Black Witch

The sound of the slap echoed through the cold, hollow corridors of the castle. Stone walls, slick with dampness and decay, seemed to shudder with the impact. The force of it sent Morana’s head snapping to the side, pain blooming in sharp, stinging heat across her eyebrow. Then came the warmth. A slow trickle down her skin, a metallic scent thick in her nose.

Blood.

She stayed like that for a moment, head tilted away, her breath steady despite the ringing in her ears. The blood dripped, spattering onto the cold floor. Then, slowly, she turned back, her purple eyes locking onto him. Hard. Unyielding.

She didn’t deny it. There was nothing to deny.

She had failed.

She had led his agents into the tunnels, felt the weight of the mission settle onto her shoulders like an iron shroud, and still —still— she had lost the weapon.

The child.

She still didn’t understand what had happened. One moment, the girl was there, pale and trembling in the dark, eyes like dying stars staring back at her. The next, gone. No sound. No trace. Vanished into the shadows as if the tunnels themselves had swallowed her whole.

For a second, she had wondered if she imagined it. If the darkness had played tricks on her mind. But the fury in Mephisto’s gaze told her otherwise.

She had been real. And he had known it.

He hadn’t sent her after an artifact. He had sent her after a child. A weapon in flesh and bone. And she had failed to bring her back.

Mephisto took a slow step forward, his form fully unmasked, monstrous in the dim glow of the chamber. Clawed fingers flexed, curling and uncurling with suppressed rage. His skin, deep crimson, cracked like molten stone. Eyes like burning pits of hellfire bore into her, seething, brimming with something older than anger, disappointment.

"A chance," he hissed, his voice a blade slicing through the tension. "That’s all you swore you wanted. Swore you deserved. A real mission. Something important."

The bodies of his agents lay sprawled on the ground between them, limp and discarded.

"And the first opportunity you get…" He let the words drag out, slow, heavy.

"You waste it."

Morana didn’t flinch.

She should have.

She should have felt something, remorse, shame, even fear, but all she could think about was that moment in the tunnel. The pull toward the girl. The instinct to shield her, to take her away from this place.

The mission had faded. The agents had faded. Even now, standing before Mephisto’s wrath, she searched for regret. But it wasn’t there.

And he could see it.

His jaw clenched. He took another step closer, tilting his head as if trying to read something hidden beneath her skin. His anger was sharp, crackling like embers licking at dry bone, but something held him back from lashing out again.

So he changed tactics.

Mephisto straightened, exhaling, his voice lowering into something smoother, something meant to coil around her ribs and tighten. "Morana," he said, almost gently. "You understand what we do here. The importance of it. Of everyone here, purged, abandoned, exiled from their homes. Branded as cursed. Unworthy."

The weight of his words settled onto her shoulders like chains.

"Do you know how many have died for this?" His voice was silk and steel, winding through the cracks of her defenses. "Sacrificed themselves for the dream of taking back what is ours?"

The bitter taste of guilt curled at the back of her throat.

She had been given a chance. And she had failed.

Her lips parted before she could think. The words slipped out, cold and quick. "She was there."

The shift was immediate.

Mephisto went still. The flames in his eyes flickered, rage momentarily swallowed by something else. Older. Darker.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, voice almost a whisper.

Hatred and fear. They curled together in his tone like twin vipers.

Morana hesitated, because the answer didn’t make sense.

None of the others had seen her. None of them had felt the presence that sent ice threading through her veins, a whisper of something vast and relentless pressing in from all sides. But she knew.

"Yes," she said finally. "She was searching for something, too."

She let the pause stretch, watching his reaction.

"But I don’t know what."

It wasn’t a lie.

Not exactly.

I could feel it. I could hear it.

But she wouldn't tell him that.

She wouldn’t tell him how the tunnels had called to her, how the whispers had curled around her ribs and pulled her forward. She wouldn’t tell him how she had hesitated, how, for the first time, she had chosen to let something slip through her fingers.

How she was ready to let the girl escape.

Mephisto’s frustration was barely restrained, his rage simmering beneath his skin. He wanted more. More answers. More details. More control. But there was nothing left for her to give him, at least, nothing she would.

His fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair before he leaned back, expression smoothing into something deceptively calm.

“You will be demoted,” he said, his voice clipped, dismissive. “You will return to lesser missions. I overestimated your capacity and skill.” A slow exhale. “Be thankful I am not stripping you of your quarters. Be thankful I am not sending you back to the new agents' tower.”

Morana held his gaze, unflinching.

A single nod. Measured. Restrained.

"Leave."

She obeyed, her exit swift and silent.

The familiar weight of exhaustion settled into her bones as she walked the winding corridors, past torches that flickered against damp stone walls. She could still feel the blood drying on her cheek, the sting of Mephisto’s slap fading into a dull ache.

It had been thirty years since she had last seen the new agents’ tower. Thirty years since she had fought her way out of those cold, overcrowded barracks and into the privilege of her own dormitory.

She pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The room was small but hers. stone walls, rough and unyielding, furnished with only the essentials. A desk. A wardrobe. A bed with dark red sheets. She barely made it to the edge of the mattress before she moved to unlace her boots, her mind still trapped in the tunnels. In the dark. In her face.

A shadow shifted in the corner.

Morana’s muscles tensed. In a breath, she was moving, knife unsheathed, body dropping into a defensive stance.

"Oh, calm down," came a familiar voice.

A slow exhale.

Morana lowered the blade, her shoulders relaxing just enough. "Vesna," she muttered, dropping the knife onto the bed. "Do you want to die?"

Vesna stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching her with dark, knowing eyes. Her hair, dark blonde, tied back in a loose ponytail, caught the dim light, edges turning gold.

They had been children when they met, thrown into a fight neither of them had chosen. Morana had lost control that day. She was stopped before she could do any real damage. And after that, they had been inseparable.

At first, it had been survival, two abandoned souls clinging to each other in the cruel, unforgiving world Mephisto had forged around them. Then, as the years passed, it became something more.

Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

In those stolen moments, when it was just them, Morana could almost forget what they were. What they had been made into. Almost.

Vesna's gaze flickered to her face, her expression darkening. She took a step forward, reaching for her. "You're bleeding."

Morana barely reacted.

"I can fix it," Vesna said softly, her hands nearly touching Morana’s eyebrow, her fingers hovering just above the drying blood.

Before she could make contact, Morana pulled away.

“No. Leave it.”

Vesna blinked, startled. "What?"

Morana turned, crossing the room, pulling off her other boot with slow, deliberate movements.

"It’ll scar," Vesna warned.

"Good." Morana leaned back in the chair, stretching her legs out. "I want it to."

A reminder.

A mark to etch this failure into her skin. To remind herself that the girl had been real. That she had seen her, touched her. That she had let her go. But that wasn’t what unsettled her the most.

It was him.

For the first time in her life, she had seen something in Mephisto’s eyes that she had never thought possible. Not just anger. Not just cruelty.

Fear, and not of the girl.

The moment she had spoken of what she saw, the moment she had dared to mention her, the shift had been undeniable.

Death. She had sense Death, and Mephisto, he had feared her.

That was what unsettled her most. The way his voice had wavered, the split second where his mask of rage had cracked and something else had bled through.

A fear she recognized.

She had felt it once, when she was young. When she was still small enough to believe in nightmares instead of becoming one.

Vesna studied her carefully, sensing the shift in her.

"What was there?" she asked. "The weapon he wanted, what was it?"

Morana didn't answer.

She only met Vesna’s gaze, and for the first time in years, she felt something close to uncertainty settle in her chest.

Morana stood, reaching beneath the high collar of her leather uniform. Her fingers found the chain, tugging it free until the necklace slipped from beneath the fabric. A ring hung from it, a dark stone set in black metal, the candlelight flickering off its polished surface.

She walked to the bed, unclasped the chain, and placed it on the small dresser next to it. The ring landed with a quiet clink against the wood.

Then she turned to Vesna.

"Nothing," she said, her voice steady, unyielding. "There was simply nothing. We couldn’t find it, whatever he wanted."

But the lie tasted bitter in her mouth.

She remembered the girl. The way her hair split into white and black like an omen. The way her small body trembled. The way her eyes, wide with terror, had searched for something, someone, to save her.

Vesna was watching her too closely, her dark gaze cutting through the pretense.

She knew.

When Vesna finally spoke, her voice was weighted, edged with something tense and dangerous.

"They’re talking about it again," she said. "About leaving. For good."

Morana turned her face away, a small, hollow smile stretching her lips.

"Ves," she murmured, shaking her head, "we're not children anymore. You know that’s an illusion. Or worse, a death sentence. You know how this ends. It wouldn’t be the first time and it always ends the same way"

Vesna stepped closer.

"You mean to tell me this is what you want?" she challenged, her voice sharp with frustration. "For eternity? To stay here, his weapon? Collecting scars while he plays his twisted games with Death?"

Morana didn’t answer. She turned away, unbuckling the straps of her weapons, unclipping the daggers she always carried, piece by piece removing the armor she had worn for as long as she could remember.

Vesna didn’t let it go.

"It’s not possible that this is all you want," she pressed, voice rising. "That you don’t want more than this. More than being his pet, his thing, something he uses."

Morana whirled around, fire burning in her gaze.

"What else, Vesna?" Her voice cracked, raw and furious. "What else is there for me? I don’t have a family. I don’t have memories, just nightmares that feel more like curses than dreams. I have nothing. I have always had nothing."

Vesna grabbed Morana’s face, fingers warm against her cold skin, holding her as if she could anchor her in place.

"You have me," Vesna whispered.

Morana’s breath caught.

"You’re not alone," Vesna continued, her voice shaking. "I lost everything, too. Don’t make me lose you as well."

Her eyes, usually sharp, unreadable, were shining. There was something fragile in them, something Morana wanted to touch, to believe in.

For a moment, Morana let herself sink into the warmth of Vesna’s hands, her touch soft in a way nothing else in this place ever was.

Then she exhaled and let go.

She pulled Vesna’s hands from her face, holding them between her own as she calmed her breathing. When she spoke, her voice was softer, but no less firm.

"You have something to remember," she said. "Something to hold onto. Something I never had. I was made for this. Trained for it. If I walk away now, if I throw it all away, then everything I’ve done, everything I am, means nothing."

Vesna’s hands trembled in hers.

"I’m good at this," Morana continued. "I’m the best. I can’t give up now. If I leave… I’ll have nothing left."

Her voice had turned colder, heavier, as if she were forcing the distance between them. As if she were trying to bury something deep inside herself before it could break free.

She was not a scared child. Not anymore, there were no more dreams. No more illusions.

Only reality. Only this.

Vesna pulled away, stepping back, something flickering behind her gaze, frustration, sadness, something close to defeat.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

"No." Her eyes didn’t leave Morana’s. "If you leave… there’ll be nothing left for him."

The words settled between them, heavy, suffocating.

"Aren’t you curious?" Vesna continued, her tone sharper now, cutting through Morana’s carefully built defenses. "Where you came from? Why he elevates you above the rest while still keeping you chained? Why he always watches you, always controls you, why he acts like you’re never enough, no matter what you do?"

Morana didn’t answer.

Vesna took a slow breath, stepping closer again.

"He’s afraid of you," she whispered. "But his ambition makes him keep you close. Because there’s someone else he fears more."

Morana closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.

The weight of the day, the mission, the girl, the whisper of Death’s presence in the tunnels, it all pressed down on her, suffocating, overwhelming.

She was so tired.

"I simply accepted my fate," Morana said, her voice cold, calculated, a blade meant to cut deep. "Maybe you should accept yours too."

It was cruel. She knew it. A low blow, an attempt to make Vesna stop asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

But Vesna knew her too well.

She saw the way Morana turned evasive, the way she sharpened her words into weapons to keep people at a distance.

Vesna stepped forward, walked to the dresser, and picked up the necklace. The ring dangled from the chain, swinging slightly as she held it up between them. The dark stone caught the candlelight, reflecting it back in fractured glimmers.

"If that’s true," Vesna said, voice quiet but steady, "why do you still have it?"

Morana’s breath hitched, just slightly, but she said nothing.

"You don’t even know who it belonged to," Vesna continued, her words gentle but relentless. "Who gave it to you. The only thing, the only object that connects you to your past, your history, and yet here it is. Hanging on your chest every single day, no matter what you do. And when you sleep? Always here, right next to you."

Morana’s fingers curled into fists.

Her violet eyes darkened, the lump in her throat rising as the words hit their mark.

She wasn’t ready for this.

She wasn’t ready for any of this.

Because Vesna was right, about all of it. About the ring. About the emptiness that had never closed, only grown.

Morana swallowed hard and forced herself to meet Vesna’s gaze.

"For the same reason you keep that," she said at last, nodding toward the knife strapped to Vesna’s waist, the one she always carried.

The silver handle, worn with time, carved with an eagle.

Her family’s knife.

Vesna’s fingers brushed against it instinctively. A ghost of a touch.

"It’s important to remember where I can’t go back to," Morana murmured. "I need to move forward."

Silence settled between them, heavy and unbearable.

Vesna exhaled softly, her lips curving into a tired, broken smile.

"You can lie to me all you want," she whispered. "But stop lying to yourself."

Morana had no answer, because they both knew the truth.

She was lying.

And they both knew she always would.

Vesna set the ring back on the nightstand with careful precision, her fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the door.

Morana felt it immediately, the weight. It pressed down on her chest, tightened around her throat. This wasn’t like the other times, a passing argument or a fight that would cool with time. This was something that threatened to take the ground out from under her.

She turned sharply, fear clawing its way up her spine.

"Ves…"

Vesna stopped, back still to her.

She hesitated, then turned, slowly, carefully. There was something in her eyes, fragile, waiting. A trace of hope that Morana knew she would only end up crushing.

"You… you’re not going, right?" Morana’s voice was quieter now, raw. "You know what he’ll do. You know he won’t let anyone who escapes him go free. He’ll hunt them down. He’ll…" she swallowed hard, "he’ll make sure."

Vesna expression didn’t change. If anything, she looked tired. Resigned.

"If he sent you after me," she asked, voice steady but laced with something unreadable, "would you come?"

Morana stiffened.

"If he ordered you to bring me back," Vesna pressed, stepping forward just slightly, "would you do it? If he told you to kill me, to put a blade in my heart and deliver me to him. Would you do it?"

The words struck like a knife to the gut.

Morana recoiled as if Vesna had physically struck her. Horror bled into her expression, mixing with something deeper, something wounded.

Vesna saw it, she felt it, and for a brief moment, she almost took the words back.

Instead, she closed her eyes, exhaled, and when she opened them again, the fight was gone.

"I’m sorry," she murmured. And then, softer, "I couldn’t do it. Not without you. That’s how it is right?! You and me."

The finality in her voice shattered something in Morana’s chest. Before she could say anything, before she could reach for her or she could stop her, Vesna turned and walked through the door.

Gone.

Leaving Morana standing there alone.

Silence stretched between them again, thick and unrelenting. It wasn’t just the weight of the last few months pressing down on them, it was the years before, the ghosts of words left unsaid, choices made, and wounds still aching beneath the surface.

They both remembered their last conversation, how it had ended. Nothing had been resolved, only buried, but now, everything was clawing its way back to the surface, raw and demanding to be confronted.

"Two months, Rio."

Agatha’s voice was low, heavy. There was no one else here. No need for pretense, for restraint. The walls she so often put up felt meaningless now, exhausted under the strain of something too real to ignore. "Two months you knew. Two months spent going after them, gathering them here, and at no point did you think I needed to know? That it was your choice when I could or couldn’t know about their existence?"

Rio took a slow, measured step forward, but the space between them felt cavernous.

"It wasn’t that simple," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I didn’t know what I was looking for either. You know that. I looked for you, I went after you, as soon as I realized something was pushing into Velum, something connected to you. But it was evolving too fast, faster than I could understand, faster than I could stop…”

She hesitated, trying to find her footing in the storm.

Agatha just stared, her expression closed off, guarded. She was waiting. Waiting for more. Waiting for an explanation that wouldn’t come too late.

Rio sighed, knowing there was no way around this, no way to soften the truth.

"Right before America came in, I had just collected a soul. It was at Morgan’s house, her fiancée had just died. She was the first of them that I felt."

Agatha’s lips parted, something twisting inside her chest.

Morgan.

The woman she had just met, with sharp eyes and a quiet kind of sorrow stitched into her very presence.

She had lost someone. Someone she loved. And now she was here.

The question slipped out before Agatha could stop herself, driven by something she didn’t fully understand.

"Is that how you two met?"

If Rio had felt her, if she had known even then, then when she had appeared in Westview, when she had stood there, looking at Agatha like she had the weight of a thousand secrets pressing down on her, she had already known. At least about one of them.

Rio’s answer was swift, cutting through the rising frustration building in Agatha’s chest.

"No. I felt it that day, but I only met her later. But after that, they just... kept appearing. As if something had been unleashed, like the energy was no longer contained. It was too much. They were losing control."

Agatha stayed silent, motionless, waiting for more.

"She lived in New York," Rio continued. "And not just her, Morrigan too. Before I found you, when I already had America, I started looking for answers. I needed to understand Morgan’s fiancée, her death."

She hesitated.

Agatha turned her face slightly, waiting, something in her gut bracing for what was coming next.

"At the moment of her death… I saw her."

Rio’s voice dropped, quiet, but the words hit like a strike of lightning.

"I saw her fiancée as she died. As if I was there. As if I was Morgan."

Agatha’s breath caught, her gaze darkening, sharpening like a blade.

"You think her power could be…"

"I’m not sure," Rio cut in, her voice firm. She knew exactly where Agatha’s mind was going. "She was in shock when I found her."

Rio's voice was quiet, but raw. "Not just grieving, wrecked. She was stuck in the moment she found her fiancée dead."

Agatha’s breath caught.

"She doesn’t remember how it happened." Rio's gaze darkened, her fingers tightening against her knee. "She was losing control of her powers. Seeing specters. She thought she was going insane. She went to doctors, convinced she was sick, that something was wrong with her. And then…"

Rio swallowed.

“She said she was home, and then she found her fiancée dead. But I think there’s more to it, she’s just not ready to talk about it yet.”

A sharp, suffocating silence settled between them. Agatha felt a deep ache carve into her chest.

"She was so messed up by what happened, she barely knew how to exist outside of it," Rio continued. "She was aggressive, reluctant, she didn’t want help, didn’t trust it. And she blamed herself for everything. Called herself a murderer."

Agatha’s stomach twisted. "And now?" she asked.

Rio shook her head. "She’s holding on, but I don’t know how much of it is real. She’s keeping herself together for the others, but inside? She still thinks she’s the reason her fiancée died."

Silence stretched thick between them.

Agatha’s mind tangled, trying to fit the pieces together. The quiet strength Morgan carried. The sharp wit. The haunted look behind her eyes.

She had carried death with her, even now, she was carrying it, and yet, she didn’t even remember how it happened.

The weight of it pressed into Agatha’s bones.

“You think it could be her?”

"I still don’t know." Rio’s voice was lower now, heavier. "When I ask, she becomes completely evasive. And it’s not just her. It’s not like we even know exactly what we’re dealing with. Their powers…" she exhaled sharply, eyes flickering with frustration. "It’s like they were buried, contained, suffocated for so long, and then something triggered them, pulled them to the surface all at once."

Agatha listened, mind racing.

"It’s not as simple as my magic or yours manifesting in them. They changed. And Morgan…"

Her thoughts trailed off.

The shadow in Morgan’s gaze. The way she carried herself. The way she avoided her own reflection.

"Is it possible… that something like the power of Death, something intrinsic to you… could manifest in them?" Agatha asked.

Rio’s eyes darkened.

"Not just possible. I think it’s already happening."

The words sent a chill through Agatha’s spine.

"I saw it in Morana." Rio’s voice was steady, but thick with weight. "And Morgan…"

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

"I don’t cause death. I just collect the souls. But when I saw her fiancée, she was alive. And I felt like I was the one consuming her, taking her. Even before she died."

Agatha’s breath hitched.

"That’s never happened to me before." Rio took a step forward, shaking her head slightly as if trying to make sense of it herself. "I collected the soul as fast as I could, tried to understand, but I still don’t know if it was really her. But Morgan says she’s responsible for what happened." Her voice came out quieter now, softer. "She believes she was the one who…"

She couldn’t finish.

She didn’t have to.

Morgan had lost someone she loved.

Agatha walked toward the living room, as if moving could steady the storm inside her. She sat on the sofa, Rio following, settling into the armchair across from her. The air between them felt thick, heavy with everything they were trying to grasp.

Agatha looked at Rio, waiting, asking her to continue without speaking a word.

Rio exhaled. "When I was with America, on my way to you, I went to a police station. I was looking for information about Morgan’s fiancée. There was a picture of her. And I just…"

She stopped. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants, as if grounding herself.

"I couldn’t not look at it." Her voice was barely above a whisper now. "Like something inside me already knew."

Agatha’s heart pounded, the understanding hitting her like a strike of lightning.

"Like a part of you that you didn’t even know existed had already recognized her."

Rio met her gaze, and they both knew.

It was the same feeling, the same pull, they had felt the moment they laid eyes on each of their daughters.

Before knowing who they were, before understanding. Like an invisible thread had already been woven between them, binding them together in ways they couldn’t explain.

The same feeling Agatha had felt with Nicky.

Only this was different. Because it wasn’t just a memory, wasn’t just a ghost of something lost. This was something trying to root itself in the unknown.

And yet, through it all, Agatha could feel the guilt creeping in, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

Whispering in the back of her mind, this is your fault.

She didn’t remember. She didn’t know how. But ignorance didn’t absolve her of responsibility.

"And the others?" Her voice was hoarse now, weak. She forced herself to ask, to keep going.

Rio watched her, eyes flickering with something unreadable. She saw it, the guilt. The way it twisted in Agatha’s expression, in her posture.

She sighed, shaking her head, lips curving into something like a weary smile.

"Morrigan was easy."

Agatha blinked.

Rio let out a dry chuckle. "Didn’t take much effort. As you’ve probably noticed, she’s good at talking too much and getting involved where she shouldn’t."

For the first time that night, Agatha felt the ghost of a smile tug at her lips.

"Oh, I’ve noticed. Messing around and finding out," Agatha mused.

"Exactly." Rio’s voice was softer now.

But the weight of everything still hung between them.

"That should be her slogan," Rio muttered, unable to suppress the exasperation laced with undeniable affection.

Agatha let out a breath, something between a scoff and a smirk, but Rio’s expression had already turned serious again.

"There was some interest in the death of Morgan’s fiancée," Rio continued, her voice steady, though Agatha could hear the weight behind it. "Because of her work. Morrigan saw the news. Saw Morgan’s photo. And the connection was instant. So she started looking. And luckily for her, before anyone else could find her, I was already there, listening to her having fun while manipulating the minds of the police officers."

There was something sharp in Rio’s voice now, equal parts frustration and pride, like she wanted to be furious with Morrigan but couldn't help the way her chest swelled at what she was capable of.

Agatha caught the flicker of it and tilted her head. "Could she really use them?"

Rio huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Use them? She was playing with them."

Agatha stilled.

"Unlike Morgan, who still rejects her powers, Morrigan pushes, hard. She tests the limits, forces them further and further, as if nothing is ever enough. I could hear it, like someone screaming inside the station, the way she was twisting their minds, bending their will like it was nothing. And when she realized I was listening?"

A dry chuckle escaped Rio. "She ran."

Agatha exhaled sharply, shaking her head, urging Rio to continue.

"Makarya," Rio said next, her voice dropping lower. "You felt it, too."

Agatha’s fingers curled slightly on her lap.

"Just like Morgan, she doesn’t like to talk about it much." Rio’s gaze flickered to the walls around them, as if she could still hear something lingering in the house. "This place was hers. Or at least, it belonged to her guardian. A woman from social service. She died. And you, like me, heard what happened."

Rio stared at Agatha now, her expression unreadable.

Waiting.

Urging her to remember, and Agatha did.

She had remembered the moment Morgan had screamed Arya’s name. The recognition had been instant. Just like she had recognized the voice.

The voices in the house. The desperate, echoing screams.

She had felt them, creeping through the walls of Westview’s house, slipping through the cracks like ghosts.

Fear.

Loss.

Agatha swallowed. Her mind tried to reconcile the voice she had heard, raw, shattering, begging, with the girl she knew now. Arya, who was the calmest of them all. Sweet, composed. But Agatha knew better.

Calm was often a mask for the worst storms.

"How did you find her?" Agatha’s voice was barely above a whisper now, her throat dry with the weight of it. "Arya?"

Rio saw the need in her eyes, the hunger for understanding, the ache of it.

"Right here," Rio said. "Like we are now. Sitting on this couch. And in that armchair."

A sharp shiver ran down Agatha’s spine.

"She was in the house. Alone."

Agatha didn’t breathe.

"The house belonged to her guardian," Rio continued, slower now, letting the words settle.

And Agatha understood, understood what had happened, the implication.

They had heard it. The night the woman died. They had felt Arya’s grief split open inside these very walls, her despair spilling out into the dark.

Alone. She had been alone.

Agatha inhaled, steadying herself. "So you decided to bring them all here."

Rio nodded. "I made sure it was safe first. But yes."

The pieces clicked into place, slotting together in Agatha’s mind like jagged glass.

"I met Melinoe and Morana for the first time that same day," Rio added. "You accused me of disappearing after the gas station accident, but that day" she exhaled sharply "everything got out of control."

Agatha shifted on the couch, suddenly restless.

"Until then, there had only been quick encounters. The feeling of something familiar. But after that day at the station? I knew something was happening. Something that needed my full attention. So I focused completely on it."

Agatha’s fingers pressed into the fabric of the sofa. The gas station. The explosion. It had felt like an eruption of power, like something had cracked open in the world itself.

"What happened that day?" Her voice was quieter now, more careful.

Rio looked down, her jaw tightening.

"The flow of energy in the passage became stronger," she said. "More open. And Morana…"

Her hands clenched.

"Morana took advantage. And she entered."

Agatha waited, her mind spinning. The weight of the conversation pressed against her, clawing at the edges of her memory, just out of reach. She had heard something like this before, another conversation, another moment of painful realization.

Rio had told her about Morana then, too. About their meeting and what she could do.

"When we were in Westview," Agatha started, her voice careful, "you said she could control the souls there. That she had green magic, like a Green Witch. But also…"

She trailed off, hesitant, the words catching in her throat.

Rio’s eyes darkened, sensing what Agatha couldn’t bring herself to say.

"She can control all three," Rio finished for her, her voice steady but weighted with something heavier. "And with great ease. She resisted more than anyone else has even tried to."

Agatha felt her pulse quicken. The flicker of something that shouldn’t be possible. A mix of pride and unease warred inside her, twisting deep in her chest.

"What did he want with her, Rio?" Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

Him.

Mephisto.

Rio’s expression shifted, mirroring Agatha’s own.

"I don’t know," she admitted. "But he’s ahead of us. Far ahead. And Morana…" Rio exhaled, her voice tightening. "She thinks he saw her as a weapon. A way to use her against me."

The words hit hard, Rio had never once blamed herself for Nicky. He had been hers to take when his time came. It had been fate. A cycle that couldn’t be undone. But she had underestimated what that loss had done to Agatha. How much grief had driven her. How far she had been willing to go.

Rio knew now.

She had seen it, how the fear of losing another child had been enough to make Agatha bargain her own soul away. How she had let the Darkhold consume her, let it drain her, numb her. How she had been willing to forget, to erase the agony, all so that Morana would live.

Even though she had never been destined to die. And not just her, but all of them. Hidden away.

A question neither of them had ever been able to answer. For centuries, their paths had never crossed. Not until Wanda’s death.

And yet, their daughters were here, alive.

Proof that something had been taken from Agatha, buried deep, stolen from her memory.

Rio’s voice was softer when she spoke again.

"I'm sorry, Agatha."

Agatha stilled. They had never said those words before.

It wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t erase the wounds that had shaped her, the rage, the sorrow, the centuries of running from Rio, from this, from all the feelings she didn’t want to touch.

But hearing them still hurt.

"I’m sorry that you thought Morana would have the same fate. That you believed you had to trade her away, hoping it would be different."

Rio’s voice was steady, but there was something raw beneath it.

"He knew, Agatha. He used your pain. He took advantage of your fear. And I know that maybe, maybe nothing would have changed. Maybe you still would have run, still would have hidden her, still would have hated me for Nicky. But… I’m sorry."

Agatha’s breath caught.

It was too much.

Too much pain. Too much weight. Centuries of grief and anger pressing down on her, years of avoiding Rio, of refusing to look her in the eye because she was afraid of what she’d see there, afraid of what she missed.

Because despite everything, despite everything, she had missed her.

So much that sometimes it felt like drowning.

The Darkhold had emptied her. Numbed her. It had stripped her of everything, sedating her to the only thing that had ever made her feel whole, Nicky and Rio.

Resentment and rage had been her lifelines. Anchors. The only things keeping her afloat in the agony of losing Nicky. And now?

Now she knew the truth, she had lost a daughter too.

Daughters, ones she didn’t even remember.

Agatha swallowed hard, her voice hoarse when she finally spoke. "I still don’t know how…" She gestured faintly, hands moving as if trying to grasp something intangible, the house, the walls around them, the weight of everything they had built here. "How any of this is even possible."

Rio nodded, a deep furrow between her brows.

"I don’t know either. I’ve been investigating. Morana, too. She’s been searching for answers, using contacts from her time working for Mephisto. But it’s only been recently. Not long enough.”

Agatha closed her eyes briefly.

Not long enough.

Would it ever be?

Rio stopped, looking at Agatha, her gaze unreadable, unwavering. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. And then, slowly, a soft smile formed on her lips.

"But one thing is clear." Her voice was quiet, but there was something heavy beneath it, something raw. "All of them, without exception, when I met them, they all asked me the same question."

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat.

"They all asked me about you."

Rio held her gaze, letting the words settle.

"They saw you. They felt you. The night you died."

The air in the room seemed to shift, growing heavier. Rio’s voice darkened, the weight of that night pressing against her.

"Somehow, in that moment, the bond became too strong, impossible to ignore. They all felt it. They all saw you. And each other."

Agatha’s chest tightened. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move.

"From that moment on, there was no way for any of them to remain hidden. Their powers, whatever had been keeping them dormant, began to manifest. As if something had shattered, something that had been holding them back."

Agatha’s hands trembled. Her vision blurred. The realization struck deep, cutting through the layers of time, of memory, of loss.

They were there. All of them.

They were there when she died, when she and Rio shared the kiss she had believed would be her last, when she had drawn her final breath, when the world had dimmed around her, when she had let go.

They had felt her.

Dying.

Her voice came out unsteady, barely above a whisper.

"The hair… it happened that day, didn’t it?"

"Yes," Rio answered immediately, knowing exactly what Agatha meant.

Agatha swallowed, her throat tightening.

She had assumed, hoped, that it had been tied to her resurrection, a remnant of the magic that had pulled her back. Nothing more.

She had been wrong.

Rio nodded, as if she had believed the same at first.

“I think whatever was keeping them hidden, whatever magic was masking them, broke that night."

Rio hesitated, her words careful, deliberate.

"With your death."

Agatha flinched, her breath shallow.

"As if a piece of them had been struck, too," Rio continued, her voice lower now, pained. "Leaving a scar. A price."

A price for her death.

A mark left on them because you had died because of me.

The words weren’t spoken by Rio, but Agatha felt their weight just the same.

"And at the same time, it tethered you back." Rio’s gaze was piercing, searching. "The piece of them, the connection that shattered, it grounded you here. With them."

Agatha’s breath came faster, shallow, unsteady.

"So just as they carry a piece of you, marked by that moment…" Rio hesitated, her voice tightening. "I believe you paid a price, too. A mark on a piece of your soul. To return."

Agatha exhaled shakily, pressing her palms into her face, the lock of her hair, the telltale silver streak. The streaks in each of them, it hadn’t been random.

She thought of Melinoe. Half of her hair, brilliant white. The fear built in her chest, spreading like ice.

She looked up, her voice barely holding steady.

"Do you think it means something?" The words wavered. "Melinoe… half of her hair…"

She couldn’t finish the sentence, she didn’t want to finish it. Rio’s expression shifted. She understood what Agatha was asking. She had asked herself the same thing.

"I thought that too," Rio admitted.

Agatha’s stomach twisted.

"But I don’t think so." Rio’s voice was firm. Steady. "The magic was… intense. That night. She was the youngest. The connection expressed itself differently, stronger. More raw."

Agatha nodded slowly, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

But the weight of it, the knowledge, the truth, remained. That bond had always been there. Even when they hadn’t known it. Even when they had been blind to it. It had never not been there.

The air between them was suffocating.

They stared at each other, unable to look away, unable to move, as if some invisible force had locked them in place.

It was too much, the weight of centuries.

Of love and loss, of distance and hatred, of everything they had done to hurt each other, to stay away, to not come back.

And yet, here they were.

As if they had been tied together by an unbreakable thread, woven so deep into their very being that no matter how many times they severed it, no matter how many lifetimes passed. It always pulled them back.

Always together.

Rio's gaze burned into Agatha’s, dark and endless, filled with things she couldn’t bring herself to say. Love. Regret. Need.

Agatha felt it like a fire against her skin, felt the heat crawl up her spine, settle in her chest, in her throat, burning her alive from the inside out.

She knew that look. She had seen it before. She had felt it before.

And she wanted, gods, she wanted…

No. Not now.

Not when everything was already spiraling, when the weight of their daughters, of the truth, of their past and future, crushed them from every angle.

She could feel her hands trembling. Could feel her pulse hammering.

If she stayed a second longer, she didn’t trust herself.

She forced herself to move, to stand, tearing herself away from Rio's gaze as if ripping out something from deep inside her.

"I—" Her voice came out hoarse, unsteady. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to breathe. "I need to rest."

Rio didn't say anything. Just looked at her, that same overwhelming look that made it impossible to think, impossible to breathe.

Agatha's stomach clenched.

"The day has already been… too much."

Her voice wavered at the end, but she didn't wait for a response.

She turned quickly, before she could second-guess herself, before she could let the magnetic pull between them drag her back in.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Her heart wouldn’t stop aching.

And as she left the room, her breath came fast and shallow, because she knew. No matter how much distance she put between them, no matter how many times she ran.

She would always find her way back.