Chapter 6

I saw her.

Amaya.

Young. Fierce. Laughing while running through these same woods, magic crackling from her fingers, her wolf running beside her—pure silver. Her eyes glowed with power and defiance.

Then the vision shifted.

Betrayal. Blood.

The former Luna collapsed—Amaya standing over her with a blade of glowing magic. But the expression on her face? Not rage. Not madness. Regret.

The pack turned on her. They ripped her wolf out. Magic sealed her soul. They branded her as a traitor. Banished.

She screamed, alone in this cabin, cursed and cast aside.

Like me.

And yet… in the final vision, she wrote feverishly in that same journal. Her hands trembling, her face pale, whispering to the moonlight:

“One day, another will come. One born cursed under the thunder moon. One the Goddess will mark. If she survives… she must choose: the path of power or the path of peace.”

“She’ll hate me at first,” Amaya muttered. “But I’m all she’s got.”

The vision ended.

The book in my hands glowed, waiting.

And I sat there—confused, overwhelmed, and more emotionally unstable than a werewolf during PMS.

"...She left me homework?"

“Technically, a legacy,” Mr. Yellow called from above. “But yeah. Homework.”

The ant council peered down from a ceiling crack.

“We voted. You’re officially the witch’s heir. Condolences.”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands.

“I don’t even like magic. I failed basic enchantment theory! I still can’t shift! I eat canned beans and I talk to celery!”

But… what choice did I have?

The mirror glowed faintly again.

The magic called.

The storm inside my cursed mark stirred.

So I opened the first page.

And I read.

A few minutes later. I sighed.

Again.

Alright.

So.

Here I was—sitting cross-legged in a haunted witch’s underground spellroom, surrounded by enchanted vegetables, emotionally manipulative furniture, and one rabbit parole officer who had exactly zero faith in me.

In short: vibes immaculate.

The spellbook—Amaya’s creepy glowing journal of doom—flipped itself open to the beginner section titled:

“Casting Your First Spell (And Not Dying)”

Well, reassuring, thanks.

The page sparkled like it was mocking me. Written in perfect cursive with annotations like, “Don't scream if it glows—it’s supposed to.” and “If the walls start bleeding, take a break.”

You know. Witch basics.

I read the first spell aloud, nervously chewing the end of a carrot stick because yes, I now snack on sentient vegetables and we don’t talk about that.

“By root and wind, by flame and vine,

Let magic heed this will of mine—

Arise, oh light, obey my word,

And make my voice be truly heard.”

Nothing.

Nada.

I looked around.

The candle flickered once. The air grew still.

Then—

BANG.

The spellbook snapped shut and the wall across the room EXPLODED IN SPARKLES.

I screamed.

Mr. Yellow screamed.

The ants screamed in chorus like a gospel choir.

A glowing blue chicken materialized.

I kid you not.

A. Glowing. Blue. Chicken.

It flapped around the room in a chaotic panic, knocked over a bowl of potion herbs, then pooped glitter in midair before landing squarely on my head.

“…What in the Lisa-Frank-farm-animal hell is this?”

“YOU SUMMONED A GLORIFIED DISCO POULTRY,” Mr. Yellow barked. “WHAT WERE YOU EVEN TRYING TO CAST?”

“I—I wanted light!”

“AND INSTEAD, YOU BROUGHT A BEDAZZLED PEACOCK IN CHICKEN FORM!”

“I panicked! I stuttered in the second line, okay?!”

The chicken squawked, its feathers emitting faint ABBA music. I’m not joking. Every time it ruffled, it hummed “Dancing Queen.”

The ant council stared from the corner like disappointed professors.

“Your pronunciation of ‘will’ was off,” said one.

“Amaya would be rolling in her magically preserved coffin,” another muttered.

“I just started, okay? This is, like, day one. Everyone’s first spell is a mess.”

“My first spell was a weather manipulation hex that saved a village from drought,” Mr. Yellow quipped.

“Mine was a growth spell,” said a potato from the shelf. “My cousin became an oak tree. Good times.”

I groaned and sat down, the glitter-chicken gently laying an egg near my boot with a pop of confetti.

Fantastic.

“I am cursed. I am wolfless. I am surrounded by petty produce and judgemental pests. And now I’m the clown princess of poultry summoning.”

The mark on my neck pulsed again.

Warmer this time.

Like the spell had activated something.

“…Is it supposed to tingle?” I whispered, rubbing it.

“Oh no,” said Mr. Yellow, ears stiff. “That’s not tingling. That’s connecting.”

“With who?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He just bolted upstairs.

The chicken laid another glitter egg and blinked.

And I swear, for one second…

I felt a pulse of something—someone—echo back.

Far away.

Dark. Ancient. Powerful.

And royally pissed.