The 1980s had been kind to Dahlia Thorne. Salem was no longer the Puritan backwater it had once been, and though the town still bore the scars of its history, it had become a haven for those who sought the macabre and the mystical. Tourists flooded the cobblestone streets, searching for traces of the witches of old, unaware that one of them still lived among them, more powerful than ever.

Dahlia had long since perfected the art of blending in. To the public, she was a wealthy, reclusive woman, a relic of old Salem society. Her wife, Margaret—once a beautiful young socialite, now nearing her seventies—was slowly withering away in their grand estate on the edge of town. The fortune would soon be Dahlia's, as she had always intended.

But Dahlia was in no rush. She had lived for hundreds of years, after all, and patience was one of the many virtues she had mastered. The world was a playground, and she moved through it with the ease of someone who had long ago learned how to manipulate every thread of fate to her advantage.

That night, as she wandered through the flickering candlelight of a local occult shop, the air felt thick with anticipation. Dahlia had sensed something shifting in the town, a presence she hadn't felt before. She moved through the shop, her fingers trailing over old leather-bound books and jars filled with herbs and crystals, but her mind was elsewhere, her magic prickling at the edges of her awareness.

Then she felt it—a surge of power, not far away, something raw and untamed. Dahlia straightened, her lips curving into a slow, curious smile. Whoever it was, they weren't trying to hide. That kind of magic, wild and unrestrained, didn't belong to just anyone.

She followed the sensation outside, her heels clicking against the cobblestones as she made her way toward a small bar tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The sign above the door was dimly lit, and the music spilling out from inside was soft, almost drowned out by the low hum of voices.

Dahlia pushed open the door, stepping into the warm, darkened space. Her eyes swept the room, and that's when she saw her.

Rio Vidal sat at the bar, one elbow resting lazily on the counter, her dark eyes half-lidded but sharp as they scanned the room. Her posture was relaxed, but there was an undeniable edge to her—a coiled energy that hummed beneath the surface, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. Her lips quirked into a smirk as she noticed Dahlia's gaze, and she raised her glass in a silent toast.

There was something electric about her, something that pulled at Dahlia in a way she hadn't felt in years.

Green witch, Dahlia realized. A powerful one, at that. The air around Rio shimmered with the energy of the earth itself, wild and uncontainable. Dahlia had no idea how long Rio had been alive, and frankly, she didn't care. Time meant little to witches like them.

With a smooth, confident stride, Dahlia made her way to the bar, taking the empty seat beside Rio. She let the silence stretch for a moment, savoring the crackling energy between them before she finally spoke.

"You're new," Dahlia said, her voice low and velvet smooth, carrying with it the faintest hint of an accent she had never fully shed, "I would've noticed someone like you before."

Rio glanced at her, eyes glinting with amusement.

"And you're not," She replied, her voice sultry, with just enough rasp to send a shiver down Dahlia's spine, "But I'm guessing you prefer it that way."

Dahlia smiled, though it was more predatory than warm, "Most of the time."

There was a flicker of something in Rio's eyes, something knowing. Dahlia couldn't place it, but it didn't matter. There was a charge between them, a connection that went beyond the casual conversation they were exchanging. Dahlia could feel Rio's magic, buzzing just beneath the surface, so similar to her own yet so very different.

"Salem is full of stories," Rio said, her gaze drifting lazily over the other patrons in the bar before settling back on Dahlia, "I've heard about the witches here. I'm sure you know a few of those stories, don't you?"

Dahlia chuckled softly, a low, musical sound, "I've lived through more of them than I care to remember."

Rio's eyes darkened with intrigue, her lips curving into a smirk, "I figured. You have that look about you—the kind of woman who's seen the world turn over more than once."

Dahlia tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over Rio. The green witch exuded an effortless charisma, the kind that was dangerous, intoxicating. There was a mystery to her, an aura of confidence that bordered on arrogance, and Dahlia found herself captivated by it.

"And what about you?" Dahlia asked, her voice a soft purr, "You don't strike me as someone who's just passing through."

Rio leaned back slightly, taking a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving Dahlia's, "Let's just say I've been around. I like to go where the magic is... and Salem... it called to me."

Dahlia's lips curled into a smile, though her thoughts were racing. There was something about this woman—this witch—that felt familiar in a way she couldn't quite place. The rawness of her power, the way she moved with such effortless ease. And then there was the undeniable attraction, the pull between them that neither of them seemed to be denying.

"Magic calls to us all," Dahlia said, her voice softer now, more intimate, "But it seems to pull you more strongly than most."

Rio's smirk widened, her dark eyes glinting with amusement and something more—something dangerous, "I've never been one to ignore the call."

For a moment, the two witches simply stared at one another, the tension between them thickening. Dahlia could feel the energy in the air shift, a palpable heat building between them. It wasn't just magic; it was something deeper, something primal.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, their magic swirling around them in an invisible dance. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them, caught in a moment that felt both inevitable and dangerous.

As Rio raised her glass to her lips, her eyes glinting with mischief, Dahlia felt the pull of the dark once more. But this time, it wasn't just the magic—it was Rio herself. And Dahlia, for all her centuries of wisdom, knew she wouldn't be able to resist.

The 1980s bled into the 1990s, a blur of neon lights, shifting trends, and a rapidly changing world. But for Dahlia Thorne and Rio Vidal, time had always been something different. They existed outside of it—two witches who had long since lost their ties to mortal concepts of aging or stability. What mattered to them wasn't the passing of years but the moments between, the raw magic and emotion that flared whenever they came together.

It started with attraction, of course—an undeniable pull. But as the years wore on, it became something more complicated. Dahlia, with her cold elegance and centuries-old wisdom, was a grey witch who had mastered control over her life and her power. Rio, on the other hand, was wild, untamed—her green magic as volatile as the earth itself, shifting and evolving as the seasons changed. They clashed and collided, pushing each other away only to come crashing back together, drawn by a force neither of them wanted to define.

Neither Dahlia nor Rio cared for labels. Labels were for humans, for people who needed neat little boxes to categorize their lives. What they had was something deeper, something that defied easy explanations.

One evening in the late 1980s, Dahlia found herself standing at the edge of the sea, the cool wind tugging at her long, dark coat. The sky was an inky black, scattered with stars that seemed indifferent to the world below. She had come here to clear her mind, to think, as she often did when Rio's absence began to gnaw at her in ways she would never admit aloud.

They had been apart for months now—longer than usual. It wasn't uncommon for them to go their separate ways, disappearing into their own lives, only to find each other again when the pull became too strong. But this time felt different. Dahlia had spent decades perfecting her ability to remain detached, to let her relationships drift in and out of her life like smoke. But Rio was no ordinary witch, and no matter how hard Dahlia tried to deny it, the truth gnawed at her.

Just as she was about to turn and leave, she felt it—a familiar hum of energy behind her, subtle yet unmistakable.

"You always did have a thing for dramatic coastlines."

Dahlia didn't have to turn around to know who it was. The sound of Rio's voice, low and teasing, sent a shiver down her spine. She smiled despite herself, though she kept her gaze fixed on the horizon.

"Only when I'm in need of a reminder," Dahlia replied smoothly, her voice cool as the night air.

Rio stepped up beside her, close but not touching, her presence a crackling force of nature, "A reminder of what?"

Dahlia tilted her head, finally allowing herself to look at Rio. The other witch was as magnetic as ever, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something more dangerous. Her smile, half-cocked and impossibly confident, tugged at Dahlia's resolve. It always did.

"Of how small the world is," Dahlia said, her voice carrying a hint of irony.

Rio's smile widened, "You don't believe that for a second."

Dahlia gave a soft, knowing laugh, "Maybe not. But it's nice to pretend, sometimes."

For a moment, the two of them stood there in silence, the waves crashing against the rocks below. It was always like this between them—an easy understanding, an unspoken connection that didn't need words. But with that connection came an undeniable tension, one that had driven them apart time and again.

"What are you doing here, Rio?" Dahlia asked, her tone casual but edged with curiosity.

Rio shrugged, her gaze still fixed on the sea, "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check in on you."

Dahlia raised an eyebrow, amused, "Check in? Is that what we're calling it now?"

Rio smirked, finally turning to face her fully, "What else would you call it?"

Dahlia didn't answer. She didn't have to. The way Rio was looking at her, the way the air seemed to hum between them, was answer enough. This was how it always started—these brief, intense reunions where everything felt like it might spiral out of control at any moment.

And yet, they never quite let it.

Over the next few years, Dahlia and Rio's relationship followed the same unpredictable pattern. They would find each other, spend weeks or months wrapped up in each other's lives, their magic intertwined as they explored the depths of their power and attraction. And then, just as quickly, they would part ways, disappearing into their own worlds without so much as a word.

In the early 90s, they spent an entire summer together, living in a small, crumbling manor on the outskirts of New Orleans. The house had once belonged to a voodoo priestess, and the air around it was thick with magic, old and powerful. It suited them—wild, unrestrained, free from the constraints of society.

Dahlia had taken to wandering the city during the day, soaking in the old magic of the French Quarter while Rio worked with the plants and herbs she grew in the overgrown garden behind the house. They lived in a world of their own making, removed from the complexities of time and mortal concerns.

But even in those moments of closeness, they never talked about what they were to each other. Labels didn't suit them, and neither did promises. They thrived on the unpredictability, the danger of not knowing when the other might leave. It kept things exciting, kept the fire burning.

One night, during a particularly heated argument—sparked by nothing in particular and everything at once—Dahlia had stormed out of the house, her heart racing with a mix of anger and something she refused to name. Rio, ever infuriatingly calm, had followed her out into the humid night.

"You're running again," Rio had said, her voice infuriatingly steady.

Dahlia had whirled around, her eyes blazing with barely contained frustration, "And what if I am?"

Rio had simply smiled, that same maddeningly confident smirk, "You always come back."

Dahlia had wanted to deny it, to tell Rio that she was wrong. But the truth was, they both knew better. No matter how many times they left, no matter how much they fought or how long they stayed apart, they always found their way back to each other.

By the time the mid-90s rolled around, Dahlia and Rio's relationship had settled into a strange, unspoken rhythm. They would drift apart for months, sometimes even years, only to reunite as if no time had passed at all. The passion between them never dulled, and neither did the tension.

But for all their closeness, for all the magic and attraction that bound them, there was always a distance—a space between them that neither of them seemed willing to cross. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the knowledge that what they had couldn't be confined to something as simple as love.

In truth, Dahlia didn't know what they were. She wasn't sure she ever wanted to know.

And Rio? Rio was as elusive as ever, her motives always shifting, her intentions impossible to pin down. It was what made her so intoxicating, so impossible to let go of.

But as the world changed around them, Dahlia knew one thing for certain: whatever they were, it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Not for witches like them.

Dahlia never cared much for the affairs of mortals. Their wars, their struggles, their petty desires—all of it meant little in the grand scheme of her existence. She had seen kingdoms rise and fall, watched empires crumble to dust, and through it all, she had remained, untouchable and eternal. So, when the universe itself was cut in half, when half of all life vanished in an instant with a single snap of fingers, Dahlia hardly blinked.

At first.

The moment the Blip happened, she felt it—a shift in the very fabric of reality, a sudden emptiness that settled over the world like a heavy, suffocating blanket. It wasn't just the absence of people; it was the absence of energy, of life force. Dahlia, a powerful witch with centuries of experience, could sense it on a level few could. It was as if half of the magic in the universe had been snuffed out in an instant, leaving a void that pulsed in the pit of her stomach.

For a moment, standing alone in her lavish estate, she had felt... nothing. No fear, no sorrow, no horror at the devastation that followed. Instead, there had been a flicker of something else—an opportunity. The world was in chaos, and for someone like Dahlia, chaos was always ripe for exploitation.

In the years that followed, while others grieved, struggled, and fought to survive, Dahlia thrived. She used her power and charm to manipulate those left in power, securing deals, acquiring properties, amassing fortunes. Her late wife's wealth had already made her comfortable, but the Blip? The Blip had made her wealthy beyond imagination.

She took what she wanted, playing the game of survival better than anyone else. Charismatic, with a smile that could melt steel and a voice that slid like silk over even the most hardened of hearts, Dahlia moved through this fractured world like a ghost, untouched by the loss that plagued it. And while others fought to rebuild, to find hope in the ashes, Dahlia took advantage of every crack in the system, every desperate person looking for a lifeline.

It was a good five years. A profitable five years.

But even witches as old as Dahlia are not immune to time, and as the fifth year passed, something inside her began to stir. It wasn't a longing or regret—Dahlia wasn't capable of such things, or so she told herself. No, it was something quieter, something small but persistent, like a flicker of light in the deepest corners of her shadowed soul.

Guilt.

It crept in slowly, like a thief in the night, slipping through the cracks of her carefully built defenses. She had everything she could want—wealth, power, the freedom to live her life as she pleased. Yet, every now and then, when she was alone in the sprawling halls of her estate, when the silence stretched on too long, she felt it—the faintest twinge of something uncomfortable, something that whispered in the back of her mind that maybe, just maybe, she could have done more.

She could have helped. She could have used her power for good, to save lives, to stop the suffering she had so coldly profited from. The light, the part of her magic that she so often ignored in favor of the dark, flickered faintly, like a candle burning at the edge of her consciousness.

But she always pushed it away.

Dahlia had no interest in playing the hero. That was never her role, and it never would be. The Blip had given her everything she needed, and she had no regrets. Not really.

Yet the feeling persisted.

On a quiet night, as Dahlia sat by the fire in her grand living room, nursing a glass of aged whiskey, she stared into the flames, feeling that familiar, uncomfortable twist of guilt gnawing at the edges of her mind. The flames crackled, casting shadows across the room, and for a moment, she allowed herself to wonder what life would have been like if she had chosen differently. If she had used her power for something other than her own gain.

But that moment was fleeting, as most of those thoughts were. With a sigh, Dahlia leaned back in her chair, letting the warmth of the fire chase away the uncomfortable thoughts. She had made her choices, and she would live with them. The world was brutal, and so was she.

Then, suddenly, the air in the room shifted.

It was subtle at first, a faint ripple in the energy around her. Dahlia straightened, her senses sharpening as the ripple turned into a wave, crashing over her with a force that nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. She stood, the glass slipping from her hand and shattering on the floor, but she barely noticed. Her focus was elsewhere—on the disturbance that was rippling across the very fabric of the world.

Magic.

But not just any magic. This was powerful, wild, and unfamiliar, yet deeply, deeply ancient. It rolled through the air like a storm, violent and uncontainable, stretching across state lines. Dahlia's heart quickened, her pulse thrumming with recognition. She knew this magic. It was unlike anything she had felt in centuries, and yet there was something more beneath it, something darker.

Wanda.

She didn't know the witch by name—yet. But she knew power, and Wanda's magic was unlike anything she had ever encountered before. It burned through the air like wildfire, reshaping reality itself. It was beautiful in its chaos, and for a moment, Dahlia's heart raced with excitement. Whoever this Wanda was, she was a force to be reckoned with.

But then... there was something else. Beneath Wanda's magic, woven into the very fabric of the disturbance, was a signature Dahlia hadn't felt in years.

Familiar. Too familiar.

Dahlia froze, her blood running cold as the sensation washed over her. It was impossible. It couldn't be.

But it was.

Agatha.

The name burned in her mind, a mix of fury, desire, and something darker all tangled together. Dahlia's heart fluttered, then tightened, her breath catching in her throat. That magic—it was hers. The magic that had once wrapped around Dahlia like a lover's embrace. The magic that had, once upon a time, intertwined with her own so effortlessly, so dangerously.

Agatha.

The world seemed to still for a moment, the weight of that realization settling over Dahlia like a heavy cloak. The fire crackled behind her, but she felt no warmth. All she could feel was the familiar pulse of Agatha's magic, distant but unmistakable.

After all these years.

Dahlia's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile, her eyes darkening with a mix of emotions she had long thought buried. The past, it seemed, had a way of catching up to even the most powerful of witches.

And Agatha Harkness was a ghost she had never quite been able to escape.

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