Chapter 5

First of all—I took a bath.

Yes, a real one. In a freezing creek, surrounded by whispering trees and judging birds, but still. I bathed. With soap. (Thanks to the random bar I found in a drawer labeled "Emergency Exorcisms & Showers.")

The carrot nearly passed out when I came back fresh.

“Oh my roots—she doesn’t smell like burnt toast and regret anymore.”

The apple tree dropped a blossom in celebration.

Mr. Yellow clapped. Literally clapped.

“And it only took a forest intervention. Growth.”

“Shut up,” I grumbled, toweling my hair dry. “I did it for me. Not for you. Not for your mutant veggie gossip circle.”

“Sure, Jan.”

Anyway, with my neck still pulsing like someone tattooed lightning directly into my spine, and with my sanity barely hanging on a vine, I decided to finally clean the rest of the cabin. (Don’t get excited—I only did it because I tripped over the same crooked floorboard three times and stubbed my toe.)

The floor creaked ominously as I swept dust and memories into a corner.

That's when I felt it.

A pulse.

In the floor.

Right beneath the warped board.

A hum.

Faint, rhythmic. Magical.

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not creepy at all.”

I knelt, pressed my palm to the wood—and the cursed mark on my neck flared like someone poured lava on it.

I gasped. “Okay. Cool. Love that. That’s normal.”

“Back away slowly,” Mr. Yellow warned, hopping onto the dusty desk like he owned the place. “That’s witchwork. Dangerous. Could be cursed. Could explode. Or worse—summon your ex.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’d rather die.”

Then, before he could rabbit-block me again, I pried the board loose.

Beneath it?

A handle.

Old, rusted, glowing with the faintest outline of moonlight and runes.

Because of course Amaya the possibly-evil-sometimes-misunderstood witch had a secret underground spellroom hidden under her creepy little cabin. Of course she did.

Without thinking, I yanked the trapdoor open—dust spiraling up like fog.

A staircase.

Descending into pitch-black magical nope.

Naturally, I went down.

Why?

Because I’m cursed.

Because I’m nosy.

Because I’m Kyla freaking Black and I need answers before I lose my last brain cell talking to root vegetables.

The further I went, the colder it got. The curse on my neck? Throbbed harder with every step. My teeth clenched. My fingers tingled.

The stairs ended in a wide underground chamber. Lit by glowing orbs floating above black marble. The walls were carved with runes. Shelves lined with scrolls. Vials. Bones. Ancient spellbooks. And in the center?

A mirror.

Not just any mirror.

It shimmered like water.

Swirled like smoke.

I stepped closer, eyes narrowing—until suddenly, the mirror flared with light, and a vision appeared.

Golden wings. Burning eyes. A man screaming in rage.

My breath caught.

“Alpha King… Edric?”

No way.

Holymotherof*****

I didn’t know how I knew it was him. But I did. His magic called to my mark. Like thunder answering lightning.

“Oh no,” said Mr. Yellow, peeking from the trapdoor, “absolutely not. You just bathed. We’re not going back into trauma town.”

Too late.

Because the mirror pulsed again—and I saw me.

Cursed.

Alone.

Glowing with a magic that wasn’t wolf.

Something deeper.

Older.

“Welcome, girl born of solstice thunder,” said a voice behind me—a whisper from the walls.

I spun.

Empty.

But something in the room awakened.

Something... watching.

And for the first time since my exile, I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind…

…or finally finding my destiny.

And of course, I ran.

Nope.

No thanks.

Not today, demonic whisper walls and haunted mirrors.

The moment the room spoke—spoke—I noped right back up that creepy staircase so fast I nearly tripped over my own cursed legs.

The trapdoor slammed shut behind me like it was offended I even dared open it.

“NOPE,” I huffed, planting myself dramatically against the cabin wall like it owed me emotional support. “Absolutely not. Not today, Satan.”

Mr. Yellow stared at me, chewing on a basil leaf.

“Oh, you done? That was fast. Thought you had main character energy.”

I glared at him. “That mirror moved.”

“It’s a mirror, not a club DJ. Calm down.”

“No. It talked, okay? There were voices. And wings. And thunder. And it knew my birthdate. I didn’t even post that online!”

I peeked at the trapdoor again.

Then looked away.

Then peeked again.

Then squinted.

Okay, maybe just one more—NO. No. Breathe. Calm.

“You look constipated,” Mr. Yellow muttered.

I flipped him off with a spoon.

Then I sat at the dusty table and started journaling like some emotionally unstable bard when suddenly—

A tiny voice chirped near my elbow.

“Excuse you, could you not put your dramatic spiral notebook on our roof?”

I froze.

Slowly turned.

And there, right next to my pen, was a line of ants. Wearing what I swear were little makeshift cloaks made from lint.

“What in the fairy-hell is happening to my life—”

“Ma’am,” another ant cut me off, standing upright with crossed arms, “you are trespassing on royal ant territory. This is the Fifth Kingdom of Crumbledon.”

“I’m hallucinating.”

“No, you’re not,” snapped the sassiest one with glittery antenna. “And FYI, your screaming this morning caused a mudslide. I lost my pantry. Do you even know how long it takes to haul a sugar crystal up a chair leg?!”

Mr. Yellow snorted behind me.

“Told you not to go poking around underground spellrooms. Now the ants are unionizing.”

“I don’t need this.” I stood up. “I am a cursed, rejected, technically-homeless, probably-magical mess—I don’t need a lecture from ants!”

The Ant Leader—yes, there was one—stomped a tiny foot.

“Then stop slamming our ceiling like it’s a drum solo from your midlife crisis!”

I stared at them.

They stared back.

And I did what any emotionally wrecked teenage rogue would do.

I screamed into a pillow.

Mr. Yellow, ever helpful, handed me a flower petal.

“Here. Cry in style.”

I groaned. Loudly. “I am going to LOSE. MY. MIND.”

“Too late,” said the ants in unison.

By sundown, I had peeked at the trapdoor six more times, got apple-slapped by the tree for yelling too much, and received a formal complaint from the ant kingdom written in breadcrumbs.

And yet… beneath all the chaos, beneath all the sass and spiteful vegetables… that room still called to me.

The mark on my neck?

It pulsed every time I got near it.

Like it knew something.

Like it was waiting.

For me.

And maybe, just maybe…

The mirror wasn’t what I should fear.

Maybe what I should fear—

Was who I might become if I don’t open that door again.

I lasted exactly two days before I caved.

Two.

Dramatic.

Loud.

Veggie-sassed.

Days.

I tried ignoring the pulsing trapdoor. I really did. I picked tomatoes. I watered apple trees. I even helped a crying grapevine with emotional damage because apparently its ex was a raisin now.

But the cursed lightning mark on my neck?

Throbbed like a broken Bluetooth trying to connect to trauma.

Every time I passed that damn trapdoor, it whispered:

“Come back, Kyla.”

“We have secrets.”

“Also, you’re a mess and we both know it.”

Mr. Yellow wasn’t helping either.

“Tick-tock, cursed clock. You’re either gonna go down there or start naming the potatoes your children.”

Too late. Already named one "Brenda."

So I snapped.

"FINE," I shouted at the trapdoor. “I’ll go down there! But not because I'm curious. Not because I believe in this weird creepy ‘chosen one’ junk. I just—don’t want to talk to a cauliflower again!”

“Denial,” Mr. Yellow whispered smugly.

I ignored him.

The trapdoor groaned open like a horror movie cliché. I grabbed a candle, a kitchen knife (for dramatic effect), and my last brain cell.

And I went back into Amaya’s hidden spellroom.

The air down there was thick with dust, magic, and unresolved trauma. The floating lights blinked on as I stepped in—like the room recognized me.

“Creepy,” I muttered. “Cool, but creepy.”

I avoided the mirror this time. Went for the desk instead. It was cluttered with scrolls, crystals, and a heavy leather-bound book that practically radiated forbidden knowledge and motherly guilt.

On the cover?

“To the cursed chosen one. – Amaya.”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

I opened it.

The moment I did, a swirl of golden-blue light burst from the pages and wrapped around me like a magical bear hug from someone who’d been spying on me since birth. RUDE.

A vision flashed—bright and blinding.