Teeth | Agatha All Along

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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.