Black Witch

The entrance to the tunnel loomed before them, a gaping maw of darkness carved into the earth. Morana stood at the front, black boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, her gloved fingers flexing at her sides. her black cloak billowing slightly as an unnatural wind slithered through the passage. Behind her, the other agents of Mephisto shifted in quiet anticipation, hands gripping weapons, eyes sharp and waiting. The air here was heavy with something unseen and old.

“Move quickly. No mistakes,” she commanded, her voice a sharp whisper in the silence. The others nodded, their dark silhouettes shifting as they stepped forward, following her, weapons at the ready.

Morana had risen through the ranks faster than any of them, her power eclipsing theirs with ease. Always faster. Always stronger. Always surviving when others did not. There was something unnatural about it, a force unseen that shielded her, as if the universe itself refused to let her fall. The others whispered about it in hushed tones, superstitious murmurs that she ignored. But she felt it too.

So she pushed. She tested herself at every turn, walked the edge of death to see how far she could go, how much she could take. And the answer was always the same, more.

And yet, it was never enough for him.

Seventy years might have been a lifetime for a mortal, but to him? It was nothing. She was still too young, too reckless. Still kept on the fringes, given minor tasks, retrieving insignificant artifacts, executing small, forgettable kidnappings. A weapon he liked to own but refused to wield.

Until now.

This was different.

No more trivial assignments. No more tests.

This mission was important. He had said so. And it had to be her.

For the first time, Mephisto would trust her.

Her jaw clenched as she remembered the conversation from the day before. The way he had summoned her, unexpected, after decades of distance, of deliberate avoidance. The flicker of confusion in her mind as she had stepped forward, meeting his gaze.

Even now, stepping into the abyss before her, she wasn’t sure what unsettled her more, the mission itself, or the fact that, after all these years, he had finally called for her.

The air in Mephisto’s chamber was thick with the scent of old parchment and burning incense, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls as if listening. Morana stood before him, her posture straight, unwavering, despite the weight of his presence pressing down on her like a vice. He sat on his throne, fingers steepled, his red eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"You know of the Tenebra Coil, don’t you?" Mephisto's voice was smooth, almost amused, as if savoring the words like a fine wine.

Morana frowned. She had heard the name before, whispered in forbidden texts and buried within the fears of those who dealt in the occult. "A weapon," she said carefully, "that allows its wielder to walk between time and space, but only within the realm of the dead."

Mephisto nodded, pleased. "A relic of great power, lost to time, hidden from those unworthy to wield it. The Coil does not bend to mortal hands; it is bound to Death itself. Only those who are chosen may grasp its power and step beyond the veil without consequence."

A chill curled around Morana’s spine, an unseen whisper slithering at the edge of her perception. The very mention of the Coil seemed to awaken something ancient.

"Many have sought it," Mephisto continued, his tone dripping with the satisfaction of countless failures. "They say it was forged in the space between life and afterlife, by hands both human and divine. It does not belong to the living. It does not even belong to the dead. It is a bridge, an anomaly, a thing that should not be. And yet, it exists."

Morana crossed her arms. "And where is it now?"

"Ah, that is the question, isn’t it?" He leaned forward, his grin widening. "They say the Coil cannot be found; it must be led to you. It has been hidden, protected by those who walk both sides of the veil, dead and living alike. Legends tell of a creature, a serpent, white and black, who walks where no one else dares. Some call it the harbinger of passage, others the unwanted creation of two realms. She carries the mark of time—a symbol of eternity, of cycles unbroken."

Morana’s brow furrowed. "A serpent?"

Mephisto waved a hand dismissively. "Metaphor, I’m sure. The legends are layered in riddles. What matters is that we got intel that the Coil is close, and you, my dear, will bring it to me."

And here she was. She had assembled her agents, meticulously planned the strategy. This was her moment, her chance to prove herself once more. To show him she was more than just a weapon at his disposal.

She stepped forward, leading them into the tunnel’s depths. The cold stone walls pressing in, slick with moisture. The damp air clung to her skin, heavy with something unseen. Then, as they reached a fork in the path, something changed.

A few meters in, the path split in two. Morana stopped.

To the right, the way seemed clear, the passage stretching forward into deeper shadow. The agents moved instinctively in that direction, but Morana remained frozen.

Her fingers twitched.

A thick black mist coiled through the entrance like living smoke, writhing, whispering. It brushed against her skin like a phantom’s hand, cold and invasive, sending a shiver down her spine. The air here was different—thick with something she couldn’t name, a pressure in her chest that wasn’t fear but something far worse. Anticipation. Anxiety.

“What is that?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Eyes locked onto the shifting mist.

The whispers curled into her ears, voices brushing the edge of her mind.

She stiffened. The voices were layered, overlapping in a chorus of urgent murmurs. Some were hushed, others insistent, calling, pleading. A language she should not understand but did. It slithered into her thoughts, familiar in a way that made her stomach twist.

“What’s what?” One of the agents turned to her, confused.

She blinked, glancing at them. Blank, oblivious. They didn’t see it. They didn’t hear it. Whatever this was, it was for her alone.

The others continued forward, passing her, moving toward the right tunnel without hesitation. heading toward the mist-shrouded path. She watched them go, their forms vanishing into the darkness, swallowed whole. Something in her chest tightened.

She couldn't move.

The whispers didn’t follow them. The mist didn’t react to their presence.

It was only her.

The left path called to her, a pull deep in her bones, like hands reaching from the shadows. It wasn’t a warning. It was a command.

Go left.

The pull in her chest grew stronger, a tether she couldn’t see but could feel sinking its claws into her.

She hesitated, her mind warring with itself. The mission. The others. Mephisto’s orders. The artifact they had come for was ahead. That was the purpose. That was why she led them.

But the pull… The left tunnel called to her.

She turned her head slowly, breath shallow. The mist slowly receded, thinning and unraveling like spectral fingers retreating into the shadows, as if compelled to follow the agents' path. The realization sent a slow shiver down her spine. The mist wasn’t a warning for her. It was a promise for them.

The whispers grew louder, more insistent.

You must go left.

Morana exhaled sharply, letting the last of the agents disappear into the right tunnel. She didn’t call out. Didn’t warn them. The agents would be fine. They were capable, trained by the same hand that had shaped her into a weapon. They would retrieve the artifact.

She just had to follow the pull.

Steeling herself, she turned away from them and walked alone into the darkness of the left path.

Morana's boots barely made a sound against the cold, damp stone as she moved deeper into the left tunnel. The air here felt heavier, pressing against her skin like unseen hands. The whispers had faded, but something else lingered, watching.

Her sharp eyes scanned the darkness, searching for the source of the pull that had dragged her away from the others. Then she saw it.

A small, hunched shape on the ground.

She tensed, fingers sliding toward the knife strapped to her boot. It could be a creature, something unnatural, a ward left behind to guard whatever Mephisto had sent her to retrieve.

But then it moved.

A quiet sniffle. A shuddering breath. As the figure took form, details emerged from the haze, an arm curled tightly around bent legs, a small frame trembling in the dim light. Then, hesitantly, it lifted its head. Wide, startled eyes locked onto Morana, frozen between fear and fragile hope.

A child.

The girl was curled into herself, trembling violently. Her hair, tangled and matted, was split into two stark colors, one side black as ink, the other white as bone. Her face was blotchy from crying, her red-rimmed eyes wide with fear.

The girl flinched when she noticed the knife in Morana’s grip, her small hands pressing against the tunnel floor as if she wanted to disappear into the stone itself.

Morana exhaled sharply, pulse steadying. No threats. No claws, no fangs. Just a terrified child. Slowly, she slid the knife back into its sheath, lifting her hands in a calming gesture.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The girl didn’t move.

She felt it, sharp and insistent, like claws sinking into her chest, an unspoken command threading through her veins. A primal urge to soothe, to quiet the trembling girl before her, to offer reassurance where there was only fear.

Morana crouched, keeping a careful distance. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

The girl’s lip wobbled, fresh tears spilling over. Then, in a voice hoarse from crying, she whispered:

“I saw it. The purple woman… she died.”

Morana froze. The girl's words settled over her like a weight, pressing down, heavy and unshakable.

Purple woman?

The phrase struck something deep, something buried. Morana’s breath caught as old, familiar images flickered in the back of her mind, dreams, flashes of color and whispers, visions she had once clung to as a child, hoping they meant something. Hoping they would lead her somewhere. But now, after decades of chasing shadows, they felt more like a curse.

"What?" Her voice barely made it past her lips, more breath than sound.

The girl sniffled, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. "She was dying... I saw it. There were others, but... but I couldn’t see them. Just feel them. We were all there."

A slow, creeping chill crawled up Morana’s spine.

Was there something in the tunnel?

Something killing. Something the girl had seen.

Her heart pounded, pulse quickening.

The agents.

The path on the right.

But they had been fine. The whispers hadn’t been real. They had been illusions. Just for her. Right?

She tried to push down the unease, focusing on the girl, who was shaking harder now, clutching something at her wrist. A bracelet. Dark metal, wrapped in an intricate design that almost seemed alive. A snake, coiled in an endless loop, devouring its own tail.

A serpent.

Morana reached out, brushing her fingers over the metal. A pulse of energy shot through her, ice-cold and ancient. Not just a bracelet. The weapon.

No, not a weapon.

The girl.

Morana’s gaze locked onto her, the details sharpening like a blade against stone. The pale strands of Melinoe’s half hair, the wide, frightened eyes, the way her small frame curled in on itself.

Where she was.

”Legends tell of a creature, a serpent, white and black, who walks where no one else dares. Some call her the harbinger of passage, others the unwanted creation of two realms. She carries the mark of time.”

The girl was what Mephisto had sent her to collect.

Her stomach twisted, but the girl was still speaking, voice choked and desperate.

“My hair changed. I don’t know why.” Her voice wavered, words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. “I felt my body rising, I couldn’t stop… and I don’t think the others could either.”

Her breath hitched, hands curling into fists against her trembling frame. “I could hear them screaming, praying, begging God to protect them. They say it’s the devil’s mark. That they have to hide me.” Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

A desperate plea.

“Can you help me? It’s dark. I’m scared. They won’t let me out.”

She was shaking harder now, her small body wracked with fear, the weight of memory dragging her back to that moment, to the terror, the isolation, the helplessness.

Morana didn’t hesitate.

She lowered herself onto one knee, leveling her gaze with the trembling girl. The child's small frame still shook, her fingers curled tightly around the bracelet on her wrist.

“Can you walk?” Morana asked, her voice steady but gentle.

The girl nodded quickly, though her breath hitched, and her voice wavered as she whispered, “Y-Yes.”

Morana exhaled, then reached out and took the girl’s cold, shaking hand in her own. A small act, one she hadn’t planned, but the instinct was overwhelming, an urge to ground her, to offer safety in the only way she could.

Her grip was firm, reassuring. “You’re going to be okay,” Morana told her, her words carrying more certainty than she felt. “I need you to be brave, alright?”

The girl sniffled, eyes still wide with fear, but she nodded again.

Morana tightened her grip. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Something twisted deep in her chest as she spoke. She had been this girl once, alone, afraid, drowning in power she didn’t understand, waiting for someone to pull her out of the dark. But no one had come for her. No one had saved her from Mephisto.

She wouldn’t let that happen again.

Morana let go of the girl’s hand and pushed herself to her feet. She scanned the tunnel, senses sharpening.

Had anyone followed her? Had the agents returned?

She turned, glancing behind her, but the passage stretched empty and silent.

When she looked back…

The girl was gone.

Morana’s stomach dropped.

She whipped around, eyes darting through the tunnel, searching. “Hey,” she called, voice firm. “Where are you?”

Nothing.

The damp, stone walls swallowed her voice, the silence pressing in. She took a step forward, scanning the ground where the girl had been. No footprints. No trace of movement.

Just… gone. A slow, cold dread seeped into her veins.

She had held her hand. Felt her warmth. Heard her ragged breathing.

The girl had been real.

Hadn’t she?

The hallway was silent except for the soft sound of their footsteps. Melinoe walked ahead, her fingers still loosely wrapped around Agatha’s, guiding her like it was the most natural thing in the world. The air between them was heavy with unspoken things, emotions neither of them knew how to voice just yet.

Melinoe led Agatha to a room beside her own, stopping at the door and turning with an easy, knowing smile. “It’s okay if you want to cry,” she said softly. “You can stay in my room if it makes you feel better.”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat.

She couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

There were tears in her eyes, but they weren’t just from sadness. They were from this, this moment, this child standing before her, offering her comfort like she was the one who needed it. Like Melinoe had already accepted something Agatha herself was still struggling to grasp.

Agatha drank her in, every detail, every feature. The way Melinoe’s half-black, half-white hair framed her face, the way her eyes, so eerily familiar yet entirely her own, flickered with something deep and knowing. The way she moved, light and unburdened, but with a weight in her chest that Agatha could feel just by looking at her. She was so much like Rio, so much.

Melinoe went quiet.

A shadow passed through her expression, dimming the warmth in her gaze. Doubt. Uncertainty. Fear, carefully hidden, but there if you knew where to look.

Agatha tensed.

She thought, for a brief moment, that it was because of her, because of the way she was staring, lost in the overwhelming tide of emotions she couldn’t put into words. Guilt clawed at her, but before she could say anything, Melinoe spoke.

“It’s still going to take a while for mom to get here?”

Agatha froze, her breath hitched, her heart lurching painfully in her chest.

Mom.

Melinoe had said it so easily, so naturally. Without hesitation. Without doubt.

And she wasn’t talking about Agatha. The realization hit her.

She was talking about Rio.

Agatha felt the world tilt, her vision swimming with the weight of it. For a split second, she imagined Rio standing right there, Melinoe looking up at her with the same expression, innocent, trusting.

And then she imagined it the other way around.

If Melinoe had been with Rio, and instead, had asked about Agatha. If she had waited for her.

Would Rio have felt this same gut-wrenching ache? Would she have had to swallow down the sharp, unrelenting wave of emotion pressing against her ribs?

The thought was too much, everything was too much.

Melinoe kept speaking, unaware of the hurricane inside Agatha’s chest.

“She said she’d be fast. She said she’d come back with you.” A pause, then: “But you’re here. Morana too. And she’s not.”

Agatha’s world cracked just a little more. She had already been drowning, but this, his felt like the final weight dragging her under. She forced herself to focus, to look at Melinoe, really look at her.

And she saw it, the fear.

The way Melinoe tried to hide it, to be brave, but couldn’t quite keep the doubt from creeping into her voice. The way her small fingers curled slightly, as if bracing for an answer she didn’t want to hear.

And Agatha didn’t think. She just acted.

She reached out, her hand finding Melinoe’s with quiet certainty.

“She’ll come back,” Agatha said, her voice soft but sure. “She always comes back.”

Melinoe’s eyes searched hers for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe her. Then, slowly, a smile broke across her face, small, warm, and devastatingly pure.

Agatha felt her heart squeeze.

It was too much, the sheer force of emotion pressing against her chest, making it impossible to breathe.

Melinoe was smiling.

Smiling because she believed her.

Agatha felt her heart tighten even more. That smile, the way it formed, the shape of her mouth, reminded her of another smile, one that only existed now in fading memories. A smile she hadn't seen in centuries, that had no image, just the echo of a life long gone.

And yet, here it was.

Melinoe kept talking, blissfully unaware of the storm of emotions she was stirring in Agatha.

"You'll like them, you know. I met Morana first, she teaches us all the cool witch stuff, but she had to go out a lot this week. I think she and mom are looking for something. Morgan helps me with homework, even though I'm not even going to school anymore, but she says no one likes stupid people, so I have to study. She makes it sound scary, but I think she just likes bossing me around. Oh! And I love working in the garden with Arya, but I think she still gets sad when she goes there. And Morrigan, she knows everything. Like, really, everything. You can ask her anything, and she'll have an answer. Just like you. One time, I asked mom what you were like, and she said", Melinoe took on a dramatic tone, clearly imitating Rio, "'Like Morrigan… but worse.'"

She giggled at that, her words tumbling out one after another, as if she had been waiting forever to say them.

Agatha felt like she was struggling to keep up, drowning in the flood of names and tiny, everyday moments, pieces of a life that had grown in her absence. With every little detail, every casual mention of them, the weight of it pressed harder against her chest.

Like a family.

Then Melinoe's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh! Morrigan told me something about you, but Morgan said she was lying, that she's a pathological liar. I don’t actually know what that means, but it sounds important! Anyway, is it true you knew Jack and Rose?"

Agatha blinked, caught completely off guard. "W-what...?"

"You know, from the Titanic!" Melinoe grinned. "She said you were on the ship with two friends, and one of them was slowing you down when you were trying to escape, so you kicked him off the door, and he died."

The sheer absurdity of it made Agatha pause.

“Like Morrigan… but worse.”

Yeah, of course, she could already picture the smug little gremlin twisting history to entertain her younger sister.

And without meaning to, without knowing how it even happened, she laughed. A real, genuine laugh, bubbling up before she could stop it. It felt foreign, almost strange in her chest, but gods, it felt good.

Melinoe beamed at her reaction, as if this was the best thing to ever happen.

"So it’s true?" she asked eagerly.

Agatha smirked, playing along. "Oh, absolutely. I kicked him right off."

Melinoe gasped, then grinned. "I bet he deserved it."

Agatha looked at her, something inside her shifting, something warm and lost long ago.

Agatha felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, to hold Melinoe’s hand, to ask her something, anything, to keep her there just a moment longer. But before she could speak, Melinoe suddenly turned toward the door, her expression shifting.

"You know, they found me too. I always knew you'd come one day."

Her words lingered in Agatha’s mind, reverberating with an undeniable certainty, a silent promise.

It was as though Agatha had been lost, but no longer.

Before Agatha could respond, she saw it, the subtle shift in Melinoe's expression, as if sensing something invisible, her eyes lit up, her smile blooming with pure joy and relief.

“She’s here.”

And just like that, she was gone, dashing out of the room, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the stairs.

Rio had arrived.

Agatha stood frozen in the quiet room, her breath shallow as the sound of footsteps filled the house. Not just Melinoe’s, there were others. A rush of movement, eager and hurried, descending the stairs, all converging toward the front of the house.

They were going to her. To Rio.

The name felt foreign on her tongue now, thick and bitter in her throat.

She could still feel the warmth of Melinoe’s presence, her bright eyes, the way she had smiled so easily at her. Like Agatha belonged there. Like nothing was broken, nothing lost. Like it was that simple.

But it wasn’t.

She had five daughters.

Five.

And she had known none of them. No memory. No understanding of how they came to be. It was as if she were expected to recall a life she had never lived, to know people who had come from her, yet were strangers.

And not just that.

All this time, they had been here. Together.

While she had been left in the dark.

Her hands curled into fists as the weight of it all crushed down on her.

Rio had brought them together. Rio had known and had chosen to keep them from her. Months had passed, months where Rio could have told her, should have told her, but she hadn’t.

Instead, Agatha had stumbled into them like an intruder in her own life.

The taste of it was vile, betrayal laced with something raw and unbearable.

She didn’t know what she would find when she faced Rio. If the answers would make things worse. If the weight of what she had done under the Darkhold would come crashing down in a way that she wouldn’t recover from.

Did they blame her?

Was she the reason for everything that had been taken from them?

Melinoe had been open with her, unafraid, ready to love her without hesitation. It made Agatha’s chest ache, the ease of it, the simplicity, as if this were just another day in their lives, as if it had always been this way. But Melinoe was just a child, it was easy for her.

It wouldn’t be for the others.

The rage surged up like a shield, sharp-edged and burning, a familiar feeling to cling to. It was easier to feel the anger than to drown in everything else. Agatha turned toward the door, toward the sound of voices downstairs and Rio.

She descended the stairs, each step heavy with the weight of anticipation. The air in the house thrummed with voices, overlapping in heated discussion, and she could hear them, all of them. The daughters she had never imagined existed just hours ago, now bickering in the next room, their words sharp with urgency.

And Rio.

The sound of her voice sent a jolt through Agatha, stopping her just before she reached the bottom.

"How did you open it?"

The words weren’t shouted, but they didn’t need to be. That tone was something Agatha recognized, serious, inflexible, edged with something dangerous.

She stilled, staying just out of view, her hand gripping the bannister. A part of her wanted to march straight in, to see Rio, to get this over with, but another part of her? It twisted with something sharp and uncertain.

Rio knew that no matter how she handled this, no matter what explanations she gave, Agatha would blame her. Would be furious with her for keeping this secret for two months. That was inevitable, Agatha was Agatha.

What she hadn’t accounted for was the sheer chaos their daughters would bring.

Morana’s voice jolted her from her thoughts.

"We had already asked you to stay here, quiet, and you simply open a portal..." Morana's voice, low and irritated.

Morrigan, Morgan, and Makarya stood before her, looking varying degrees of unrepentant.

"Oh, please, this again? We get it. Everything worked out in the end, didn't it?" Morrigan replied, entirely unbothered.

"Did everything work out?" Morana shot back, exasperation thick in her voice.

"We just wanted to help. Maybe it wasn’t the wisest idea, but you said you’d be telling her anyway. We just… advanced things a little." Morgan’s voice, steady, reasoning.

Rio was not impressed.

"Do you understand how exposed you were? Who was there?"

Morana took the opportunity to add fuel to the fire. "I told them that."

Rio ignored her.

"It’s not enough that one of you went and raised an entire useless army of undead, now you’re opening portals like it’s beginner’s magic?"

Morana nodded along, fully agreeing with Rio’s frustration, until she actually processed the words. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at Rio, offended.

"Hey! That was a while ago. And it was for a good cause," Morana shot back defensively.

At that, three sets of eyes turned on her, their expressions practically screaming: Oh, so now you have a problem with reckless magic? You literally started this mess.

Morana crossed her arms. “That’s different.”

Rio looked at her, exhaling slowly. “Of course it is.”

Then she turned back to the other three.

"Let’s go over this again," Rio finally said, voice eerily calm, the kind of calm that signaled impending doom. "You three opened a portal. Not just any portal, but one strong enough to pull Agatha through dimensions. And you did this while still under the assumption that she had no idea you existed."

Morrigan crossed her arms, shifting her weight. "You say it like that and it sounds bad."

"It is bad," Rio snapped. "Do you have any idea how much attention you could have drawn?”

Morgan sighed, already sensing where this was going. "We checked the barriers. We made sure it was contained…"

"Contained?" Rio let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Doctor Strange nearly walked through it!"

That got them.

Makarya visibly stiffened. Morrigan’s smug expression flickered, and Morgan, who had been the least defensive of the three, swallowed hard.

"Wait," Morrigan frowned, tilting her head. "Strange almost…?"

"Yes," Rio hissed. "Because that's what happens when you rip a hole in reality without subtlety."

A heavy silence settled between them.

Makarya shifted. "...But we closed it fast enough, right?"

"Yes, but that’s not the point!" Rio exhaled through her nose, trying to ground herself. "I don’t care how fast you closed it. You left a trace. You left an opening. He almost saw. Do you have any idea what that would mean? What it would mean for all of you if the Sorcerer Supreme started sniffing around more than he already is?"

Morrigan, never one to back down, shrugged. "It’s not like he could actually do anything…"

"That is not the point!"

Her voice cracked like a whip through the air, a reminder of who, what, she was.

All three flinched.

Rio sighed, dragging a hand down her face. "You don’t get it," she muttered, more to herself than to them. "You don’t get it. You think power is enough. It’s not."

Silence.

Morgan shifted uncomfortably. "...But you’re powerful. Agatha is powerful. If anything happened…"

"If anything happened, I would burn this world to cinders before I let them touch you," Rio said flatly.

None of them doubted her for a second.

Still, Morrigan, ever the reckless one, pushed. "Then what’s the problem?"

Rio snapped her gaze to her, and for a second, something dark and endless flickered behind her eyes.

"The problem," she said, voice lowering to something dangerous, "is that I don’t want to have to."

Morrigan, for once, had nothing to say.

Rio continued, her voice serious "You don’t understand what you did. You think it’s just magic, just opening a door." She looked at them, gaze hard. "But doors work both ways. You pulled Agatha through, but what if something else had come with her?"

That seemed to finally sink in.

Makarya swallowed. "...We reinforced it."

Rio’s lips pressed into a thin line.

"Yes," she admitted, reluctantly, "you did."

Morrigan blinked. "Wait…"

"The structure was solid. The energy was concentrated."

Morgan furrowed her brows, confused. "Then…"

Rio inhaled sharply, composing herself.

Then, with the most begrudging expression in existence, she muttered, "It was... well-executed."

Silence.

Then, all at once, their faces lit up.

"I knew it!" Morrigan whooped, shoving Morgan’s shoulder. "I told you the spellwork was solid!"

Makarya actually looked relieved, as if Rio’s praise somehow outweighed the fact that they had nearly exposed themselves to one of the most powerful sorcerers in existence.

Rio regretted everything.

"No. No, no, no, do not take this as encouragement."

"But you liked it," Morgan pointed out, eyes sharp. "You’re just mad because we put ourselves at risk."

Rio clenched her jaw.

"...Yes," she admitted after a long pause, voice quieter. "Yes. Because that’s what matters."

The room settled into something heavier.

Morrigan, despite herself, shifted uncomfortably. "We didn’t mean to…" She trailed off.

"We just wanted to help," Makarya finished.

Rio sighed, rubbing her forehead.

She wanted to be furious. She was furious. But she was also…

Proud.

And that was the problem.

Because with Agatha, it had been different. Agatha was chaos incarnate. A storm. Rio had never had to worry about her, not in this way. Agatha could take care of herself, could break every law of magic and somehow thrive in the wreckage.

But her daughters?

They were hers.

And no matter how powerful they were, no matter how skilled, they were still…

Rio exhaled, softer this time.

"...Just don’t do it again," she murmured.

Morgan, sensing the shift, nodded. "Okay."

Morrigan hesitated, then nodded too.

Makarya, finally, gave a quiet, "We won’t."

Rio looked at them, searching, before nodding once.

Then, just as the tension eased, "So…" Morrigan started, tilting her head. "Hypothetically, if we had to do it again…"

"Morrigan."

"No, no, I’m just saying…"

"Morrigan!"

Morrigan sighed dramatically. "Fine."

Rio sighed, long and suffering.

"You pulled Agatha here without knowing what would happen. You could’ve put everyone in danger, including yourselves," Rio continued, her voice sharp but controlled.

Morrigan scoffed, crossing her arms. "Us? Have you seen that woman’s face when she is angry? She was ready to suck our souls out on arrival."

A flicker of something passed through Rio’s expression, recognition, amusement. Then she sighed, trying to hide it.

"What did you expect? The magic resounded through the house like you were offering her soul as a damn tribute."

Morgan shifted uncomfortably. Makarya had the sense to look at least a little guilty.

Morrigan, of course, did not. Instead, she grinned. "Well, we did learn from her, didn’t we?"

The room went silent.

Then Rio exhaled, slow and measured.

"You know," she said, "sometimes, I’m not sure if I should be furious with you or proud of how much you've managed to pull off."

She shook her head. "Unfortunately for you, I happen to be both."

Rio kept her gaze locked on Morrigan, eyes sharp, heavy with unspoken accusation. Her voice was measured, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

"You think it’s fun to fly around? Shapeshifting isn’t something just anyone can master, and it leaves a mark. A trail." Her eyes narrowed. "You seem to be having a lot of fun for someone who just painted a target on their back."

The air in the house shifted. There was a beat of silence before Morgan sighed, crossing her arms.

"You know, things are only getting worse. We’ve officially entered the modern inquisition."

Rio shot her a flat, unimpressed look. Always dramatic.

Morrigan smirked. "So what you’re saying is, we’re famous witches now?"

“At Kamar-Taj? You can bet!”, Rio said dryly.

Across the table, Melinoe sat beside her, small fingers curling into the black fabric of Rio’s sleeve, gripping tight, as if anchoring herself. As if she needed to feel her mother, to be sure she was real, that she was here.

Rio felt it instantly. The tiny tug, the quiet plea wrapped in a child's need for reassurance. She glanced down just as Melinoe nudged her, tilting her head up with wide, searching eyes.

"Did I do something wrong too?” Rio turned to her, her sharp expression softening.

"I don't know… did you?"

Melinoe scrunched up her face in deep thought, lips pursed, before her eyes lit up with realization.

"I snuck Señor Scratchy into bed with me." She grinned, clearly proud of herself.

Rio exhaled, biting back a smirked. "He's a purged soul, you befriended an enemy. I should banish you to the lowest level of underworld for that."

Melinoe gasped, eyes going comically wide, before breaking into a delighted grin. "Nice."

Rio let out a quiet huff, shaking her head. Then Melinoe’s smile wavered, her grip on Rio’s sleeve tightened.

"Can they come in here now?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. Fear bled through, curling around the edges of her words, as if she already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.

Rio turned to her fully, her voice quieter now, steady, yet laced with an unshakable promise.

"No, they can't," she said, absolute. "You're safe here."

Melinoe nodded, small shoulders relaxing, and without hesitation, she curled into Rio’s side, pressing her face against Rios arm.

Rio lifted a hand, brushing her fingers gently through Melinoe’s hair. Her gaze snapped back to Morrigan.

"And you," she said flatly, exasperation creeping back into her voice, "stop looking so smug before I do banish you."

Morrigan just grinned. "I mean, if we’re being fair, I’d probably thrive down there."

Rio couldn’t help the small, knowing smile that tugged at the corner of her lips.

Oh, she absolutely would.

One child was testing her patience. The other was testing her heart, a thing she didn’t ever have.

Then, Makarya hesitated before speaking, her voice careful. "Maybe… we were too hasty. With Agatha."

For the first time, Morrigan’s voice lost its usual confidence, turning almost uncertain. She tried to hide it, but it was there.

"And what happens now?" she asked, restrained. "Agatha didn’t exactly look thrilled about any of this."

"I usually don’t like it when people try to mess with my mind."

The words cut through the room like a blade.

All eyes snapped to the dining room entrance, where Agatha now stood, poised, composed, and entirely unamused. Her presence dominated the space effortlessly, as if she had always belonged there, as if the house itself bent to accommodate her.

Her gaze locked onto Morrigan, sharp and assessing, a silent challenging. Woven into the slight arch of her brow. Morrigan, for all her usual wit, faltered. She had seen that look before. Had worn that same expression herself. But facing it now, directed at her, was different.

She blinked, taken off guard, her mouth opening slightly, a half-formed defense, as if to say something, but Agatha didn’t wait for it. She turned her attentio to Rio.

"You finally decided to show up."

Rio raised an eyebrow, catching the challenge beneath the words.

“I had to make sure everything was secure before coming here.”

“You talk about ‘secure’ after I get sucked into a portal?”

Rio already anticipated Agatha’s inevitable reaction. “I had to make sure there were no traces of magic he could manipulate, nothing he could use to find his way here.”

Agatha’s gaze flicked to the daughters still hovering nearby, then back to Rio. Her lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“They already seem pretty good at making a mess of things.”

Rio didn’t hesitate. “Guess from whom they got it?”

That smirk fully formed now. Agatha tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in that dangerously amused way. A slow, deliberate movement as she lifted a hand, absentmindedly adjusting her hair.

Pretending.

Pretending not to understand the implication. Pretending she hadn’t just been called out.

Rio’s expression softened, just a fraction, just enough to reveal the glint of something knowing, something familiar.

She had expected this.

Here, with Agatha.

With all of them.

But the tension remained, it stretched between them, electric and undeniable. The weight of history, of old wounds, unspoken words pressing down on all of them, of something neither of them would name just yet.

Their others felt it too.

The air in the room tightened, even the girls, normally quick with a quip or an eyeroll, remained still, their eyes flicking between the two women like spectators in a storm. And not a single one dared to interrupt.

For a long, heavy moment, Agatha and Rio simply looked at each other. Everyone else might as well have disappeared. It was just them, standing on opposite sides of something deep and unknown, trying to figure out if there was a bridge to cross it.

But the others were very much still there.

Rio could feel it, the weight of Agatha’s gaze lingering, not on her, but on Melinoe, who was tucked against Rio’s side, small fingers still gripping the fabric of her sleeve. She saw the flicker of something in Agatha’s eyes, bright and unreadable, something Agatha was trying to smother before anyone else could catch it. Seeing a version of Rio she had never met. One she had never had the chance to.

Rio caught it, the look. And so did the others.

Morana, as the most perceptive, decided it was time to leave. She cleared her throat, forcing a casual tone. "I’m going to lie down. It’s best to let them talk."

She glanced at Morgan, Morrigan, and Makarya expectantly.

The three of them blinked back at her, all wearing identical expressions of What? No, we want to stay and watch this unfold.

Morana’s eye twitched.

She turned to Melinoe instead, effortlessly lifting her and setting her down on the floor. "Come on, it’s late for you too."

Melinoe barely put up a fight, slipping her small hand into Morana’s without complaint. But just before leaving, Morana turned back, shooting a murderous glare at the others, a silent, unmistakable move.

Morgan was the first to comply, standing and pushing at both Morrigan and Makarya. "Good night."

The three of them shuffled toward the stairs, but as Agatha watched them go, she caught the hushed whispers.

"What was that look?" Morgan murmured.

"Do you think they’re going to fight?" Makarya added.

Morrigan snorted "Only if it’s a different kind of fight."

Morana’s voice hissed, "Shut up."

Morrigan, completely unfazed, "You’re over two hundred years old, don’t be so prudish. There’s a reason there are six of us."

Morgan groaned in disgust "Shut up, you’re so gross."

Agatha closed her eyes.

Rio sighed, pressing her lips together to smother the amused smile threatening to form.

And finally, the house fell silent.

Now, it was just the two of them.