Teeth | Agatha All Along

02

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.