The Isle of the Lost was nothing like Auradon. That much was obvious from the moment the transfers arrived—wary, uncertain, their clothes rougher, their eyes sharper. They were survivors. Hardened. Used to a world that had offered them nothing but struggle.

You stood among the gathered students of Auradon Prep, hands clasped in front of you, watching as the new arrivals stepped forward one by one. You knew the whispers about them. That they were trouble. That they didn’t belong. Your mother had raised you to believe otherwise.

Gracie Abrams stepped forward last. She was different from the others, quieter. She didn’t carry herself with the same defiance as some of her peers, but there was something else—something unreadable in the way she looked around, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether to expect kindness or a knife in the back.

Your eyes met hers.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, cautiously, she lifted her chin, as if daring you to judge her like everyone else surely would.

But you didn’t. Instead, you smiled—gentle, welcoming, the way you had seen your mother do a thousand times before.

And Gracie, who had spent her life expecting the worst, looked almost… surprised.