The crunch of brittle leaves under Dahlia's boots echoed in the suffocating silence. The forest around her was dense, dark, and still, the trees leaning inward as if whispering secrets to one another. The air was damp, thick with the scent of earth and decaying foliage, and the cold wind slithered through the branches, brushing icy fingers against her skin.

Dahlia exhaled slowly, her breath misting in the frigid air. She tilted her head back and stared at the winding path ahead, the infamous Witches' Road—an impossible thing made real. She had scoffed at its existence once, dismissing it as nothing more than a myth. But now, here she was, walking its cursed path, its trials pressing down on her shoulders like an invisible weight.

At her feet, muddy footprints stretched forward, leading deeper into the darkness. They were uneven, chaotic—some small, others large—overlapping as if those ahead of her had fled in panic. Dahlia sighed, straightened her back, and took another step forward. Her boots squelched in the mud, the cold seeping through the soles.

She was alone. Again.

Always alone.

Her mind spiraled back to the name that had shaken the room moments ago.

Nicholas Scratch.

It looped in her thoughts like a cursed melody. The way Agatha had reacted—pure, visceral shock—told Dahlia everything she needed to know: it wasn't just a name. It meant something. Something deep, something painful.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She could still see Rio's face when she had asked about Nicholas. That fleeting moment where Rio's mask had slipped, revealing something Dahlia had almost never seen in her—pain. It wasn't often Death herself showed cracks in her armor.

And then there was the boy.

Billy.

She slowed her pace, her eyes narrowing as the thought crept into her mind. Billy. But Billy who? Billy Something.

The boy had looked at Agatha with fear but also familiarity. Like he knew her—or should have known her. And that voice, his voice, had stirred something uneasy in Dahlia.

She pressed forward, the cold gnawing at her bones, but it wasn't the wind that made her shiver.

Billy.

Her mind betrayed her, yanking her backward into memories that felt so distant now they could have belonged to someone else.

Salem.

She could still smell the smoke in the air, hear the crackle of firewood, the whispers of witches in the dark. She was young then. So was Agatha. Before the weight of centuries dulled their edges, before betrayal and regret hollowed their hearts.

They had been girls playing at power, cloaked in secrets and forbidden spells. Agatha had been the fierce one, bold and reckless, her laugh sharp like breaking glass. Dahlia had followed her like a moth to a flame, enchanted by the pull of something brighter than anything she had known.

She remembered sneaking into the woods with Agatha, their hands brushing, their eyes meeting with unspoken thoughts. Nights spent whispering spells they barely understood, laughter turning into breathless kisses under the moonlight. Dahlia could still feel the warmth of Agatha's fingers entwined with hers, the safety of it.

But that warmth had turned to ice when Dahlia ran.

Coward.

The word echoed in her skull, as sharp as the day Agatha had spit it at her. Dahlia's steps faltered, her breath catching. She hadn't wanted to run. She hadn't wanted to leave Agatha. But fear had rooted in her heart like a weed, twisting and choking, making her believe it was safer to break her own heart than have someone else do it.

And now... Evanora's voice clawed its way back into her mind.

"You were born evil. I ought to have killed you the moment you left my body."

Dahlia winced, her fists clenching. To think she had left Agatha with that. She had admired Evanora once—looked up to her. Evanora had been the embodiment of power, of control. Dahlia had wanted to be like her.

But that admiration was nothing now. Only disgust remained.

She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and forced herself forward.

The muddy path sloped downward, growing slick underfoot. The trees began to thin, the oppressive forest giving way to an open clearing. The air here felt colder, heavier, as if the ground itself was holding its breath.

Then she saw it.

A castle.

Its towering stone walls loomed in the distance, jagged spires clawing at the yellow sky. A massive wooden drawbridge stretched across a blackened moat, its chains groaning in the wind. The muddy footprints led straight to it.

Dahlia slowed, her breath curling in the air. The castle seemed impossibly old, its stones darkened by time and weather, but there was something... unnatural about it. As if it wasn't built but grown from the shadows themselves.

The drawbridge creaked, swaying slightly as if beckoning her forward.

Dahlia's pulse quickened. Her magic stirred beneath her skin, a steady hum that warned of danger ahead. And yet, she stepped forward.

Always forward.

The closer she drew, the colder the air became, until it felt like ice in her lungs. The castle walls were adorned with grotesque carvings—faces twisted in agony, mouths open in eternal screams. The kind of place that felt more like a tomb than a fortress.

But it was the path she was meant to walk.

The Witches' Road had brought her here for a reason.

As she approached the drawbridge, the wind howled through the stones, carrying whispers she couldn't quite understand. They sounded like voices from long ago, half-remembered, half-forgotten.

She stopped just before stepping onto the bridge, her eyes fixed on the looming gates.

Somewhere beyond those walls was another trial. Another piece of the puzzle. Another step closer to Agatha. Closer to understanding the boy—Billy.

Her breath shuddered out of her as the pieces refused to fit.

Billy...

The name itched at the back of her throat. She knew it. She knew it. But the truth slithered just beyond reach.

With a slow, steady breath, Dahlia stepped onto the wooden planks, each creak beneath her boots echoing into the dark.

She didn't look back.

There was nothing left behind her.

Only the castle. Only the Road.

And the answers waiting within.

"This is a numbers game. We keep at it until we get the right cards in the right spot... or the ceiling runs out of swords."

"I wish Lilia was here."

As if summoned by the words, the remaining witches tumbled into the room in a chaotic heap. Lilia, and Jennifer, stumbled forward, their sudden appearance startling but welcome as Dahlia stumbled in from the other side of the room. The magic of the Road had done its work, dressing each of them in strange costumes:

Billy as Maleficent.

Agatha as the Wicked Witch.

Lilia as the Good Witch.

Jennifer as the Evil Queen.

And Dahlia as Sarah Sanderson.

She glanced down at herself and snorted.

"Cute," She muttered.

"Relax, baby. We're cool," Lilia said absentmindedly, though her eyes were distant, lost somewhere between now and then.

"What are we supposed to do?" Dahlia asked, her eyes scanning the room until they found Agatha.

Her breath caught when their eyes met.

But Lilia wasn't listening. Her mind was unraveling, slipping through time, past and present folding in on each other.

Moments blurred. One second, Lilia was covered in mud, the stench of death surrounding her. The next, Agatha was on top of her, shoving her aside.

"What are you doing?!" Lilia's voice rose in alarm.

Agatha's eyes were wild, "Did you not see the imminent impalement in your future?"

"Get off!" Lilia shoved her back, her chest heaving.

"I was trying to help you!" Agatha snapped, brushing herself off, but the fire in her voice quickly dimmed when their eyes met again.

Dahlia's heart was pounding, but she didn't say anything. Couldn't.

"Lilia!" Agatha barked, dragging her attention back to the present.

But Lilia went straight for Billy.

"Whoa! Ow! I thought we were cool!"

"We are not cool, Teenager."

"I'm sorry! I shouldn't have lashed out. I didn't know—I wasn't hiding my power. I didn't know I could—"

"You're reading my mind," Lilia muttered.

"Only because it's so loud," Billy shot back.

Jennifer gently touched Lilia's shoulder, "Lilia, take it easy."

"Jen, aren't you furious?"

"Always," Jennifer replied flatly, "But collectively? We've moved on."

Agatha's voice, low and biting, added, "At your prompting, Dory."

Dahlia moved closer, eyes never leaving Agatha. She silently extended a hand, offering the pointed hat that would complete Agatha's Wicked Witch attire. Their fingers brushed as Agatha took it, the brief contact sending a jolt through both of them.

Agatha's hand lingered longer than necessary.

But the ceiling groaned, swords screeching as they slid lower.

Closer.

Lilia moved to the center, cards splaying out before her, her hands shaking.

"I was doing a spread" She muttered," What did I get wrong?"

The ceiling dropped another inch.

Agatha's breathing hitched. Dahlia felt herself moving, instinct taking over. She was beside Agatha before she knew it, reaching out without thinking.

Agatha's hand found hers, fingers locking tightly.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need to.

Their eyes met, and in that fragile, terrifying moment, everything unsaid was spoken.

I'm sorry.

I never stopped loving you.

Don't leave me again.

Dahlia squeezed her hand tighter, her throat constricting. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

Lilia's breath quickened, cards slipping through her fingers.

"I am the Traveler," She whispered, frantic, "I am... the Queen of Cups. Empathetic, intuitive, inner voice to be trusted. Three of Pentacles. Collaboration. The Path Behind..."

The ceiling dropped.

Dahlia leaned into Agatha, their shoulders touching now.

"The Path Ahead... High Priestess. Obstacles..."

Lilia's breath caught.

"Three of Swords."

Dahlia's grip tightened as Agatha's eyes flickered.

Heartbreak. Sorrow. Grief.

Her.

And Dahlia—

"The Lovers."

Dahlia's breath caught in her throat.

The ceiling screamed, metal grinding against stone.

Agatha's eyes burned into hers, brimming with something raw, unspoken.

"If this is it..." Dahlia began, but her voice failed.

Agatha's lips parted, but the words didn't come.

Closer.

"The Windfall... Tower reversed. Disaster, destruction—miraculous transformation."

Lilia flipped the final card.

Death.

The ceiling stopped.

Silence.

Dahlia couldn't breathe.

Her hand was still locked in Agatha's.

Neither moved.

Neither spoke.

The door groaned open, its rusted hinges shrieking as ancient magic released its grip.

"Lilia, you did it... you saved us," Jennifer whispered, her voice barely above a breath, breaking the suffocating silence.

Billy blinked rapidly, still disoriented, "What... what happened?"

Lilia stood still, her eyes distant, locked on something far beyond the room. Her shoulders sank under the weight of what she knew had to be done.

"Rio..." Lilia's voice cracked, "She's Death."

Jennifer's head snapped toward her, "She's what?"

"The original Green Witch."

Billy's wide eyes darted between the women, "Is that true?"

But his question was met with silence.

Agatha and Dahlia didn't move. Their hands remained entwined, a fragile connection in the aftermath of chaos. Neither dared to let go first. Their palms were slick with sweat, but neither cared. Their fingers curled tighter, as if releasing each other would unravel everything they had just survived.

The air was thick with the ghosts of the Salem Seven, their whispers slithering through the cracks of the stone walls. The sound sent a cold shiver through the witches.

But Lilia moved first, her face set with quiet resolve. She turned, ushering the others toward the iron maiden.

"When she calls you a coward, hit the deck," Lilia said to Agatha, her tone light but laced with unspoken meaning.

Agatha's brow furrowed, but she didn't ask.

Lilia's eyes glistened, her throat tight with unspoken words. She moved methodically, making sure every witch—every friend—was safely past the threshold.

Jennifer fought hardest, her fists slamming against the iron door as it began to close. "Lilia, no! No! Don't do this!"

But it was too late.

Lilia's tears slipped free, her voice a soft, breaking whisper, "I loved being a witch."

The door sealed with a final, echoing boom.

The air was still.

Jennifer slumped against the door, sobs shaking her frame. Billy hovered beside her, pale and hollow, his small hands useless against the cold iron.

But Dahlia didn't move.

She barely noticed them.

Her entire world had narrowed to the sensation of Agatha's hand in hers.

The chaos had fallen away, the silence so profound that she could hear the faintest intake of Agatha's breath. Slow. Shallow.

They moved forward, step by tentative step, ascending the winding stone staircase.

Neither spoke.

Dahlia's chest rose and fell, matching Agatha's rhythm.

The stone walls around them closed in, narrowing with each step, yet neither of them noticed.

Agatha's thumb grazed over Dahlia's knuckles. An unconscious, feather-light touch. Dahlia's breath hitched.

Agatha felt it.

Neither of them pulled away.

The air around them was cold, but not the cold of winter. No, this was something ancient, something that clung to skin and bone.

Dahlia could feel Agatha's warmth beside her, and yet... that chill crept in.

Her mind spun with memories of Salem. Of stolen moments under moonlight. Of whispered promises and broken ones.

Of the girl she once knew.

The girl she left.

And now, here they were again, centuries later.

Still holding on.

Neither could meet the other's eyes for long.

When they did, it was fleeting but burning.

Agatha's gaze softened. For the first time in too long, she let it fall away. No walls. No armor. Just Agatha.

Dahlia's breath trembled.

Her free hand lifted slowly, hesitantly, reaching for Agatha's face.

But she stopped, fingers hovering just above her cheek, unsure.

Agatha didn't move away.

Not this time.

Her own hand lifted, mirroring Dahlia's motion.

And there they stayed, inches apart.

Fingers not quite touching.

Breaths mingling.

So close.

Dahlia's heart pounded in her chest, her throat tightening.

Her lips parted, just barely—

A cold wind sliced through them.

It wasn't natural.

It wasn't the Road.

It was Death.

The sharp bite of frost kissed their skin, sending shivers down their spines.

Both women froze.

Slowly, in perfect unison, they turned their heads.

And there she was.

Rio.

Standing in the center of the stone corridor, dirt swirling around her feet like a storm held at bay. Her dark cloak rippled, though no wind stirred. Upon her head sat a green crown, gleaming with unnatural brilliance, sharp and thorned.

Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, the earth twisting and curling at her fingertips.

Her eyes—those dark, knowing eyes—locked onto them.

Agatha's hand slipped from Dahlia's, the loss like ice against her skin.

But Dahlia didn't move.

She couldn't.

Rio tilted her head slightly, an unsettling smile tugging at her lips.

The cold deepened.

Dahlia swallowed hard, but her feet wouldn't obey.

She could still feel the ghost of Agatha's touch lingering on her skin, but now it was eclipsed by the suffocating presence of Rio.

Rio's gaze flicked between them, lingering on Dahlia just a second too long.

Dahlia's chest tightened, the icy air burning in her lungs.

Her magic stirred weakly beneath her skin, but it was nothing against this. Against her.

Against death.

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