Chapter 4

KYLA – POV

The next few days passed in a blur of dirt, dust, and vegetable soup I didn’t ask for.

Apparently, exile came with a side of gardening therapy.

And I’m not gonna lie—the garden was weirdly lush. Like, absurdly lush. Carrots the size of my forearm. Cabbages that looked like they had gym memberships. Juicy tomatoes, plump grapes, and even freaking apple trees that actually had the audacity to bloom in winter.

Don’t even get me started on the cucumbers. One of them looked at me funny. I swear.

I didn’t remember planting anything. Yet the entire garden behind Amaya’s dusty old murder-cabin was thriving like it was on magical steroids.

Still, I wasn’t complaining.

I mean, it wasn’t meat… but I wasn’t dead either.

Although, after five straight days of “foraged stew surprise” and “roasted root surprise” and “oh look, another potato”...

Yeah, I started talking to myself.

Out loud.

With flair.

I don’t know if it was because of the loneliness, or the damn curse mark on my neck still pulsing like someone set my nerve endings on fire, but at this point, I’d name a broom just to have someone to gossip with.

“Morning, Princess Parsnip,” I muttered to the big carrot I just pulled. “You’re getting sautéed tonight. Congratulations.”

I wiped my hands on my pants—my last clean pair, by the way—and stared at the garden like it owed me answers.

Still cursed.

Still wolfless.

Still mateless.

Still alone.

Until I saw it.

At first, I thought it was a weird potato with ears.

Then it twitched.

Then it hopped.

A rabbit. Fluffy. White. Big ears. Big eyes.

Big meal.

I nearly cried. “Meat. Oh my Goddess, meat.”

I crept forward, already picturing the stew. The roast. The sizzling oil. I could almost hear the herbs calling me.

But then…

The damn thing turned around, gave me a judgy once-over, and said in the snarkiest voice I’d heard since Lana turned her back on me:

“Ugh. You look like you haven’t brushed your hair since the moon cried on your sad little birthday party.”

I screamed.

Fell on my butt.

Pointed at it like it murdered someone.

“You. Talk.”

The rabbit rolled its eyes—I kid you not—and adjusted a tiny monocle that just… appeared?

“Congratulations, Captain Obvious. What tipped you off? The vocabulary or the sass?”

“What the actual wolf—are you cursed? Are I cursed? Am I dying again?”

“You’re not dying. Yet. But with that fashion sense and your current hygiene? It’s debatable.”

I blinked. Stared. Then blinked again.

“I haven’t had meat in days, and I was ready to eat you. Like, seriously. I was seconds away from skewer-ville.”

“Charming. But if I were you, I’d worry less about my protein intake and more about the golden-winged menace currently flying your way.”

I froze.

“What did you just say?”

The rabbit leaned forward, nose twitching with attitude.

“Your little lightning-mark? Yeah. It made noise. Big noise. Guess who felt it? The King. Of. Everything. And he’s very curious.”

My curse mark pulsed like it heard the damn thing too.

Something shifted in the air.

Something powerful.

Something coming.

“And what are you exactly?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

The rabbit grinned.

“Let’s just say I’m your magical parole officer.”

You know that moment when you think you've finally lost it?

Yeah.

That was me.

Because now the carrots talk.

And the cucumbers.

And the potatoes.

And the damn apple tree threw one of its own fruits at my head this morning because, and I quote,

“You reek of desperation and unwashed trauma, darling. Go bathe in a creek or something.”

I’m losing it.

Officially.

The moment Mr. Yellow—my self-appointed parole officer/rabbit-on-a-power-trip—introduced me to the sentient squad of judgmental agriculture, I knew I was one snapped twig away from being institutionalized.

I had just finished brushing my hair with a fork—yes, a fork, don’t judge me—and was trying to convince myself that everything would be fine when a loud “tsk” sounded behind me.

I turned.

A carrot. A literal carrot. Standing upright in the soil like it owned the patch.

“Sweetheart,” it said with a tone like a PTA mom who found vodka in your locker, “I may be a root vegetable but even I know rock-bottom when I see it.”

I blinked. “Are you… talking to me?”

“Who else? The wind? The worms?”

The carrot waved a leafy arm. “Honestly, girl, were you dunked in a curse or did you just bathe in failure and call it perfume?”

“EXCUSE ME?!”

From behind, the potato chimed in, deep and gravelly like some disapproving old uncle:

“You haven’t washed your socks in three days. We can smell it through the soil.”

“Okay, first of all—rude.”

Then came the cucumbers. Synchronized sass. They literally swayed with each sentence.

“Exiled…”

“Unloved…”

“Unmated…”

“Unbathed…”

“Okay, I get it!” I snapped. “I'm cursed, rogue, and a social disaster! But guess what? I'm still alive, so—ha!”

That’s when the apple tree spoke.

The tree.

In a slow, dramatic, British accent that made me want to throw a shovel at it.

“Barely, love. And honestly? If the Moon Goddess had a receipt, she’d return you.”

I gasped. “Oh, hell no. You did not just—”

“And you’ve worn the same pants for four days. If you sit on my roots one more time, I swear I’ll grow a branch and slap you with it.”

“Oh my GODDESS! You’re all ungrateful produce with too much attitude!”

Then—of course—Mr. Yellow hopped up like he’d just caught me skipping detention.

“Language, Kyla. You’re on magical probation, remember? One more emotional outburst and the woods might eat you. Again.”

I spun on him. “What kind of forest is this?!”

He sat down on a rock like he was born for drama.

“The cursed kind. Welcome to Deadroot Hollow, the prison of magical misfits, enchanted accidents, and Luna rejects. And congratulations! You’re the newest inmate.”

“Prison? You said this was exile.”

“Same vibe. Less orange jumpsuits, more judgmental kale.”

I stood there, mouth open, brain glitching.

Every time I tried to leave, I’d loop back. The dark forest wasn’t just creepy—it was enchanted. Twisted. Watching. Laughing.

Even the trees whispered at night.

I tried leaving twice.

Ended up at the same spot.

Rabbit smirking.

Apple tree chucking fruit at my back.

Magic was real.

Creepy.

And apparently bored.

I finally slumped beside the grapevine, which thankfully hadn’t developed vocal cords yet, and muttered, “I’m going crazy.”

“Oh honey,” said the potato, “you passed that exit three days ago.”