Dahlia Thorne was born under a pale crescent moon in the heart of rural France, her cries lost to the quiet night as her mother whispered prayers of salvation over her. In a devout Catholic household, there was little room for the strange, the unnatural—but from the beginning, Dahlia was neither ordinary nor obedient. Her father, a stern man who clutched his rosary like a shield, believed that faith would cure whatever it was that made his daughter different. Her mother, though loving, feared the whispers in their small village. Those whispers only grew as Dahlia aged and her peculiarities became harder to hide.

When she was seven, Dahlia's family crossed the ocean, seeking a new life in the colony of Salem, a Puritan settlement far from the prying eyes of their former village. But no matter how far they fled, Dahlia's otherworldly inclinations followed. The move to Salem was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance for their family to bury the shame of Dahlia's "unnatural tendencies," as her father called them.

But even at the age of ten, Dahlia could not be molded into the perfect child of God they so desperately wanted. She was drawn to the woods that skirted the village, to the strange symbols she would carve into the dirt with sticks, to the whispers of the wind that seemed to speak only to her. The power, an uncontrollable force, hummed just beneath her skin, begging to be unleashed.

Her first spell came when she was ten years old, the day everything changed.

It had been an ordinary afternoon. Dahlia had wandered to the edge of the village, where the wildflowers grew in untamed clusters. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and smoke from the nearby houses. She knelt in the grass, her small fingers tracing patterns into the earth as her mind wandered to the dreams she had been having—dreams of fire and shadows, of voices that called her name.

She didn't know what drove her to speak the words, didn't know where they had come from. The incantation fell from her lips like a forgotten lullaby. A gust of wind surged through the field, carrying her whispered spell with it, and then—the fire began.

Flames erupted from the earth, devouring the flowers in an instant. Dahlia screamed, trying to stop the inferno, but her cries were swallowed by the roar of the blaze. She felt the magic within her pulse like a heartbeat, the heat of it flowing through her veins, and she raised her hands, desperate to undo what she had done.

She screamed another incantation, this time trying to douse the fire, her words fierce and desperate. The flames sputtered and wavered, but they did not die. They leaped and writhed, a living thing, part of her yet out of her control.

By the time the village men arrived, the fire had spread to the outskirts of the settlement. Houses were burning, the sky thick with smoke, and Dahlia stood in the center of it all, her hands outstretched, her voice hoarse from screaming incantations that had both birthed and failed to tame the blaze.

Her mother dragged her away before the villagers could see her, before they could accuse her of what she knew in her heart to be true—that she had caused it all.

For seven years, Dahlia's powers grew in secret. Her mother made her swear never to speak of magic again, not even in whispers. But the magic had awakened, and it would not be silenced. She grew stronger with each passing year, her spells becoming more deliberate, more powerful. She learned to balance light and dark, to call upon both when needed, but never again did she try to control something as wild as fire.

It was when she turned seventeen that everything truly fell apart.

The girl's name was Angelique, and she had come to Salem from another colony. She was beautiful, with pale skin and golden hair that shimmered like sunlight through the trees. Dahlia had met her at the village well, their hands brushing as they both reached for the same bucket. Angelique had smiled—a smile that made Dahlia's heart race and her palms tingle with the familiar, dangerous hum of magic.

They began to meet in secret. In the woods, away from prying eyes, away from the watchful gaze of God-fearing parents. Their kisses were like stolen moments of sunlight, warm and intoxicating, and for a while, Dahlia thought they could have those moments forever.

But secrets in Salem did not stay hidden for long. One fateful evening, they were seen—caught in a kiss by a villager who needed no more proof than that. The next morning, the entire town knew. Dahlia's fate was sealed.

Her trial was swift. The Puritan elders spoke of her wickedness, her ungodly nature. They called her an abomination, a seductress of the devil's work. But they did not know the true extent of her power, not yet. They thought they were sentencing a wayward girl to hang for sins of the flesh. They had no idea they were condemning a witch.

As Dahlia stood on the gallows, the rope tight around her neck, she did not cry. Her heart was broken, but not from fear of death—no, her heart ached for the love she had lost, for Angelique, who had been taken from her, who had been cast aside as though her very existence was a crime. The crowd jeered, their faces twisted with judgment and hatred, but Dahlia did not flinch.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, and in that moment, she knew she could not leave this world without leaving her mark upon it. She began to hum softly under her breath, a melody of sorrow, of rage. The incantation, dark and ancient, poured from her lips. The sky darkened, the wind howled, and the crowd fell silent as the air grew thick with the weight of her words.

Her tears burned as they fell, but she did not stop. She cursed them all, every last one of them. She called upon the spirits of the dead, upon the darkness she had long kept buried.

" Damno te," She whispered, her voice growing louder as the magic surged through her, " Anima mea erit."

The last thing she saw before the rope pulled tight was the faces of the crowd—their fear, their disbelief—as the life drained from their eyes.

But Dahlia did not die. When the rope should have snapped her neck, it merely swayed in the breeze. Her body hung limp for only a moment before her eyes opened once more. She gasped, her breath filling with the life she had stolen from the crowd below. Their bodies lay crumpled at her feet, lifeless, their energy now coursing through her veins.

Dahlia Thorne was not meant to die that day.

She wandered the wilderness for days, her mind clouded with the echoes of Salem's screams, her body still tingling with the magic that had kept her alive. The faces of the villagers haunted her—pale, lifeless, crumpled at her feet. She had stolen their lives to save her own, but it came at a cost. The magic felt heavier now, darker, and it pulled at her with an urgency she had never felt before.

She was no longer the girl who had played with incantations in secret. She had become something far more dangerous, far more powerful. And yet, she was alone.

It was deep in the woods, surrounded by the haunting stillness of autumn, that Dahlia first heard the whispers. At first, she thought it was the spirits—those she had often called upon in times of need. But these voices were not the dead; they were the living. A gathering of witches, their presence pulsing through the forest, drawing her toward them like a beacon.

By the time Dahlia found them, she was half-starved and ragged, her clothes torn from days spent wandering aimlessly. The coven stood in a circle beneath the gnarled branches of ancient trees, their voices low and rhythmic as they chanted incantations. At the center of the circle was Evanora Harkness, their leader.

Evanora was nothing like the witches of Salem's nightmares. She was tall and regal, with raven-black hair and eyes that shimmered with a mix of wisdom and power. She moved with the grace of someone who had lived many lifetimes, and the very air seemed to hum with energy when she spoke.

Dahlia, desperate and broken, collapsed at the edge of the clearing. The witches stopped their ritual, their eyes turning toward her. Evanora stepped forward, her expression unreadable as she studied the girl before her.

"Who are you?" Evanora's voice was calm, but there was an underlying steel to it.

Dahlia swallowed hard, her throat dry, "I... I am Dahlia Thorne."

Evanora's eyes narrowed slightly as if she recognized the name, "The witch from France."

Dahlia flinched. That title, that place, still clung to her like a curse. But she nodded.

For a long moment, Evanora said nothing. Then she extended her hand, "Come. Let us see if you are worthy of the power you claim."

Dahlia hesitated only for a second before taking her hand. The warmth of Evanora's magic flowed through her like a balm, easing the ache in her bones and the exhaustion in her soul. It was the first kindness she had felt since her death.

The witches took her in, and for the first time in her life, Dahlia felt like she belonged. They showed her a world she had only glimpsed before—a world where magic was not feared but revered, where spells were cast openly without the threat of a burning pyre. The coven was a sanctuary, hidden deep within the woods, away from the prying eyes of mortal men.

But with that sanctuary came rules.

Evanora was not a witch to be trifled with. She ran her coven with a strict hand, her power unquestioned. Every incantation, every ritual, had its place. Dahlia learned quickly that while magic could be a source of great power, it was also a source of great danger.

"There is a balance to all things," Evanora said one evening, as she and Dahlia sat by the fire, the crackling flames casting flickering shadows on their faces, "Magic, in its purest form, can tip the scales of fate. If you do not respect that balance, it will consume you."

Dahlia listened intently, her fingers absently tracing the symbols in the dirt beside her. She knew better than most the weight of magic unchained. She had lived it, felt it burn through her veins as she cursed the villagers who had tried to hang her.

But there was something about the darkness that still called to her. No matter how much she tried to focus on the light—on the spells of healing and protection that the coven practiced—there was always that lingering pull toward the darker side of her power.

"Evanora," Dahlia began one evening, her voice hesitant, "The darkness... it feels... stronger sometimes."

Evanora's gaze flicked to her, sharp and discerning, "It is always stronger. That is the nature of the dark. It is seductive, it offers power without consequence. But it lies."

Dahlia frowned, "But I've used it before... to save myself."

"And you will use it again," Evanora said, her voice unwavering, "But you must understand that the dark magic is not your ally. It is a tool, and you must wield it, not let it wield you."

For months, Dahlia trained under Evanora's strict guidance. She learned the incantations that bound spells to her will, the rituals that called forth spirits to aid her in her workings. She learned how to summon the elements, how to heal wounds with a whispered chant, and how to weave protection spells that could turn away even the most vicious of curses.

But even as she mastered the light, the pull of the dark never fully left her. It whispered to her in her dreams, calling her back to the raw, untamed magic she had used that day in Salem.

Dahlia had spent months within the coven, learning the delicate art of witchcraft under Evanora's strict and watchful eye. Evanora's teachings were meticulous, grounded in control, balance, and the importance of mastering both light and dark magic without letting the latter consume you. Dahlia, for all her natural abilities, struggled to follow these rules, the pull of the darkness still lingering just beneath the surface of her thoughts. It was always there, whispering to her, reminding her of the raw power she had once wielded in Salem.

But there was another pull, just as dangerous, that had begun to haunt her—one that came not from magic, but from Evanora's daughter, Agatha.

Agatha Harkness was unlike the other witches in the coven. Where her mother radiated authority and calm, Agatha was a wildfire. She embraced magic with a wildness that mirrored Dahlia's own, her connection to the darker arts evident in the way her spells hummed with untamed energy. She was unpredictable, confident, and alluring in a way that Dahlia couldn't ignore.

At first, they had exchanged little more than glances, their interactions limited to shared moments during rituals or fleeting conversations during lessons. But there was always an undercurrent of something more between them—something unsaid, something neither of them fully understood but couldn't deny.

It was late one evening when that undercurrent finally broke the surface.

Dahlia was in the coven's library, a dimly lit room filled with ancient tomes and dusty scrolls. She had come there to study, but her mind had wandered, as it often did when she was left alone with her thoughts. She was flipping through a book on protective spells when she sensed someone behind her.

"You're reading that wrong, you know."

The voice was playful, teasing, and unmistakably Agatha's.

Dahlia turned, raising an eyebrow as Agatha stepped out from the shadows, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Am I?" Dahlia asked, her voice calm, though her heart quickened at the sight of her.

Agatha moved closer, her steps slow and deliberate, her fingers trailing along the spine of the book Dahlia had been reading, "Mm-hmm. You're too focused on the light side of the spell. You're forgetting the balance."

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, "A little darkness makes it stronger."

Dahlia narrowed her eyes, though her pulse raced at Agatha's proximity, "That's not what your mother says."

Agatha's smirk widened, "My mother is afraid of what magic can do when it's truly unleashed."

She leaned in, her breath warm against Dahlia's cheek, "But you're not, are you?"

Dahlia's breath hitched. There it was again—that pull, that magnetic force between them that neither of them could explain. She turned her head slightly, her gaze locking with Agatha's, their faces now mere inches apart. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension.

"I don't fear the dark," Dahlia whispered, her voice steady but her heart pounding.

Agatha's eyes gleamed with something dangerous, something thrilling.

"Good," She murmured.

Before Dahlia could respond, Agatha closed the distance between them, her lips brushing against Dahlia's in a kiss that was soft but charged with electricity. It was as if all the tension, all the unspoken feelings that had been building between them, had finally ignited in that single moment.

Dahlia's breath caught in her throat, her body freezing for just a second before she gave in, kissing Agatha back with a hunger she hadn't known she possessed. The pull of magic and something deeper surged through her, making her heart race and her skin tingle.

It was intoxicating. Dangerous.

Agatha's hands slid around Dahlia's waist, pulling her closer, and Dahlia's fingers tangled in Agatha's dark hair as the kiss deepened. The world around them seemed to blur, the only reality the heat between their bodies, the undeniable force that had been building for months.

But just as quickly as it had begun, Agatha pulled back, her breath ragged, her eyes dark with something Dahlia couldn't quite place. They stood there, chests heaving, neither of them speaking for a moment as they stared at each other in the dimly lit library.

"That..." Dahlia began, her voice barely above a whisper, "What was that?"

Agatha's smirk returned, though there was something more serious in her eyes now.

"A mistake," She said, though her voice lacked conviction, "But a mistake I'm not sure I regret."

Dahlia swallowed, her heart still racing. She felt the same—conflicted, confused, but undeniably drawn to Agatha in a way that went beyond magic. There was something between them, something powerful and dangerous, and it terrified her.

They stood there for another long moment, neither of them speaking, the weight of their unspoken feelings hanging in the air. Finally, Agatha took a step back, her smirk widening as if to cover the tension that had settled between them.

"Goodnight, Dahlia," She said, her voice light but laced with something deeper.

Dahlia watched as Agatha disappeared into the shadows of the library, her heart still racing, her mind spinning with everything that had just happened.

The pull between them, just like the pull to the darkness, was only growing stronger.

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[ what do we think so far? ]