.

"What kind of little something, Little Man?" Zevon chimed in, turning his attention to Carlos.

Carlos hesitated. Should he tell them so soon? It might not even work. He'd be so embarrassed.

He'd spent fifteen years watching King Adam's dull programming—his smug face droning the same tedious messages day after day. Or worse, the nauseating A Day in the Palace episodes, cameras shoved into every royal's morning routine. The thought of people being filmed in their beds creeped Carlos out. Though maybe he was biased—since his mom watches him sleep in the basement cage, her bloodshot eyes are the first thing he sees each morning.

So maybe he was projecting.

Still, Carlos suspected there was no magic barrier blocking Wi-Fi or TV signals. Not that he fully understood how magic worked—but his half-eaten books told him they were just stuck in the middle of nowhere. If he could catch a signal, he was sure an entirely new world waited for them.

Just as he was about to share his idea, the half doors to the "classroom" burst open. Seven burly guards filed in, their armour painted in the colours of different kingdoms' royal families.

In an instant, everyone ducked under their desks. Jay and Zevon shuffled Carlos and Delphie behind them. But the guards didn't do anything.

"Our apologies, Madam Betella. We have urgent business with many of your students, by order of the Council."

They didn't wait for her response. One guard began reading a list: Evie, Wynona, Gwen, Anthony, Francis, Jay, Delphie, Zevon, and Carlos. When his name was called, Carlos froze. The guards turned and started walking out, leaving the chosen kids to realize—they were expected to follow.

And follow they did.

⟢ ・⸝⸝

The guards had led them out into the graveyard, which confused Carlos until he saw how many other students had also been summoned from class. Their group alone would hardly fit in Dr. F's office, let alone the 21 students that were also there, so the graveyard was pretty much the only spot in the school grounds big enough to fit them all.

The graveyard was an ugly place, and Carlos was happy that Gaston had never let him take his P.E courses. 

There were dozens of crooked doomstones jutting from the ground, each one etched not with names, but with quotes and such. The air was as it was everywhere else on the Isle, damp with rot, and what flora remained were withered husks: spindly shrubs twisted into grotesque shapes, brittle weeds clawing up through cracks in the dirt. 

Rusted cans, broken glass, and jagged remnants of long-forgotten games littered the ground like traps. What passed for a fence was nothing more than a line of snapped posts lashed together with wire, sagging inward as if surrendering to decay. In one corner, half-collapsed goalposts leaned drunkenly, while a warped hoop dangled from a splintered backboard, swaying in the breeze with an eerie creak.

Call him a wimp, but Carlos didn't see the appeal in playing sports—let alone playing sports in this death trap. 

As he looked around, Carlos only found himself even more confused. Everyone else who had been called was completely random—random to him, at least—and he just couldn't rack his brain for any explanation on what they could've all been doing here together.

Gaston's brood of perfect paragons; Gaston, Rosette, Gaston (the third), Lynette, Gil, and Marinette were huddled up together with Catherine-Maria and the oh so dreamy Evergreen. Uliana and her junior crew: Killian, Morgie, Dizzy, Celia, and the twins, Mecaria & Silver—much to Mal's dismay— were sitting around together on top of the doomstones. Blume, Lark, and Ambrosia had sort of shuffled together but weren't really talking. And of course, the Tremaines stuck together.

But it was only when he realized that he'd overlooked the whole yard that it registered that Mal wasn't there, and he worried for a minute. What could they—however they were—want with them and not Mal?

The door of the school opened up, and an entourage of people holding banners of a dark red field that radiates a golden sun, with jagged rays stretching outward like fire. At the heart of it rests a pure purple crown, adorned with three sharp fleur-de-lis points, and the words "Above Kingdoms, Beyond Borders."

The guards then brought in a rather small and fancy-looking man draped in fabric so heavy and rich that it probably cost more than anyone on the Isle has ever seen in their entire lives here. That jacket—or something like a jacket—was stiff and shining. Over one shoulder, he wore a dramatic cape, kinda like the ones that Gothel and her girl wear. Even his hat was stuffed fat with trims and glitter. His legs were poured into ugly pale stockings, his shoes fine leather, soft and polished, not a speck of dirt daring to cling to them.

He had a lankier and less-dramatically dressed boy by his side, carrying a sack of scrolls for him. The man came to the front and centre, and if it weren't for the tens of guards around them, Carlos was sure that everyone here would've jumped this man for whatever money he had on him—including the money he was wearing.

He theatrically cleared his throat and held his hand out to the boy, who quickly shuffled through the few scrolls and handed him one nervously.

"AHEM! It is by—"

The doors burst open again, and a few of the patrol guards come through, holding none other than Mal and Freddie by the biceps and tossing them in with the rest of them. The two of them are sweaty and a little scuffed up from the chase they undoubtedly had trying to outrun the guards when they got caught doing whatever they were doing.

The man gave them a side glare and huffed in annoyance.

"As I was. It is by royal decree from the most august body of sovereigns, the Coalition of Crowns, that a new and unprecedented program shall henceforth be brought into commencement.

This program, in its official title, is to be known as the Villain Kids Outreach Program, and it stands as a testament to the unshakable virtues of grace, compassion, and the belief in redemption that shine ever brightly within our kingdoms. Where once there was suspicion, now there shall be opportunity.

Be it known to all assembled, that it is their Majesties’ most noble and humble... pleasures—with hearts both magnanimous and resolute—that certain individuals, by careful selection and sovereign command, have been chosen for this most extraordinary calling.

These chosen youths are to present themselves with due dignity and gratitude before the radiant Golden Kingdom of Auradon—that citadel of prosperity, learning, and virtue—and its most esteemed Preparatory School. They are to walk among the sons and daughters of heroes, princes, princesses, and peers alike—not as outcasts, but as aspirants toward the higher nature which Their Majesties, in their boundless mercy, believe yet stirs within their hearts.

Thus let it be proclaimed: that their conduct shall be observed, their progress recorded, and their loyalty to this new path measured by deed. Each chosen one must hold fast to gratitude and propriety, remembering that this invitation is not a right, but a privilege bestowed by the crowns of Auradon and beyond.

So decreed on this day, under the banners of the Coalition, and in the name of the unity of kingdoms. Let no tongue question it, let no hand resist it. For it is the will of the crowns, the law of the land, and the hope of tomorrow.”

What...just happened? Carlos thought to himself in stunned silence as the carrier handed out a mini envelope to everyone with a painful-looking smile.

And just as quickly as they came, the banner holders and the man were on their way out. The carrier went to the Tremaines and the Légumes and handed one scroll to each group before scurrying off to follow after the rest. And the rest of them were just left shocked, standing there not knowing what to say or think about what just happened.

"We're going to the Mainland?"