Mole snorted. “Help how? You’ve never helped anything but your own belly.”
In the heart of the Whispering Woods, there lived a weasel named Lala. She had the silkiest coat and the brightest eyes, but her heart was a knot of thorns. The other animals called her “wicked” for good reason.
Lala lay in the dust, cold and ashamed. For the first time, she realized: Being wicked hadn’t made her powerful. It had made her alone. lala wicked weasel
Winter passed. By spring, Lala was no longer called “the wicked weasel.” She became “Lala the Sharp”—sharp in wit, but now sharp in seeing who needed help before they asked.
“You’re different,” Bird chirped suspiciously. Mole snorted
Lala slunk from the shadows. “Fighting is stupid,” she sneered. “I’ll just take what I need. That’s what the strong do.” She darted toward Badger’s apples, but her paws were weak—she hadn’t eaten properly in days, either. She tripped on a root and tumbled into a dry ditch.
As night fell, the animals gathered around a small fire. They divided the apples into tiny slivers. Even Fox shared a piece of dried meat. Lala watched from the edge of the darkness, her stomach aching. She had the silkiest coat and the brightest
Mole stared. “That’s not wicked. That’s useful.”