Black Witch

Morana paused at the entrance of the grand dining hall, her sharp gaze catching her own reflection in the towering mirror framed with blackened silver. The glass was flawless, but the castle’s flickering sconces cast shifting shadows across her face, making her look almost ethereal, almost unreal.

The black dress hugged her body, the fabric smooth as sin, its deep V-neckline exposing just enough to make men falter and women wary. Her raven hair was pulled into a high ponytail, sleek and severe, accentuating the sharpness of her cheekbones, the cut of her jawline. The scar on her right eyebrow was subtle but still noticeable. Yet, it was her eyes, deep, piercing violet, that unsettled people the most. They trapped you, ensnared you before you even realized you were drowning.

A faint smirk touched her lips. She knew the effect she had. The way her presence turned heads, the way the scar on her right eyebrow only added to the allure, a mark of survival, a reminder of battles long won.

One hundred years.

Tonight marked a century since her arrival, a century since her birth. A date she had never celebrated, never cared for, always leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.

She exhaled sharply, fingers idly twisting the ring on her finger, the cool metal grounding her for a moment before she tore her gaze from the mirror.

This wasn’t just a dinner, it was a spectacle. Mephisto had arranged it himself.

A century of life for one of his greatest assets. Not just an agent, not just a commander, his commander. The leader of his special forces, the one entrusted with his most delicate, most brutal work. She had carved her place in his empire with blood and soul, with precision and ruthlessness.

She had his trust. His favor. His protection.

And yet, even with all she had built, all she had proven, the emptiness remained, festering like a wound that refused to heal.

She turned from the mirror, lifting her chin. There was no place for weakness. Not here. Not in front of them.

The dining hall stretched before her, vast and foreboding. The ceilings loomed high, lost in shadows, the black stone walls lined with heavy iron sconces casting a dim, flickering glow. The air smelled of aged wine and something richer, something darker. Power.

It wasn’t crowded, the guests had been hand-selected. They were his main partners and negotiators, men of influence with whom he maintained close ties, as well as the highest-ranking agents from Mephisto’s many strongholds across the world, commanders of legions, overseers of his most prized territories. Some had trained her. Some she had trained herself. All of them watched as she entered, their gazes filled with something between reverence and wariness.

They knew who she was.

They knew what she was capable of.

And at the back of the room, seated with his back to the largest wall, he watched her too.

Mephisto.

Imposing. Still. Exuding effortless authority.

He did not need to assert his power, his presence was enough. The very air around him was charged with a quiet, simmering energy, a warning, a promise. He liked people to remember what he was capable of. He enjoyed it.

Behind him, stretching from one end of the wall to the other, was his collection. Weapons.

Not trophies. Not honors. Warnings.

Each weapon had belonged to one of his fallen agents. Those who had failed him. Those who had betrayed him, who had dared to think they could leave.

Their blades, their guns, their sigils, displayed not as memories, but as reminders.

Morana’s gaze flickered over them before settling back on him.

He had insisted she celebrate. That she deserved this, but Mephisto never did anything without purpose.

So she would wait, she would let the night unfold, and she would see exactly where he wanted it to take her.

Morana’s gaze swept the wall again, slow and methodical, as if searching carefully enough would change something. Every sword, every axe, every dagger, lined up like silent witnesses to the fates of those who had failed, those who had fallen, those who had dared to betray.

But her knife wasn’t there.

She had searched for it a hundred times, traced the rows with her eyes, memorized every notch, every hilt, every jagged edge. And still, the hawk-carved handle was nowhere to be found.

An empty space. A hole where it should have been.

He had never spoken of it. Never acknowledged its absence. She knew what had happened. She had seen it happen to countless others.

But still.

The delusion clung to her like a sickness, shameful and unshakable. Every time she entered this room, she looked for it. Every damn time.

A part of her she wanted to kill, a part of her that disgusted her, still believed, hoped, that it wouldn’t be there. That it would never be there, that somehow, she made it.

She clenched her jaw.

Then, slowly, she turned her head back toward him.

His red eyes, the mark of the purged, were already on her, watching, observing. A predator that never stopped studying its prey.

He tilted his head slightly, a slow, deliberate nod, amusement dancing at the edges of his mouth.

“Morana, my honored guest,” he announced, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

The hall fell into silence, all eyes turned to her. He lifted a hand in the air, fingers curling slightly, an invitation. A summons.

He expected her to come to him, of course he did.

This night was for her, but the focus, the power, would always be his. He made sure of it.

She forced a slight smile onto her lips, a carefully practiced expression. Mephisto played his games, and she played hers.

“Sir, I thought you were exaggerating when you said a big celebration for today.”

His smile didn’t falter, his crimson gaze locked onto her.

“It’s not every day one celebrates a hundred years,” he said smoothly. “Especially a hundred years of my best agent.”

He paused deliberately, savoring the moment. He enjoyed watching people squirm, enjoyed pressing into old wounds just to see them bleed again.

“A hundred years since you arrived,” he continued, eyes glinting as he studied her face. “And looking at you here, now... it’s almost like seeing her standing in your place.”

Her stomach twisted, breath catching in her throat.

“Ready to give you to me,” he murmured, his voice silk and venom. “The same face. The same ferocity. Just not the eyes…”

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if considering.

“The eyes are different.”

His voice was slow, careful, measuring every flicker of emotion that passed through her.

Morana’s fingers brushed against the ring on her hand before she even realized she was doing it, as if she needed something, anything, to ground herself.

She had succeeded, she had risen to the top, she had earned her title, her name, her place.

She could go wherever she wanted. Lead entire squadrons. Carry out the highest, most dangerous missions. She was respected. She was feared.

And yet, there was still something missing. There was always something missing.

Mephisto’s smirk widened, like he could hear the thoughts churning inside her head.

“I have something for you.”

He stood, his movements smooth, purposeful. He didn’t look back to see if she would follow. He didn’t need to. Of course she would.

So she did.

They left the grand hall, entering a smaller side chamber, private and untouched by the prying eyes of the gathered guests.

The room was dark, the only light coming from a massive central fireplace, its flames casting an amber glow across the black stone walls. Shadows stretched and twisted, shifting as the fire flickered, swallowing corners whole.

Morana stepped inside cautiously, her sharp gaze sweeping over the space.

Mephisto strode to a large wooden desk in the far corner, his fingers ghosting over its surface before he pulled open a drawer.

Morana barely noticed, something else caught her attention. Slowly, she turned.

Her breath hitched.

Above the door, framed in dark wood, hung a painting.

Her body stiffened.

Directly across from Mephisto, positioned so he could see it every time he sat at his desk.

Her blood ran cold, her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Mephisto said nothing, he just watched.

Morana felt the air leave her lungs in a sharp, unforgiving gasp. Her mind locked, paralyzed, as her eyes remained fixed on the painting.

The woman in the image stood with power coiling around her hands, a spectral green light seeping from her fingers like living mist. But it wasn’t the energy that sent ice through Morana’s veins, it was the details.

Half-black, half-white hair, a serpent stretched across the entire image, curling around her, its body an unbroken loop.

A snake biting its own tail.

Tenebra Coil.

Her stomach twisted violently.

The girl from the mission.

The painting showed a woman, not the terrified girl she had met in the tunnels, but there was no mistaking it. The white hair, brighter than the darkness that had surrounded them, the bracelet on her wrist, the way she had looked at Morana with a mix of fear and fragile trust.

Morana had promised she would get her out, and she had failed.

That mission had marked her. It had given her the scar she carried now. And yet, the deepest wound had never been the physical one. It had been her. The girl. The one she had left behind.

And now…

Now, he knew. He knew about the girl, and he wanted her.

A slow, creeping horror crawled up her spine. Mephisto didn’t paint his obsessions for nothing.

And something inside Morana, something raw and gut-wrenching, told her that he hadn’t given up yet.

"I see you liked the painting." His voice cut through her thoughts like a blade.

Morana didn’t move, not at first. The mask slid into place out of pure instinct, expression unreadable, emotions locked behind an iron wall.

She turned.

“I don’t remember seeing this image before,” she said, voice smooth, distant and cold. “Normally, you like to spread your deities across the main hall.”

He watched her, his gaze dissecting, peeling away layers she didn’t want exposed.

“This one is special.” His lips curled into something resembling a smile, but there was nothing warm about it. “Melinoe.”

The name coiled in her mind, like the snake in the painting. Melinoe.

Morana swallowed, remembering the girl’s face, still vivid, still burned into her memories as if the mission had been yesterday. The tunnels. The failure.

“I don’t recognize the name,” she said, carefully disinterested, waiting. Waiting for him to say more.

His smirk deepened, slow, deliberate, like a spider watching its prey crawl straight into its web.

“That’s because her importance isn’t in the past or in legends.” His voice dipped lower, quiet with something dangerous. “She’s the future.”

Something cold settled in her gut, but before she could respond, his attention shifted.

He looked down at the table, at the closed box that sat there, waiting.

“But that’s not why I called you here.” His fingers brushed against the edge of the box, then he slid it forward, towards her. “I have a gift for you,” he said smoothly.

She didn’t move.

“For your 100th birthday.”

The way he said it, low, expectant, sent a pulse of something electric through the air. Morana reached forward, her fingers light against the lid. Slowly and carefully, she lifted it open.

The world tilted, like the ground beneath her vanished.

Her hands stopped, hovering over the box. Her breath hitched, half-caught in her throat. Everything around her felt distant. Muffled. Like sound had been sucked from the room.

She was staring, at a silver knife.

The handle, carved with the intricate, unmistakable design of a hawk.

Vesna’s knife.

Morana’s fingers trembled slightly against the edge of the box. Her mouth parted, but no words came. She had memorized every line of that carving. Had traced it over and over again.

And here it was, laid out before her, resting on deep red satin, like an offering.

Like a taunt. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Slowly, she dragged her gaze back to him.

Mephisto was watching, his red eyes glowed, sharp with anticipation. He had planned this. He had waited for this moment. And he was waiting still.

Vesna’s knife, the one she had searched for across decades. The one she had last seen strapped to Vesna’s waist.

The last time she had seen her eyes, warm, knowing. The last time she had felt her hands on her face, smelled her scent, heard the quiet lilt of her voice.

That’s how it is, right? You and me.

Her last words. A lie.

The last time she had seen her.

Morana felt the world collapse in on itself. Her breath hitched, her hands frozen in midair. The past came rushing back with a force so crushing it made her dizzy. She shouldn’t react, she couldn’t.

She knew where she was, who she was with. She knew he was watching, observing, waiting for the cracks to form. Her eyes burned. She felt the telltale sting of tears threatening to form.

No.

She forced her hands to move, slow and mechanical, gripping the knife. The cold metal met her fingertips, a cruel contrast to the heat crawling up her throat. A quiet breath slipped from her lips, something between a sigh and a shudder.

And then, his voice. Cutting through the flood of emotion like a blade.

"You never told me why you didn’t go with her."

The words blurred in her ears, drowned out by the weight of the knife in her hands.

"Not that I expected you to. I always admired your loyalty… your focus. Your ability to stay fixed on what you wanted, on what you hoped to become. But still… I wonder. What kept you here? Why didn’t you run away with them?"

The water-like engravings on the handle glinted in the firelight, the pattern of her bloodline. The symbol of a family that had been erased.

For a brief, excruciating second, it was like having Vesna there again, like she had never been taken from her.

But this was also proof, proof of what she had lost, proof that she had failed.

I should have done more.

Mephisto’s voice slithered back into focus.

"One of my most useful skills… the one I enjoy the most… is being a seer."

She knew that tone. Knew where this was going.

“Not that fate is fixed, no, nothing is ever set in stone. But there are paths, roads laid out before us, open and waiting. If one knows how to look, it’s easy to see the steps ahead… to understand which pieces must be moved. It has served me well."

His red eyes gleamed in the dim light.

"But you…"

A pause.

"You are a void."

The words made her chest tighten.

"Even when you were new, a newborn, there was nothing. No thread, no path. I could never see you. I still can’t."

His tone was unreadable, admiration or frustration, she couldn’t tell.

"For a time, I thought it meant you wouldn’t live long. That there was no road because you were never meant to walk one. But…" A smirk curled his lips. "Here we are."

She looked up at him then, forcing her features into something hard. Cold.

“That had only happened to me once before… with someone else.”
The mask she had worn her entire life slid into place, shielding the storm inside.

"What’s the question?" she asked, voice steady.

"Why didn’t you go with them?"

A long silence.

She met his gaze, impassive.

"There’s nothing for me out there," she said finally. "There never was. My place is here. My work is here. Everything I have, everything I’ve built, I’ve bled for it. I clawed my way to where I am, because here, I am someone. I made myself into something greater than just a name, something beyond the ghosts of the past. That’s all that matters."

And it was true.

She had worked for this. She had risen through ranks built on pain, fought for a place among those who ruled in the dark. She had a name that was feared, respected.

Black Witch.

She had created something bigger than herself, a purpose, something to anchor herself to. Because if she hadn’t, If she had stopped for even a moment to look back, she never would have survived.

Mephisto tilted his head slightly, as if weighing her words, letting them settle into the air between them.

“When they ran, I ordered them to kill everyone… except her."

The world seemed to still. Morana’s grip on the knife tightened, fingers stiff with tension.

"I wanted her brought to me. I wanted to look into her eyes before I killed her."

Her stomach twisted violently.

"I had… expectations for her. An investment. And you know how much I despise wasted investments."

Her nails dug into her palm, her knuckles white around the blade’s handle. Mephisto watched her reaction, drawing out the moment with the kind of sick pleasure he always did.

"Do you know what she said to me before she died?"

Morana felt her legs grow weaker. Her chest ached, a crushing, suffocating tightness sinking into her ribs, curling around her lungs like iron. She squeezed the knife, needing something, anything, to ground her, to keep her from spiraling.

Something warm dripped between her fingers.

Blood.

She hadn’t even noticed she’d gripped it too hard.

Mephisto leaned back, the cruel amusement never leaving his face.

"I asked her if she had any regrets."

Morana could barely breathe.

"And she said only one."

His lips curled into something dark.

"And I quote: ‘That I won’t live long enough to watch Morana rip your head off.’"

A sharp inhale, like a dagger between her ribs. The room spun, her pulse pounded, roaring in her ears.

Vesna’s words echoed, wrapping around her like chains, dragging her under.

Mephisto simply watched, waiting, letting the weight of it crush her.

Mephisto leaned his head back against the armchair and laughed. A deep, cruel sound, echoing through the room like a death knell.

Morana barely heard it.

Her hands trembled around the knife, her blood now running freely down her fingers, the cut deepening, widening. She didn’t feel the pain, didn’t care about it, because the real wound was far worse.

Vesna had died.

Not long after she had run.

She had died.

Years. Decades.

She had spent years staring at that damned wall, searching, hoping, chasing after the only remnant of her she had left.

And now, here it was. Tearing through her skin, staining her hands. A part of her had been fooled. Had fooled herself.

That Vesna had made it. That she had done the impossible. That she had escaped, even though no one ever did.

She had clung to the illusion like a child.

And Mephisto, he had known. He had always known. He had kept this secret locked away, waiting, because for him, everything was a game.

The laughter stopped. The room went silent.

"It's yours. A gift, for your loyalty."

Loyalty.

She felt hollow.

Everything inside her had been torn away, ripped out at the root, leaving nothing behind.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t react.

Again.

"Thank you, sir. Excuse me."

The words left her lips automatically, instinct overriding everything else.

She turned before she could betray herself.

Her legs moved, though she wasn’t sure how, she felt weightless, disconnected, floating through the halls like a ghost being pulled by unseen hands. She barely registered the cold air as she stepped outside.

Her body collided with the stone wall of the garden entrance, barely holding herself up.

And then, her stomach twisted violently. The nausea surged, unbearable, unstoppable.

She doubled over, retching, her body convulsed as she emptied her stomach, her vision blurring with tears.

Vesna was dead. All this time, she was already dead.

He knew. He made a point of killing her, and then he had waited.

Waited for the perfect moment to use it. To carve it into her bones. To make sure she felt the weight of it in every inch of her soul.

Another game. Always a game.

Her gaze dropped to the knife in her hands, now slick with her own blood.

The wound in her palm was deep, raw.

But all she could hear was another voice.

"You’re bleeding. I can fix it."

How many times had Vesna whispered those words? How many times had she reached for her hands, her touch gentle, her power washing over Morana, sealing every wound before another scar could form?

They had grown up together.

Protected each other.

Loved each other.

And in the one moment that mattered most, when Vesna needed her, Morana hadn’t been there, she had failed her. And even after death, she had disappointed her.

The first sob broke from her throat, and she couldn’t stop it. The tears came like a flood, violent, uncontrollable. Her body shook with the force of it, grief sinking its claws into her chest and pulling her under.

She needed to get out.

She needed air.

She stumbled forward, her vision swimming, her mind consumed by only one thought, away.

Away from this place. Away from him. Away from the suffocating weight of the truth.

Mephisto’s mansion was more than a home, it was a labyrinth of veils, stitched between worlds, each doorway a portal leading somewhere else.

A traveler with enough knowledge could step through the right one and vanish.

She didn’t care where she ended up.

She didn’t look.

She simply walked.

And the first portal that shimmered in front of her, she stepped through without hesitation. She craved silence. Solitude.

Anything to drown out the emptiness inside her.

Agatha woke with a slow inhale, feeling… fine.

Too fine.

Her mind was still fogged, floating between sleep and waking, as if she had been untethered from time itself. For a brief, blissful moment, there was nothing. No weight, no reality pressing down on her.

Then it hit. She sat up abruptly, her breath catching as memories surged forward, colliding all at once.

The house, the conversation with Rio, their daughters, most of them grown women. Her daughters.

Her chest tightened. The way they had looked at her, the tension in their eyes, expectation, apprehension, longing. As if they had been waiting for this moment, waiting for her.

And Agatha had no idea what to do with that.

What would happen when she went downstairs? When she saw them all, living there, a routine already forming around her presence?

She wasn’t ready, but ready or not, she was here.

Her mind drifted back to Rio, to the way they had looked at each other afterward, the silent pull and longing that had never dulled, never faded, just buried beneath time, beneath circumstance. The hunger in their gazes, aching with the weight of everything unsaid, everything lost.

Agatha exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. Her feelings were still a tangled mess of conflicting truths, resentment and desire, love and grief, betrayal and understanding.

And now, she had no choice but to face it all.

Because they were here, five pieces of herself staring back at her, there was no more running, no more pretending.

A familiar feeling stirred within her, one she had never been able to shake, the sharp, primal need to protect.

And beneath it, something darker.

The rage.

She could feel it, curled up, waiting, like a beast pacing just beneath her skin. The need to lash out, to destroy whatever had forced them into hiding, whatever had put them in danger.

And Morana, there was something bigger than what had been said, something Agatha suspected but had yet to fully grasp. A past drenched in shadows. A truth she might not be ready for.

Her fingers clenched the sheets. No turning back now.

With a steadying breath, she swung her legs over the bed, her bare feet hitting the floor.

Something by the door caught her attention. A change of clothes, one of the girls must have left them for her.

She hesitated, fingertips grazing the fabric. A small gesture, but one that settled deep in her chest.

Then, a memory, Morrigan’s dry remark about not having a washing machine.

A smile tugged at her lips, they were really something else.

Agatha descended the stairs, the warmth of the shower still clinging to her skin, but it did little to ease the weight pressing against her ribs. The house was silent, except for the faint murmur of voices drifting from the kitchen.

She moved toward them but stopped, something outside caught her eye. A flicker of movement beyond the window, out in the back garden. She turned, drawn in.

And what she saw made her breath catch.

Rio. Makarya, and Melinoe.

They were working in the garden, their figures bathed in the soft glow of the sun. Melinoe was kneeling in the grass, her small hands carefully placing white stones in a circle. There was no pattern, no clear purpose, just a child’s quiet delight in helping, her lips pressed together in concentration, her hair bouncing every time she moved. The white on half of the hair shining, reflecting the sun. She looked content. Happy.

But Agatha’s gaze drifted elsewhere.

Rio and Makarya stood close, their heads inclined toward each other, foreheads nearly touching. Their bodies angled inward, drawn by an invisible gravity that seemed to bind them. Makarya wore a bright orange blouse and denim shorts, her bare feet brushing against the grass. But it was Rio who caught Agatha off guard, dressed in a simple black shirt with an indistinct pattern and a pair of worn jeans. It had been centuries since Agatha had seen her like this, so domestic, so grounded, tending to the garden with a quiet, unassuming care.

Rio was holding a plant in her hands, her fingers tracing the delicate roots as she spoke, her voice low and steady. She was explaining something, Agatha could see it in the way she moved, the small furrow in her brow, the care in her touch. A quiet intensity that Agatha recognized, the same care Rio reserved for her, when she would ask for something. She was explaining something to Makarya, her attention unwavering, the weight of her words lingering between them like a shared secret.

And Makarya was listening.

Not just nodding along, not just humoring Rio, but truly listening. Hanging onto every word, her blue eyes fixed on Rio’s hands, absorbing each lesson, each detail.

A mother teaching her daughter. There was something so effortless in the way they existed together in that moment.

It was something Agatha knew instinctively, the way they stood there, so at ease, so grounded in each other’s presence. There was a quiet, unspoken love in the way they moved, the comfort of shared silences and mutual understanding.

Agatha watched as Rio turned her head slightly, glancing at Makarya, a quiet smile in her eyes. And without hesitation, Makarya returned it, instinctive, warm, full of something so pure it made Agatha’s chest ache.

Makarya’s eyes, shining with adoration. And Rio, so at ease, so present, letting herself be seen, letting herself be.

Agatha felt her stomach twist, a sharp, aching pull beneath her ribs. She had never seen this before. She had never seen Rio like this, in this quiet, effortless rhythm of motherhood. Not with Nicky. She had never allowed herself to, because with Nicky, the thought of Rio beside him, standing so close, sharing space, sharing laughter, had only ever meant one thing. That his time had come. That Death had come for him.

She had spent his entire life fearing the day she would see them together, dreading the moment their paths would cross. She had refused to witness it, had shielded herself from the inevitable.

And in doing so, she had missed it. She had never seen them simply exist like this, never seen Nicky looking up at Rio with that same quiet admiration, never seen Rio holding onto him in return, guiding him through something with that patient, steady presence. The image of what could have been weighed heavy, a vision of a tenderness forever lost.

She had lost him without this moment.

But the girls.

Makarya. Melinoe. The others.

Dr. Strange had mentioned a coven led by the Black Witch, who Agatha now knew was her daughter. Could the legend be about them? Images from the previous day flashed through her mind: Rio’s revelations about Morana, Morrigan slipping into Agatha’s mind with a precision that still left her unsettled, the raw honesty of Rio’s voice when she spoke about the girl’s loss of control, the struggle to protect them all.

The conversations with Rio about each one of them, how she had found them, how they had each connected in their own ways. They were different.

There was no looming end, no ticking clock, no fear that a glance, a touch, a smile would be the last. And so here they were, Rio and Makarya, sharing something so easy, so natural. A moment of learning, of connection, of quiet belonging. It was a glimpse of something Agatha had never let herself imagine.

Agatha’s throat tightened, her vision blurring at the edges.

She had spent centuries bracing herself for loss. And now, standing here, she was seeing, feeling, what could have been. What should have been. And it broke her.

Agatha turned away from the window, exhaling sharply, willing herself to shove down the tangled mess of emotions clawing at her chest. The sound of quiet conversation and clinking dishes from the kitchen pulled her forward, giving her something tangible to focus on.

She stepped in.

Three heads turned in unison.

Morgan, Morrigan, and Morana sat at the kitchen table, the morning light casting long shadows across the wooden surface. The table was set for breakfast, plates and mugs spread out in an almost suspiciously domestic way.

Agatha hesitated. What the hell kind of surreal fever dream am I living in?

Still, she schooled her expression, forcing a casual tone. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” they echoed, almost too in sync.

Morana motioned toward the spread. “There’s breakfast, if you want.”

Agatha nodded, stepping toward the coffee pot. She poured herself a cup, taking her time, letting the weight of their stares settle. They were watching her. Observing. Not in fear or hesitation.

Amusement. She took a slow sip, eyes narrowing slightly. “Alright, what?”

Morrigan smirked over her book, flipping a page lazily. “Nothing.”

Morgan, sprawled out in her chair with all the subtlety of a bored cat, let out an exaggerated sigh. “They’re just excited, that’s all.”

“Excited?” Agatha arched an eyebrow.

Morana, gave her a knowing look. “We just read a lot about you in the last months.”

Agatha set her cup down a little harder than necessary. “That sounds ominous.”

Morrigan snorted. “Very. You are Agatha Harkness, after all.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “Relax, they’re just nerds.”

“They’re researchers,” Morrigan corrected.

Morgan shrugged. “Same thing.”

Agatha crossed her arms, lips twitching into a smirk. “Let me get this straight. You three have been studying me like some kind of legendary artifact?”

Morrigan didn’t even look up from her book. “More like a chaotic force of nature.”

“Or an unstoppable menace,” Morana added, tilting her head. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you’ve lasted over three centuries with all the messes you’ve stirred up.”

Agatha shot her a pointed look. “Says the one crafting her own version of the walking dead.”

“She has a point,” Morgan muttered into her coffee.

Agatha’s smirk widened. “Flattered,” she said dryly. “Is that what you’ve been doing here all this time, reading about me?” Agatha tried to keep her tone light, but the edge of discomfort slipped through, the thought of them all gathered, discussing her, dissecting the way they saw her.

“Among other things,” Morana replied, her expression sharp and aware, as if she could see straight through Agatha’s defenses.

Morrigan finally set her book down, leaning forward with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “We just weren’t sure what you’d actually be like in person.”

Agatha leaned forward too, mirroring her posture. “And?”

Morrigan grinned. “You’re exactly as dramatic as we expected.”

Agatha let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “I’m not.”

Morgan snorted, looking between them. “I feel like I should be taking bets on when she starts bossing everyone around.”

Agatha turned to her, deadpan. “Starts?”

Morana, still composed, but clearly enjoying the exchange, took a sip of her tea. “They’re just glad you’re here.”

The words landed with a gentle weight, a sincerity that brushed against Agatha’s guardedness. Something about the way Morana said “they,” a slight distance in it, made Agatha’s chest tighten.

Agatha took another sip of her coffee, eyeing the book in Morana and Morrigan’s hands. The way they were hunched over it, completely absorbed, reminded her of eager students.

She recognized the cover immediately.

"Is that “The Arcane Weave of Dimensional Thresholds”?" Agatha asked, tilting her head.

Morana blinked, surprised. "You know it?"

Morrigan’s head snapped up, eyes shining with barely contained excitement. “Wait, you’ve read it?”

Agatha scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “Read it? Sweetheart, I had a very passionate disagreement with the author about his disgraceful rune placements when it was still a draft.”

Morgan’s mouth fell open. “Wait, you knew the author?”

Agatha’s smirk widened. “Knew, yes. For a time. Until I killed him. Well, technically, it was a gift for Death.”

Morrigan burst out laughing. “You murdered the author of a foundational magical text because of rune placements?”

Morana rolled her eyes, unfazed. “To be fair, the rune placements are terrible.”

Morgan stared at Agatha, still processing. “You…you killed him?”

“Not just for the runes,” Agatha waved a hand dismissively. “He was arrogant, reckless, tampering with things he had no business touching. Rio got his soul as a souvenir. Everyone wins.”

Morrigan grinned “I love that. The fact that we have the person who murdered the author and the entity who claimed him in the same place. That’s just chef’s kiss.”

Morana’s brow furrowed. “But Rio said you had to bother him just to get him to teach it properly.”

Agatha shrugged dismissively, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Well, back then, I forgot he knew less than he pretended to.”

Morrigan, flipping through a few pages, glanced at Agatha. “Okay, serious question. The sigil placement in the portal reinforcement section, total nonsense or absolute nonsense?”

“Complete garbage,” Agatha said without hesitation. “Half those runes are just for aesthetics. He liked to impress lesser minds.”

Morana let out a breath, shaking her head in exasperation. "I knew it. The way he layered them, it made no sense structurally. I’ve been studying runes for a while now, and I was confused by the pattern. Rio had us go over them for weeks, knowing all along it would be pointless."

Agatha smirked over her cup. “Teaching is so much more effective when the student has properly suffered first.”

Morrigan tossed the book onto the table dramatically. “See, this is why I love having historical sources in the house.” She gestured toward Agatha. “We can just ask the ancient relic herself.”

Agatha gave her a slow, unimpressed blink. “Careful, darling. Ancient artifacts have a tendency to be cursed.”

Morrigan’s grin widened, unfazed. “I’m counting on it.”
Morgan pinched the bridge of her nose. “Morrigan. Why.”

“Oh, come on, she knows what I meant.”

Agatha smirked, wicked and unbothered. “I do. And since I’m an ancient relic, let me enlighten you with true wisdom…” she leaned in conspiratorially “the best portal reinforcement is not some overwrought sigil sequence. It’s a nasty little curse designed to make anyone who steps through it without permission spontaneously combust.”

Morana closed her eyes like she regretted asking.

Morrigan gasped, delighted. “I knew there was a better way!”

Morgan, looking thoroughly done, “Good to see you two are bonding over murder.”

Morana nodded solemnly.”Yes, they are. No judgments.”

Agatha looked absolutely pleased with herself. “I do try.”

Melinoe came running in, her smile as bright as the sun she'd been playing under. Her hair was a tangled mess, streaked with leaves, and her cheeks were flushed, smudged with dirt from working in the garden. She looked at Morrigan, curiosity in her big, sparkling eyes.

"What are you laughing about?" she asked breathlessly.

Morrigan smirked, tossing a glance at Agatha. "Agatha just told me her favorite bedtime story."

Agatha couldn’t help but notice the affectionate way Morrigan spoke to Melinoe, the gentle, protective edge in her voice. It wasn’t just Morrigan, it was everyone. The way they all looked at Melinoe.

Agatha's heart tightened, warmth spreading through her chest. Melinoe's joy was so pure, so unburdened. It made her ache in a way that was almost uncomfortable.

Melinoe turned to Agatha, still grinning. "You should’ve come! We were cleaning up the garden. It was fun!"

Agatha chuckled softly, her voice more tender than she intended. "I’ll go next time, sweetheart."

Her gaze drifted toward the open door leading to the garden, where Rio and Makarya were entering, still caught up in conversation. Rio's hair was a little messy, loose strands framing her face. She wore a pair of worn jeans and a black t-shirt emblazoned with a cartoon grim reaper, the bold green block letters declaring: “Green Reaper. Garden Maintenance. It’s dead easy.”

"I'm telling you," Rio was saying, "the plant needs shade. If we keep it in the sun, it’ll wilt."

Makarya, brow furrowed, suggested, "What about the greenhouse? That might work better."

Agatha felt herself slipping out of the moment, drifting into the comfort of watching them all. The casualness of it, Rio’s amused smile, Makarya’s thoughtful expression, Melinoe’s wide, innocent grin, somehow managed to unsteady her, in a strangely comforting way. Even the t-shirt, a playful jab at Rio’s identity, spoke of a familiarity and ease that both soothed and disturbed her.

Rio caught her staring and raised a brow, smirking just a little at the corner of her mouth. Agatha’s heart tripped over itself, and she quickly glanced away, feeling uncharacteristically awkward.

"Good morning," Makarya greeted softly, her voice hesitant, a little shyly. "I’m just going to wash my hands, and I’ll be right back."

“Good morning,” Agatha replied, her gaze following Makarya as she slipped away. Of all of them, Makarya seemed the most reserved, as if she carried her own world inside her, a quiet space where she felt safest.

Agatha turned to Rio, her expression shifting from curiosity to something sharper, more guarded.

“Nice shirt,” she drawled, her tone dripping with teasing sarcasm. “I see you’re quite comfortable for someone with a long waiting list of souls to be collected.”

Rio’s gaze remained steady, and a sly smile played on her lips as she replied, "Oh, Agatha, even an entity like me knows how to appreciate a bit of style, if only to make the dead envious."

Agatha's eyes narrowed in challenge. "Style? Please, if souls were on sale, you'd be handing out freebies." Her words were cutting yet playful, a sharp retort that betrayed the affection she tried desperately to hide.

Their banter sparked in the air, drawing furtive glances from their daughters at the table. Morgan, Morrigan, and Morana exchanged knowing smiles, while even Melinoe peered curiously from a safe distance. It was as if everyone could feel that beneath Agatha’s exasperation lay a deep, unspoken fondness.

Sensing the moment was slipping away into their private repartee, Agatha swept her gaze around the room. Seeing the expectant, nearly mischievous looks on her daughters' faces, she forced a smile and shifted the focus.

"Alright, enough of our little theatrics. What is going on?" she asked, her voice softening as she turned her attention to the serious matters at hand, ensuring that everyone was safe and the chaos was kept at bay.

The room fell silent as Agatha’s question hung in the air, a call for clarity amid the charged tension between the two.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Rio's eyes flicked to Morana, whose expression tightened, just a flicker, but enough. Agatha didn't miss it. The exchange was quick, but it was there. Her gaze cut to Melinoe, who remained blissfully distracted with a vase of flowers Rio had set aside for her.

Rio sat in a chair around the table and finally spoke, her voice steady but heavy. She began with Mephisto, how he'd been expelled but refused to accept defeat. How he was determined to return, believing himself worthy of commanding Vorago, that demons should reign. How he had created a network of agents, strings tied to shadows across the world.

Agatha's attention sharpened, but she caught the way Morana's shoulders stiffened, the way she tried to conceal her unease. Agatha's voice cut through Rio’s explanation, firm and unwavering.

“I know that. You already told me. I want to know how the girls fit into this.”

Rio hesitated, a rare crack in her composed demeanor. “I think he’s planning to use them. Somehow. I don’t know yet. But it feels like… like he’s known about them for a long time. Longer than us.”

Her voice trailed off, the air thickening with a tension that felt like a held breath. Her gaze shifted to Agatha, cautious yet probing.

“Do you remember anything, anything at all, from when you exchanged the Darkhold? Something that might give us a clue?”

Agatha’s jaw clenched, the hardness in her eyes unyielding. Her response was quick, almost a snap. “No. I already told you, I don’t remember.”

The silence that followed felt sharp-edged, like glass waiting to shatter. Agatha exhaled slowly, the initial defensiveness dulling to exhaustion.

“No,” she repeated, voice steadier but no softer. “I don’t know what happened, how it happened. But... is it possible? That he already knew?”

The question hung in the air, a fragile, dangerous thing. And for a moment, no one dared to breathe. Rio's gaze lingered on Morana, a silent signal that urged her forward. Morana shifted uncomfortably before finally resting her elbows on the table, her eyes steady on Agatha.

“For as long as I can remember, Mephisto has kept these paintings in his room of honors,” Morana began, her voice tense. “Four of them, separate yet together. One of them is of the goddess Morana, but with characteristics that... resemble me.”

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. Her fingers tapped nervously against the table's edge.

“He used to joke about it,” she continued quietly. “I used to think it was something to be proud of when I was younger.”

Agatha’s gaze flicked to Morgan, whose unease was evident, and then to Morrigan, whose eyes held a guarded understanding. The exchange between them did not go unnoticed.

“But the other three,” Morana resumed, her voice tightening, “they're more generic. Representations of power, but the faces, they resemble Rio. Like he couldn’t quite grasp what they should be yet.”

Agatha felt Rio’s sharp, protective glare. It was a warning, an instinctive defense of territory.

“But there are five paintings,” Morana pressed on, her voice heavier now. “They always said there were five, but one was lost, that she was lost.”

She hesitated, her eyes turning distant, lost in a memory. “The painting wasn’t truly lost, it was hiding, just for him. One day, during an event he organized, he called me to his office. Said he had a gift for me. When I arrived and he presented it, I saw it: above the door, facing him, hung the fifth painting. It was Melinoe.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Agatha’s thoughts churned, the pieces sliding into place.

“That was in 1907,” Morana added quietly. “On my 100th birthday.”

Agatha's eyes widened, confusion sharpening her features. “1907? But that doesn’t make sense, how…”

1907. A hundred years after I took the Darkhold. She was really born in 1807.

Her thoughts slipped from the present, spiraling into the staggering truth of it all — the reality of when Morana was born, of all the years that had passed without her. How Agatha had missed it, had been absent from so much of Morana’s life.

Morana’s voice cut through the silence. “It wasn’t just a representation. It was her. The same face, the hair half-black and half-white. Only older. And not just that…”

A bitter taste clung to Agatha’s mouth. The room felt charged, everyone held captive by the unraveling truth.

“Decades before that,” Morana pressed on, her voice rougher, “he sent me on a mission, insisted I lead it. To retrieve an artifact, a weapon, he claimed. Something that could breach the veil between the living and the dead, shatter the boundaries of the underworld. He called it the Tenebra Coil.”

The name hung heavy in the air.

“He never trusted me with something so significant before, not until then. When I got there, I felt something pulling me away from the path the other agents had taken. There was no weapon. It was her.”

Morana’s gaze was unfocused, like she was staring through the walls, back into a memory that had never fully left her.

“Melinoe. She was there, scared, talking about how her hair had just changed.” Morana paused, her voice wavering. “Her hair… it was parted, half white, half black. She kept saying she’d just seen…” She faltered, breath hitching. “She’d just seen you die, that day.”

Agatha felt her breath catch, the weight of the revelation pressing against her ribs.

Morana’s voice lowered, a strained whisper. “It was as if she was in both places, at both times, in 2024, after her death, and somehow, in 1877, with me. I don’t know how he knew or why, but he wanted her, Melinoe, more than any of us. She’s the centerpiece of whatever he’s planning. And he knew who she was to me, even before I knew. He knew she’d be there, on that day, at that moment.”

A silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Morana’s gaze dropped, haunted yet resolute. “Somehow, he knew about her. He always knew. About all of us, but especially her. It’s as if he knows her more than we do.”

Agatha’s voice broke through the silence, strained and unsteady. “Breaking space-time?” She looked at Rio, her eyes searching, desperate.

Rio’s gaze was dark, the weight of eons of knowledge flickering there. “Somehow, she’s been appearing, traveling without control, sometimes without realizing what she’s doing. I still don’t know how. But whenever she does, there’s a connection, a bridge that allows her to cross, tied to each one of us.”

Agatha’s eyes were wide, unfocused, her mind racing. Her voice came out weak, almost a plea. “Have you seen her? Have you ever met her?” Her gaze snapped to Rio, sharp and intense, a barely contained accusation.

Rio’s answer came quickly, cautious. “Only recently, the same day I met Morana.” She met Agatha’s gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them, burdened by the weight of what they didn’t yet know.

“I met her in the park once,” Morrigan’s voice broke through Agatha’s thoughts, cutting sharp and clear. The usual sarcasm and biting humor were gone, replaced by a seriousness that drew everyone’s attention. Her gaze was distant, thoughtful, as if replaying a memory long buried.

“She was younger then, maybe five years old,” Morrigan continued, her tone quieter now. “Her hair was still all dark. She was sitting alone in the park, with Señor Scratchy. That’s when I met him.”

At the mention of the rabbit, Agatha’s eyes flickered, a ripple of unease breaking across her face. She thought of all the times Señor Scratchy had vanished, sometimes for weeks, only to reappear as if no time had passed. Had it always been just that, a rabbit wandering off? How long had he known them? How long had they known him?

Morrigan let the silence hang, heavy and intentional. Her gaze locked onto Agatha’s.

“I was five too,” she added softly. “That was 25 years ago.”

The room fell into a stillness that felt like it might shatter. Agatha’s mind reeled, the timeline colliding against reason. Melinoe, her daughter, caught in the liminal space of time, slipping through the cracks of worlds. Seen by Morrigan as a child, at an age when she shouldn’t have existed yet.

Morrigan’s expression remained guarded, conflicted. “I didn’t understand it then. Just a girl and a rabbit. But now… it makes sense. She was there, just like she was with Morana, out of time, out of place. As if she’s always been here, circling us.”

A chill crawled through Agatha’s spine. It wasn’t just Melinoe’s presence that unsettled her, it was the realization that Mephisto had known. Known about Melinoe’s abilities, her fractured existence, and had been watching all along.

Agatha’s eyes moved slowly across each of her daughters, Makarya’s lowered gaze, Morrigan’s pensive frown. There was more, something deeper beneath the surface, and Agatha could see they were all holding back, not yet ready to face the full weight of it.

It was Morgan who finally broke the silence, her voice low and whispered, an edge of darkness threading through it. “Somehow, she’s connected to all of us.”

Agatha thought about the legend of the Black Witch, the powerful coven led by her. Blood Moon. Shrouded in myth and secrecy. A story of power that had crossed centuries, entwining itself with their fates in ways none of them had fully understood.

Agatha wondered if there had ever been a choice, or if they had all been caught in this web from the very start, bound by magic older and deeper than they could grasp.

Rio’s tone followed, steady and severe. “There’s a pattern in the way she appears
or when she appears. I only met her on the day of the accident at the gas station. She was there… with a child who died in the accident. It was like she was guiding her, helping her cross over.”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat, a chill threading through her veins. Rio’s eyes stayed on hers, sharp yet reflective.

“Melinoe is one of my favorites. She’s a goddess of the underworld, known for offering tributes to the dead. Legend has it she wanders the earth with her ghostly followers.…For while she resides in the underworld, she’s also linked to the crops that sustain life. She is the grave and the abundance, a bridge between the living and the dead. The white, of course, alludes to her celestial, ethereal aspect”

The voice wasn’t Rio’s. It was deeper and smoother.

Mephisto’s.

Agatha’s vision swam as the memory surfaced unbidden: a dimly lit room, the weight of a baby heavy in her hands. On the wall, a painting of a woman draped in shadow and light, Melinoe, her gaze simultaneously gentle and merciless. Mephisto’s voice curled around her like smoke, describing the goddess with a reverence that felt tainted, a fascination that bordered on obsession.

Then the memory frayed, her grip on the baby, a flash of red, the air split with energy, and it was gone. The memory of that moment, the deal struck… lost, just as it had always been. Yet here it was, clawing at her mind, sharp and persistent.

Agatha’s breath hitched, sharp and uneven. The room felt too small, too dense. The air too thin.

“Agatha?” Rio’s voice pulled her back, steady and grounding. Agatha’s gaze lifted, meeting Rio’s worried eyes. Her fingers tightened around Rio’s hand, a lifeline against the whirlpool of half-remembered memories.

“I’m here,” Rio whispered gently, a thread pulling Agatha back from the abyss.

Agatha nodded, her mind still tangled, raw. She glanced back at her daughters, their faces tense, uncertain, all watching her. The weight of their gazes anchored her, and slowly, the world around her steadied.

Morana’s voice broke the tension. “There’s something at your house. In Westview. Where… where it happened.”

Agatha’s gaze snapped to Morana, sharp and curious. The others turned as well.

“After I saw it,” Morana continued, her eyes flicking to Agatha’s, “the vision of you… dying. I had to understand. I went there to investigate, to see if there was anything left.” She hesitated, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the table. “When I got there, I saw the flowers. The ones Rio planted. Where you… where it happened.”

Rio’s head turned slowly, her expression controlled but her eyes darker. Agatha didn’t look at her; her attention stayed fixed on Morana.

“When I touched them, I saw it again,” Morana said, her voice barely a breath. “Your death. Like I was there. It felt… tangible. Like there’s something still there, lingering.”

Agatha’s mind raced, gears turning rapidly. Her jaw tightened, a resolve settling.

“I need to go there,” she said firmly. “I need to get some of my things. My grimoire.”

The room rippled with unease. Rio’s eyes narrowed, the weight of her hesitation palpable.

“Agatha, it’s risky. Strange could be waiting for you. Watching that place.”

“He might,” Agatha shot back, her voice steel. “But I need to go. There are things there I can’t leave behind. Not now.”

Rio’s gaze searched Agatha’s face, a quiet battle playing out beneath the silence. Agatha held steady, unwavering. The seconds stretched. Finally, Rio exhaled, resignation and trust blending in her expression.

“Fine. But I’m going with you.”

Morana straightened, a determined glint in her eyes. “I’m helping. I was there; I know what I saw.”

Before anyone else could speak, Morgan and Morrigan stepped forward.

“We’re going too,” Morgan declared, the defiance clear.

“No,” Rio and Agatha said in unison, the reflexive finality of it freezing the air.

Morgan blinked, startled by the synchronized firmness, her protest already crumbling. Morrigan glanced between them, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Rio’s voice softened, but the resolve was still there. “You need to stay here, safe. With Makarya and Melinoe. We won’t be gone long.”

Makarya’s eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of defiance flickering. “I’m not a child.”

Rio’s lips twitched, a hint of a smile quickly smothered by the weight of the situation. “I know. But this isn’t about that. It’s about staying safe. Morana knows Mephisto, she’s dealt with him longer than any of us. And we need to move fast. It’s not a matter of strength; it’s strategy.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened, frustration swimming in her gaze. Rio could see the tension, the anxiety curling at the edges of her resolve, a mix of frustration and concern battling in her eyes. “But…”

Agatha’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the argument before it could form. “I said no. You will stay here.”

The room fell silent. Agatha’s tone carried no room for argument, steady, direct, the final word. Morgan and Morrigan faltered, the instinct to push back swallowed by a quiet, unconscious respect.

Morgan’s shoulders sagged slightly, a crack forming in her resistance. Her eyes glimmered, fear barely veiled beneath her carefully guarded expression. It was too close, too soon, everything still raw, the loss still sharp and bleeding.

“Okay,” Morgan finally muttered, her voice laced with reluctance. “Just… be careful.”

Agatha’s gaze softened briefly, a hint of a smile flickering before she straightened, the determination settling back over her. She glanced at Morana, a spark of anticipation in her eyes.

Rio leaned in slightly, her tone gentler now. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Morrigan crossed her arms, a huff slipping from her lips, but she didn’t argue. Makarya stayed silent, her expression conflicted but resigned.

“I need to retrieve my grimoire while we’re there,” she muttered, more to herself than to anyone in particular.

Morana’s head snapped up, a gleam in her eyes that she quickly tried to smother. Agatha caught the flicker of excitement, the anticipation that rippled beneath her composed exterior.

“If you all manage to stay here, without sucking any more unsuspecting witches into the house,” Agatha said, her voice sharp but with a teasing edge, “maybe I’ll let you take a look at it. Though honestly, it would be better for you to start making your own.”

At that, Morrigan’s face lit up, the mask of nonchalance slipping away for just a heartbeat before she caught herself. Agatha’s gaze softened for a moment, the barest curve of a smile forming as she saw it, the spark of curiosity, the hunger for knowledge that had always driven her.

Makarya and Morgan exchanged glances, the conflict visible in the subtle tension of their brows. There was a hint of hesitation, a guardedness in the way their eyes flickered. Excitement tempered by caution, the promise of knowledge against the weight of its cost.

“Grimoires aren’t just books,” Agatha added, her tone quieter now, a warning layered beneath the offer. “They’re a piece of us. Power, memory, will. They’re more than just spells; they’re who we are.”

Morgan nodded slowly, her fingers absently curling and uncurling as if considering the weight of what it meant. Makarya’s expression flickered, the desire to learn warring with the uncertainty still curled within her.

Morrigan’s eyes, however, remained bright, an unspoken promise shimmering there. A promise to learn, to understand, no matter the weight of the knowledge.

Agatha felt like it was a shot in the dark, searching through shadows, grasping for answers they couldn’t yet name. There was a thread running through all of their lives, an invisible line binding them to a fate none of them had chosen. Her death and return had torn something open, exposed what had hidden them from each other. Now, the pieces were falling into place, a puzzle whose edges remained frayed and jagged.

“I’m just going to get changed, and whenever you’re ready, we can go,” Morana said, voice steady, decisive.

Agatha and Rio nodded.

As Morana ascended the stairs, Melinoe approached, her small hand finding Agatha’s leg. Her eyes, wide, anxious, searched Agatha’s face. “Are you leaving again already?”

It felt like a blade twisting in her chest.

“It’ll be quick,” Agatha promised, forcing a steady smile. “We just need to check something there.” The truth was, she had no idea what they were searching for, as if they expected the answers to manifest from the air. There was a part of her that wanted to stay, to sink into this impossible, stolen moment with them. “We’ll be back, okay?”

Melinoe’s gaze softened, her trust unyielding. Agatha felt the weight of it, how fragile it seemed. The words had been meant to comfort Melinoe, but they landed deeper in Agatha’s own chest.

The sense of urgency remained, tangled with the fear that leaving meant risking losing all of this again, these daughters who had been taken from her, stolen by forces she still didn’t fully understand. The realization gnawed at her: she had no control over any of it, not really. Every step felt like a guess, every decision a gamble. As much as she longed to protect them, to piece together the truth, she feared she was only stumbling deeper into the dark.