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“Do you remember,” Mrs. Smetlar asked, “the three main rules of the Esholian Institute? Surely your house princess made them clear on your first day?”

It had actually been Coen: Coen in the courtyard, before I’d even known his name, telling the crowd of my fellow first-years that we were free to do whatever we wanted, save for kill each other, mess with the island’s shield, or run away.

I didn’t repeat that, though. I wasn’t even sure my mouth was even capable of moving at the moment, not with all the attention drilling into me and my blood-crisp dress and whatever else Wasteon had inflicted upon me.

It definitely looked as if I’d just killed someone, and I couldn’t deny that I’d run away. Maybe I could spin a good enough story to make it seem like—

Smack. My head whipped sideways, a sting of pain lashing my cheek. Emelle screamed, and several other fellow Wild Whisperers gasped.

Mrs. Smetlar loomed in front of me, hand raised.

“I asked you a question, Ms. Drey. It is clear to me that if you cannot even respond to an instructor when prompted, you don’t belong here at the Esholian Institute. But your crimes go far beyond that.” She jerked her head at the elites on either side of her. “Take her outside.”

The Wild Whisperer door flew open again. Rough hands hooked beneath my armpits. My feet stuttered for purchase along the ground as they tugged me back out onto Bascite Boulevard and shoved me to my knees.

The women of my house flooded out, Emelle still crying and struggling to get to me. Wren and Cilia were there, too, faces pale and alarmed, and Mitzi was trying to convince the house princess to let Emelle go.

To give her the chance to tell me goodbye.

So much commotion must have caught the attention of everyone else, because curtains fluttered as faces peered through windows. Mansion doors flew open up and down the street, and people trickled outside with craned necks. Mutters swelled. I caught the voices of Rodhi and Lander among them, calling my name.

Safe. My friends were all safe. It was the only thought that kept me breathing in the face of what I knew was swooping down upon me.

An early exile.

I knew Coen—wherever he was—would want me to fight it, but I couldn’t overcome ten elites at once in my current state. Not after I’d barely survived five. If I tried to escape now, there was every possibility the elites would use their powers against me and end up hurting one of the onlookers by accident.

Or maybe not by accident. Maybe they didn’t care who they hurt.

Either way, I didn’t dare struggle.

One of the elites stepped closer to me, cloak billowing behind him. He cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth. Then uttered the words that filled me with cold, slimy dread, loud enough to sweep across all of Bascite Boulevard.

“On behalf of the Good Council, we hereby sentence you, Ms. Rayna Drey, to eternal banishment in order to preserve the safety of the worthy citizens of Eshol.”

“Bullshit!” Rodhi roared from somewhere to my left. “She’s one of the most talented Wild Whisperers in our year! You can’t—”

“Your charges,” the elite smothered his voice by booming louder, “include running from your duties as a Wild Whispering student to go conspire with a dangerous pirate from beyond the dome.”

My head snapped up as the surrounding mutters heightened in alarm.

What? How had they known about Coen? Who had told them?

In response to my dropped jaw, somebody stepped from the crowd and sidled right up to Mrs. Smetlar with a grin I’d never seen on his face before.

“Gileon?”

No. It couldn’t be. I’d trusted my friends. I refused to believe that any of them would have betrayed us—betrayed me—yet I couldn’t deny the flash of understanding that forked out from my subconscious as Gileon peered down at me.

How Wren had expressed concern over his mood and behavior. How he’d told me Coen was in trouble in Wasteon. How all of our friends had conveniently disappeared the moment he did, and how none of them had come after me because…

Because Gileon hadn’t told them where I’d gone off to after all. He’d sent me into that trap alone, believing I wouldn’t make it out.

Horror hooked through my gut.

Especially when Gileon’s face began to morph.

The round shape of his face drooped into something with a jutting chin. His soft light facial hair grew into wires of bristly black. His height shrunk, his blonde hair melting into his scalp and sparse spikes of hair growing in its place. A cloak flowed out from his shoulders where his shirt had been, the sheer mesh on the left side of it showcasing the little red dot in the center of his brand.