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Kanuk furrowed his studded eyebrows, clearly disturbed. Poor Gileon scratched his head, and I had to remind myself that this was the first time he was hearing the truth about… well, everything.

Otherwise, we were silent as we absorbed the problem: that as it stood, most Esholians didn’t want the Good Council overthrown, even though so many of our friends and family never came back from their Final Tests.

The magic woven into Eshol is the only thing that keeps us safe from the monsters beyond our shield, Fabian had told me once, regurgitating the same sentiment that had been drilled into him. We must each bear a thread of that magic to keep our fortifications tight… implying that we had to kick out those who couldn’t bear a thread, or else the shield would crack, the so-called monsters would flood in, and we’d all perish.

A complete and utter load of shit, I knew now. The shield was to keep us imprisoned, the true monsters were locked in here with us, and people were already perishing at the top of Bascite Mountain.

But only those of us in this room knew that.

“The first thing we need to do, then,” Coen said, “is unweave the Good Council’s twisted narrative. Spread the truth about what actually happens to the exiled ones. Then get the public to witness the Good Council’s atrocities through uncolored lenses.”

Spread the truth.

The treehouse seemed to whisper those words, cementing them in my brain, and I shivered. For so long, all of these secrets had been just that: secret. Something I couldn’t share without putting others in danger. But if everyone learned the truth, who could the Good Council target? Only the ones who actually dared to do something about it.

“Which brings me to our next problem,” Coen said, winking at me, and I knew he was listening in on my thoughts. “The power of the elites themselves. Even if the public tries to rise against them, every elite has two magics and extensive training. As it stands, the regular farmers and bakers and blacksmiths would never triumph in an uprising—unless we weaken the Good Council first.”

Weaken the Good Council. Again, the treehouse whispered the next step of Coen’s plan in my ear, although I wasn’t sure if it was Pacay’s ancient magic or my Wild Whispering and Mind Manipulating at work, dissecting the banyan’s thoughts beneath the melody of its music.

Either way, everyone seemed to be on board, nodding and, in Rodhi’s case, flashing a lazy hand in the air.

“You don’t need to…” Coen grimaced. “Whatever. Yeah?”

“When you say ‘weaken the Good Council’, do you mean, like, plant spider eggs in their beds until they wake up screaming and all their fellow elites laugh at them and then a fight breaks out and disintegrates their sense of camaraderie all while a million baby spiders explode everywhere and then Dyonisia Reeve gets pissed off and distracted by the commotion or just…” Rodhi mimed slicing his own throat.

“Um… that last one.” Coen’s shoulders twitched. “Not all at once, but one by one, using chaos like what you just described to lure them out.”

“Excellent.” Rodhi rubbed his palms together.

The rest of us looked less than sure. Both Emelle and Dazmine caught my eye, Melle’s expression filling with fear, Dazmine’s with disgust, as if killing elites would be equivalent to stomping on a batch of slimy insects.

My own skin chilled despite the humidity flooding the treehouse. I’d known there would be death, but I hadn’t given much thought to the killing itself. To how much more of my soul would shatter like it had at Hallow’s Perch when all those blades had swung and stabbed and blood had sprayed and splattered…

Easy, little hurricane. Coen’s eyes flicked to mine. Your heart’s racing, but you’re safe in this moment. We’re all safe in this moment.

I’d forgotten how potent his faerie hearing was now. Nodding, I dragged in a deep breath, and Coen continued seamlessly.

“Our last and biggest problem is you.” He jerked his head at Jagaros, who pressed his mouth into a firm line. “Even if we manage to defeat the Good Council—and Dyonisia herself,” Coen added, “you need to be accepted as the true king by the entire island for the magic to fully acknowledge you. A little difficult given that every Esholian thinks you and your people died half a century ago.”

I frowned as I remembered Mr. Fenway’s very first lesson: Faeries lived for eons, but it was difficult for them to reproduce, and soon, their offspring became more and more rare. So they died out about five hundred years ago, the last of them laying themselves to rest at the top of what is now known as Bascite Mountain.

Another lie of course, but that was the story every Esholian was taught and engrained with. If Jagaros stepped into the picture and took the throne as it was, they’d probably think he was some kind of resurrected faerie curse coming back to haunt the island at best. At worst, they’d consider him an outsider. An enemy. Something to get rid of.

“So we need to spread the truth about Jagaros, too,” Sylvie said, her ankle bobbing over a crossed leg. “Him and the Uninhabitable Zone and the other faeries.”

“Yes, but not too suddenly, or else most Esholians will shut it down as a trick or a threat. We need to…” Coen paused, searching for the right word. “Initiate Jagaros’s reign. Set it into motion so that by the time we’re at the end of this, every Esholian has already decided he should be king for themselves. Which is where you come in.”

Now his gaze had swung to none other than Emelle, who looked over her shoulder, then pointed at her own chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Coen’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I hear you have an affinity for making friendships with birds.”

Emelle shot me a questioning look, as if she couldn’t quite believe I’d mentioned her talents to Coen at all. A silly notion. I’d told him all about my best friend through our mind-to-mind connection over the last six months. “Y-yeah, I guess,” she said finally, clearing her throat. “I love birds, and they seem to tolerate me well enough.”

Lander sighed beside her. “She’s being modest. Birds adore her.”

As was evident by the gulls who kept flapping past the treehouse windows to get a glimpse of her. I bit down on a smile as Coen pivoted his attention to Lander himself.

“And how long can you hold the shift of an object? I know you were able to keep those Sorronian books disguised for several days at a time.”