The basement of Dahlia Thorne's estate was a place no one dared to enter. The air itself felt heavy with centuries of magic, dark and light, twisted together in a way that made it impossible to discern where one ended and the other began. Even the walls seemed to hum with an unsettling energy, as if the house itself were alive, breathing, watching.

Dahlia's den was located deep within this basement, hidden behind an unmarked door that most would overlook as part of the house's many secrets. But beyond that door, down a narrow staircase of stone, was a world that few had ever seen—a world where the line between life and death, between light and dark, was not just blurred but obliterated entirely.

The den itself was cold and dark, the only light coming from flickering candles scattered across various surfaces. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs, burning incense, and something else—something rotten. The floor was covered in symbols, runes etched into the stone in patterns that only Dahlia could decipher. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of preserved organs, ancient books bound in leather, and twisted remnants of spells long forgotten by the outside world.

In the center of the room, there was a man.

He was chained to the wall, his wrists bound by iron cuffs that had long since dug into his flesh. His body was withered and gaunt, his skin pale and stretched tightly over his bones. His eyes, once bright and full of life, were now dull, clouded with the weight of years he should not have lived. He had been twenty once—strong, vibrant, full of the kind of life that Dahlia coveted. But now he was little more than a husk, his youth drained from him to fuel hers.

Dahlia stood before him, her gaze calm, detached, as if the sight of his suffering was as ordinary as the flickering candles around her. She had done this many times before, taken life to sustain her own. It was a necessary evil, one she had long ago accepted as part of her existence. The world was brutal, and to survive in it, one had to make sacrifices.

And Dahlia was very good at surviving.

She raised her hands, the pale skin of her fingers catching the faint candlelight. With a soft whisper, she began to chant, her voice low and melodic, a language older than the earth itself. The air around her stirred, the energy in the room shifting as the spell took form. Her magic, grey and potent, wrapped around her like a cloak, swirling through the room in tendrils of light and shadow.

The man moaned weakly, his head lolling to the side as Dahlia's magic reached out to him, tugging at the fragile threads of his life force. His breathing quickened, his eyes fluttering open just enough to catch a glimpse of her before closing again, too weak to protest.

Dahlia's chant grew louder, the words flowing from her lips with practiced ease. She could feel the power coursing through her, a rush of energy that sent a thrill down her spine. This was the dark side of her magic, the part she never denied, the part that fed her, kept her alive and youthful while the world around her withered and died.

But within the darkness, there was light. Dahlia's magic was not pure evil, not entirely. She did not revel in suffering for its own sake. No, she believed in balance—taking what was needed and no more. The man had been chosen for a reason, plucked from a life that had little meaning beyond the walls of her estate. She had found him in the aftermath of the Blip, desperate, aimless, wandering the world without purpose. Dahlia had offered him something in return for his life: a brief moment of beauty, of pleasure, before the inevitable decay.

But now, that moment had passed.

Her hands hovered over the man's chest, the magic swirling around him like a storm. His life force, faint and flickering, began to rise from his body, a pale, ghostly light that twisted through the air like smoke. Dahlia breathed it in, feeling the energy seep into her, rejuvenating her, filling her with the strength she needed to keep going, to keep living.

The man gasped, his body convulsing as the last of his youth was pulled from him. His skin, already pale and sunken, turned grey, his limbs trembling as if he were caught between life and death. Dahlia watched, her eyes cold and unblinking, as the transformation completed itself.

She could feel it—the power, the life force coursing through her veins, making her feel alive in a way that only this dark ritual could. Her skin glowed faintly, the lines of age smoothing out, the vitality returning to her features. She was immortal, in a sense, but even immortality came with a price. And Dahlia had always been willing to pay it.

The man sagged against his chains, his breath shallow and rasping. He was still alive, technically, though only just. Dahlia would keep him that way for a while longer, until there was nothing left to take. When the time came, she would dispose of him, as she had done with all the others. But for now, he served his purpose.

Dahlia stepped back, her fingers tingling with the aftershock of her magic. The air in the room was still now, the candles burning low, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. The den, once alive with energy, had returned to its usual state of unsettling quiet.

Dahlia stood in the dim light of her den, the air still heavy with the lingering remnants of her spell. Her gaze shifted toward the large, ornate mirror hanging on the far wall, its edges gilded in tarnished gold, a relic from another time. The mirror had been with her for centuries, reflecting back a beauty that had remained untouched by the ravages of time.

She moved toward it slowly, her long fingers brushing against the smooth surface, feeling the chill of the glass beneath her touch. For a moment, she simply stood there, gazing at her reflection. Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile as her eyes traveled over her face—smooth, unblemished skin, the glow of youth still clinging to her features. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves, framing her face like a portrait of eternal beauty.

It was moments like this that reminded Dahlia of the power she held, the price she had willingly paid to maintain this facade. She was centuries old, yet she looked no older than the day she had first tapped into the dark magic that now sustained her. The life force she had stolen from countless others coursed through her veins, keeping her alive, keeping her beautiful.

Her smile widened, a slow, deliberate gesture as she admired the result of her craft. Mortals would kill for this—youth, beauty, power—but for Dahlia, it was simply another tool. Another means to an end.

She turned away from the mirror, the flicker of satisfaction still playing on her lips, and moved toward the shelves that lined the far wall of her den. The air was cool, the scent of dried herbs and old parchment filling her nostrils as she reached for a weathered book. Her fingers traced the spines of the ancient tomes and scrolls, pausing briefly on titles she hadn't touched in years, before pulling one free.

She knew what she was searching for, though it had been ages since she had last opened the book. The Scarlet Witch.

Dahlia had read about her long ago, back when she first began delving into the deeper, more dangerous realms of magic. The legends were old, passed down through whispers and half-forgotten stories, but Dahlia had always paid attention to the myths that spoke of power beyond imagination. The Scarlet Witch had always been one of those stories.

But now, after feeling the pulse of that same magic ripple through the air, the weight of Wanda's power pressing against her senses, it felt different. Real.

Dahlia's hands moved with purpose as she flipped through the pages of the book, the parchment fragile and yellowed with age. She could smell the dust rising from the old pages, the ink faded but still legible. Her eyes scanned the familiar text, the words calling forth memories of another time, another place.

There, written in an elegant, flowing script, was the story of the Scarlet Witch. A witch of unparalleled power, one whose magic was said to be woven into the very fabric of reality itself. The stories varied from source to source, but they all spoke of the same thing: chaos magic. Magic so wild, so potent, that it could bend the laws of nature, warp time, and reshape existence.

Dahlia had always been fascinated by such power, even back then. But now, after feeling the weight of it herself, the fascination had turned into something more—a sense of urgency, of curiosity. Who was this woman, this Scarlet Witch, who could wield such magic? And why had she appeared now?

Her eyes narrowed as she read over a passage she had marked long ago:

She who holds the power of the Scarlet Witch wields chaos itself, capable of unmaking worlds, rewriting the very threads of reality. Her magic is born from darkness and light, an embodiment of both creation and destruction, bound to no laws, no rules.

Dahlia's breath hitched slightly as she read the words again, more slowly this time, letting their weight sink in. Chaos magic—uncontrolled, untamable. It was everything Dahlia's magic wasn't. For all her centuries of practice, all the spells and rituals she had mastered, Dahlia's magic had always been about control, about balancing the light and dark to achieve her ends. But the Scarlet Witch? She was something else entirely.

She flipped the page, her fingers brushing against the delicate parchment, her mind racing with possibilities. The stories of the Scarlet Witch were vague, fragmented, but the power they described was undeniable. If what Dahlia had felt earlier was any indication, Wanda was far more powerful than any witch Dahlia had ever encountered.

But then there was the other presence. The one that had made Dahlia's heart skip a beat, the one that had sent a ripple of both fear and longing through her.

Agatha.

The name echoed in her mind, sharp and familiar. She hadn't thought of Agatha in years, not since their paths had diverged in ways Dahlia wasn't sure she could ever fully explain. Their relationship had always been a storm—a collision of power and passion, of rivalry and something more. But now, after all this time, she could feel Agatha again, her magic a familiar thread woven into the chaos.

Why was Agatha there?

Dahlia's grip tightened on the book, her mind racing. She hadn't seen the witch for centuries, not since--

Dahlia closed the book slowly, her fingers lingering on the cover as she stared into the shadows of her den. The air felt heavier now, more charged, as if the very world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. She had been content, in her way, to stay in the shadows, to let the world pass her by as she built her wealth and maintained her power. But this... this was different.

The air in Dahlia's den was thick, oppressive, as though the weight of centuries pressed down upon it. She moved through the space with a deliberate grace, her footsteps nearly silent on the cold stone floor. The candles flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, their flames dancing in the shifting air as if they, too, could feel the magic stirring.

Dahlia paused before a large, black cauldron that sat in the center of the room, the surface of the iron pot etched with ancient symbols, worn smooth by countless rituals. The cauldron was older than most things in this world, older even than Dahlia herself, and it hummed with a dark energy that resonated deep within her.

She reached for one of the shelves, her fingers brushing over the various jars and containers until she found the one she sought: a small, glass jar filled with strands of hair. It was unremarkable to the untrained eye, just one of many artifacts in Dahlia's collection, but this jar was different. The hair inside it was special.

Agatha's hair.

Dahlia's fingers tightened around the jar, her pulse quickening at the memory of the last time she had seen Agatha, their paths diverging under a storm of power and betrayal. She hadn't thought she would ever need this again, hadn't thought she would find herself standing here, preparing to weave a spell to find her. But the universe had a way of pulling old threads back into the tapestry, no matter how frayed they had become.

With a quiet breath, Dahlia opened the jar, her eyes narrowing slightly as she plucked a single strand of hair from inside. The hair was dark, almost black, and still carried the faintest hum of Agatha's magic. For a brief moment, Dahlia's hand trembled as she felt the weight of memories and longing.

She dropped the strand of hair into the cauldron, watching as it floated briefly on the surface of the water before sinking into the depths. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thickening with an unsettling stillness. Dahlia's lips parted, her voice low and melodic as she began the incantation.

"By the strands that bind, by the blood that flows,
Reveal to me what the shadows know.
Through the veil, through the dark,
Show me where her soul does mark."

Her voice echoed through the room, the words vibrating through the air with a power that sent a shiver down her spine. The cauldron began to bubble, the surface of the water rippling as though something stirred beneath. A thick, black smoke curled up from the cauldron, twisting through the air like a serpent, filling the room with a pungent, earthy scent.

The temperature dropped further, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and shift, growing long and menacing. The smoke thickened, swirling around Dahlia as the magic took hold. Her eyes fluttered shut, her mind reaching out, searching, her consciousness pulling at the strands of Agatha's magic, following the thread of power that still connected them.

The room grew darker, the light from the candles dimming until only the faintest flickers remained. The smoke around Dahlia tightened, closing in like a suffocating fog, pressing against her skin as her mind slipped deeper into the spell. She could feel Agatha now, faint but present, her magic still pulsing in the distance.

But something was wrong.

Dahlia's brows furrowed, her breathing shallow as she pushed deeper into the vision. Agatha's magic was there, but it was muted, twisted in a way that felt... wrong. It was as if something was holding her back, trapping her in a place where her true power couldn't reach.

Then, with a sudden snap, Dahlia's vision cleared, and she saw it.

Agatha was standing in the middle of a quaint, picturesque suburban street, her face serene, her eyes dull, vacant. She wore a smile that didn't belong to her, a pleasant, empty expression that was so unlike the Agatha Dahlia knew. There was no spark of life, no fire, no cunning intelligence in her eyes. It was as though she had been hollowed out, her essence smothered beneath layers of something Dahlia could barely comprehend.

Dahlia's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the sight. Agatha was trapped, bound by a spell so powerful, so deeply rooted in chaos, that even *she* couldn't break free. Wanda had done this. Wanda, the Scarlet Witch, had taken Agatha's mind, her power, and locked it away beneath layers of illusion, leaving her nothing more than a puppet.

A surge of anger and something else—something darker, more dangerous—rushed through Dahlia's veins. The smoke around her thickened, the magic swirling violently as her fury ignited the spell. She could feel the weight of Wanda's power pressing against her senses, suffocating, all-encompassing. This woman, this Scarlet Witch, had dared to trap Agatha, had dared to use her chaos magic to strip away everything that made Agatha who she was.

Dahlia's fingers curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms as the cauldron bubbled furiously, the surface churning with dark magic. She could feel her own power surging, responding to the rage that now pulsed through her. The line between light and dark blurred even further, the shadows in the room growing long and twisted, creeping along the walls as though they were alive.

"Agatha," Dahlia whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and something deeper, something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in centuries.

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