Briar Thorncroft had always been a bit too good with plants. While most witches in her village struggled to keep their herb gardens alive, Briar’s plants thrived. In fact, they thrived so much that her backyard resembled a jungle more than a garden. It wasn’t unusual for visitors to her home to leave with their hair entangled in vines or with a flowerpot inexplicably growing mushrooms in their shoes.

On this particular morning, however, things had taken a turn for the worse.

"Briar!" her mother’s voice screeched from the kitchen window. "Come deal with your—your… monstrosity!"

Briar looked up from where she was lazily stirring a pot of nettle tea, her eyes narrowing at the word "monstrosity." Sure, her plants were a little… exuberant, but monstrosity felt harsh. With a resigned sigh, she wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out the back door, heading toward the source of her mother’s distress.

And there it was. A monstrous, towering sunflower had grown overnight, its stalk easily as thick as a tree trunk, and its enormous head was turning to glare menacingly at Briar as she approached. Its leaves twitched, and for a moment, she could have sworn it growled.

"Briar!" her mother shouted again. "It’s blocking the sun! The laundry won’t dry!"

Briar crossed her arms and stared up at the sunflower with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. It was one thing to have a green thumb, but this? This was ridiculous. The sunflower looked like it was auditioning for the role of “overenthusiastic garden menace.”

"I get it," Briar said, talking to the sunflower as though it were an unruly pet. "You’re happy to be here. But maybe tone it down a bit? We don’t need to rival the town's windmill in height."

The sunflower didn’t respond—of course, it was a plant, not an actual living creature, even if it sometimes felt like the line blurred in Briar’s garden. With a flick of her fingers, she whispered a quick calming spell, willing the sunflower to shrink back to a more reasonable size. Slowly, the sunflower shrank, the stalk thinning and the head drooping as it returned to something that looked, well, more like a sunflower and less like something that belonged in a horror story.

Briar brushed her hands off and turned back to her mother, who was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, her face a mixture of exasperation and relief.

"Honestly, Briar, one day your plants are going to swallow the whole house," her mother said, shaking her head.

"Only if they get really ambitious," Briar said, grinning. "Besides, it’s not like I make them grow like that. They just… have their own personalities."

"Personality is one thing," her mother muttered, "but this is getting out of hand."

Briar’s smile faltered slightly. She knew her plant magic was stronger than most, but lately, it seemed like things were spiraling. Her herb garden was getting harder to control, and every time she tried to focus her magic, something unexpected happened. Like that time the tomato plant decided to throw its fruit at anyone who came too close. Or the day her lavender bushes started singing a lullaby in perfect harmony. That one had actually been kind of nice, but still, it wasn’t exactly normal.

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"Briar!" A familiar voice called from over the garden fence. Briar turned to see her best friend, Myrtle, bounding toward her, a basket of herbs in one hand and a mischievous grin plastered across her face. Myrtle was the only person in the village who seemed to find Briar’s plant problems more entertaining than concerning. Of course, Myrtle’s idea of fun involved sneaking dragon pepper into people’s tea just to see their reaction.

"Morning, Briar!" Myrtle called as she hopped over the fence with a grace that suggested she spent more time dodging trouble than Briar did wrangling plants. "I see your sunflower’s auditioning for a circus act."

"It’s been a day," Briar sighed, rubbing her temples.

"I’ll say. The whole town’s buzzing about your garden. Again." Myrtle shot her a sidelong glance. "Have you considered, you know, putting a leash on them?"

"I’ve tried," Briar said, glancing around at her unruly garden, where the vines were already snaking up the walls of the cottage. "It’s like they have minds of their own."

Myrtle tapped her chin thoughtfully, then her eyes lit up. "You know what you need? A little break! Let’s go into town. I heard there’s a traveling wizard selling enchanted soil. Maybe that’ll help tame your overenthusiastic greenery."

Briar couldn’t help but laugh. Myrtle always had the strangest solutions to problems. Enchanted soil? That sounded like something that would make her plants start singing show tunes. But still, the idea of getting out of the house, away from the constant demands of her magical garden, was appealing.

"Fine," Briar said, tossing her gloves onto a nearby bench. "But if I come home to find my garden has started a rebellion, I’m holding you personally responsible."

Myrtle beamed. "Deal!"

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The village of Briar’s Hollow was bustling by the time Briar and Myrtle made their way down the winding dirt path. People waved as they passed, though Briar couldn’t help but notice a few of them eyed her warily. Ever since her plant magic had started acting up, the villagers had taken to giving her a wide berth. Apparently, no one wanted to be accidentally wrapped in a vine while they were buying bread.

"Look at it this way," Myrtle said as they reached the marketplace. "At least your magic isn’t boring. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? A few man-eating daisies?"

"Don’t even joke about that," Briar muttered, glancing nervously at a nearby flower cart. She had seen what overenthusiastic daisies could do to a person’s ankles.

The marketplace was alive with noise and color, stalls packed with everything from magical trinkets to fresh produce. The air smelled of spices, freshly baked bread, and the occasional whiff of burning potion ingredients from a nearby alchemist’s stand. It was chaotic and lively—exactly what Briar needed to distract herself from the chaos back home.

They wandered through the stalls, Myrtle eagerly examining everything that glowed or sparkled, while Briar kept an eye out for anything that might actually help with her garden problem. After a while, they found the stall Myrtle had mentioned, manned by a wizened old wizard with a beard that nearly touched the ground and an alarming number of potted plants, all of which were glowing faintly.

"Enchanted soil, eh?" Myrtle said, eyeing a bag of what looked suspiciously like regular dirt.

The wizard’s eyes twinkled as he stroked his beard. "Not just any soil, my dear! This soil is imbued with the essence of the earth itself. Guaranteed to bring out the best in your plants. Or the worst, depending on how you treat it."

Briar blinked. "The worst?"

"Well, plants are like people, you know," the wizard said sagely. "If they’re unhappy, they’ll let you know. My enchanted soil tends to amplify their emotions, so… handle with care."

Myrtle elbowed Briar, grinning. "This sounds perfect for you."

Briar wasn’t so sure. Her plants were already moody enough without an emotional amplifier. But before she could object, Myrtle had thrust a bag of the enchanted soil into her hands and was already haggling with the wizard over the price.

As they walked away from the stall, Briar stared down at the bag in her hands, a sense of foreboding settling over her. "I have a bad feeling about this."

Myrtle shrugged. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

Briar opened her mouth to answer, but then she closed it again. Knowing her luck, the "worst" involved her garden growing legs and marching into the village demanding equal rights for flora.

Still, maybe a little enchanted soil wouldn’t be so bad. After all, what was life without a little risk?