Black Witch

New York was a city of power plays and illusions.

The perfect place for Mephisto’s expanding operations.

Artifacts, souls, contracts, everything had a price, and in the underworld market spread across the city, deals were brokered in whispers, traded in shadows. Relics changed hands over blood and gold, bounty hunters prowled unseen, and the desperate carved their fates into parchment, sealing them with ink and their own breath.

But something had disrupted the flow.

Morana had spent years as Mephisto’s most efficient agent, his ghost in the field, a blade in the dark, swift and unquestionable. No one worked cleaner, faster, more ruthlessly. She had erased names, claimed artifacts, broken wills. Her track record was flawless.

Until recently.

Mephisto’s agents weren’t late to their targets.

Someone else was early.

Someone was ahead of them, every time. A leak, a traitor, or something worse.

Morana stepped out of the Brooklyn warehouse into the cold air, adjusting the cuffs of her long black leather sleeves. Her uniform clung to her like a second skin, designed for movement, for the hunt. She felt the familiar weight at her throat, a burning press against her collarbone.

Her fingers drifted beneath the high collar of her coat, curling around the metal.

The ring.

She pulled it free, letting it rest against her palm. It was warm. Pulsing. Almost alive.

The obsidian swirled in its core, the runes carved along the ring’s surface glowing faintly, shifting as if sensing something unseen.

For years, it had been nothing more than a relic she refused to part with.

Then, three days ago, something had changed.

The weight of it had shifted, the pulse of magic inside it stirring, responding. And at the same time, the dreams had returned.

Dreams she had long buried.

Dreams she had convinced herself belonged to another lifetime, another person.

"I thought you’d gotten rid of that."

The voice was calm, measured. A presence she had felt before she heard him.

She turned, her mask slipping effortlessly into place.

Pugal stood there, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unwavering.

He was one of Mephisto’s most valued agents, an old demon, mercenary-born, forged in the underworld’s crucible. If someone needed to be bought, broken, or made to disappear, Pugal was the one they called.

To most, he looked like a strong, graying man, broad-shouldered, neatly combed silver hair, nothing remarkable at first glance. But that was the point. His true form lurked beneath the surface, unseen except in Mephisto’s realm..

Morana knew better than to underestimate him, he had once been her trainer.

Hand-to-hand combat, strategy, deception. He had drilled them into her alongside the finer arts, languages, negotiation, manipulation. He had taught her how to read an opponent and make them dance without ever realizing the strings were there.

She had once answered to him.

Now, the balance of power had shifted in her favor.

But Pugal still knew her too well.

Morana exhaled slowly, slipping the ring back beneath her collar, letting it disappear beneath leather and steel.

"What can I say?" she murmured, voice indifferent, careless. "It's a beautiful ring."

He said nothing, watching her with the same patience he always had.

She tilted her head, offering a cold, fleeting smirk. "And it looks good on me, too."

The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Pugal studied her, expression unreadable. He saw things others didn’t. He always had.

"They’re back, aren’t they?" he finally said. "The dreams."

Morana stilled, just for a breath. Then, she let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle.

"Dreams?" she echoed. "I don’t dream, Pugal."

A lie, one they both knew. Her expression darkened, she felt exposed.

For years, she had forced herself to stop thinking about the dreams, the ones she had as a child, the ones that always felt like echoes of something lost. She had buried the feeling that they meant something, that they were tied to a family she could never quite remember. And for a time, it had worked. The past had been locked away, left to rot behind an unbreakable wall of focus and discipline.
But lately, the dreams had become something else.

They were sharper, more intense. Like claws raking against her mind.

Relentless.

She woke up breathless, her body rigid with unease, the taste of something bitter coating her tongue, anxiety, anticipation. As if something was coming. As if something had already been set in motion, just waiting to be unleashed.

And now, standing in front of Pugal, she felt it again.

The pull of a hole she had once climbed out of. The weight of something dragging her back under.

She wouldn’t allow it.

After Vesna’s death, after confirmation of what she had spent decades refusing to accept, Morana had thrown herself into the only thing she had left: the mission.

Failure was no longer an option.

She had honed herself into something merciless, a weapon that struck without hesitation. The work was all that mattered. Each mission executed flawlessly. Then the next. Then the next.

That was her place. That was her purpose.

And she wouldn’t let the illusions of a dead girl, of a girl she used to be, ruin that.

"They never completely went away," she admitted at last, voice detached. "I think that’s just part of it. But in the end, that’s all they are. Dreams." She met his eyes, cold and unwavering. "No one lives in their sleep."

Pugal was silent for a moment, watching her as if giving her the chance to rethink her own words. To second-guess them. But Morana didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His eyes dropped to the knife at her hip, the blade that never left her side.

"You like knives a lot for someone who doesn’t need them."

His tone was casual, but the meaning was anything but.

Morana followed his gaze, her fingers instinctively brushing against the hilt of the knife strapped to her waist. The blade was hidden, but the handle, carved with a eagle in flight, remained exposed.

Vesna’s knife.

She traced the worn engraving, feeling the raised pattern beneath her fingertips, along with the faint ridge of the scar that now crossed her palm. A fresh reminder. Another mark she refused to let fade. Another weight to carry.

"I remember when you called it ugly," Pugal continued, his voice lighter, almost amused. "Said it was only good for cutting bread. And she laughed. Said you were just jealous, because you wanted it for yourself."

The words hit her like a blow. Morana tensed, her grip tightening over the hilt, but she forced herself to remain still.

Pugal smiled, but his eyes never softened.

"Seems she was right, doesn’t it?"

The air between them thickened.

He blamed her?

He knew. He knew what Mephisto had done. And he knew that Vesna would have never been a target if not for her. Mephisto had wanted her dead. Not because she was a threat, but because he knew it would shatter Morana. Because hurting her wasn’t enough. He had to break her.

That’s why Vesna was the only one, out of all the agents who escaped, that Mephisto demanded be brought to him. He wanted to kill her himself.

But what Pugal didn’t understand, what he couldn’t possibly know, was that he was late.

She had already blamed herself. More than enough.

Morana finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. Cold. Detached. The same way she had faced down demons, mortals, and gods alike.

"The past is the past," she said smoothly. "Life moves forward. We move forward."

Pugal exhaled through his nose, a quiet scoff, as if unsurprised by the answer but disappointed nonetheless.

For a moment, he said nothing.

"Forward, yes."

His voice was quieter now. Steady. Deliberate.

Morana’s lips pressed together, forcing the thought away. She met Pugal’s gaze again, colder this time.

"See you next time, Pugal." She turned, her coat shifting around her as she moved toward the exit.

But before she could leave, his voice stopped her.

"Morana."

She turned her head just slightly, enough to show she was listening.

“She wouldn’t blame you.” The words were quiet but steady. “You made your choice. She made hers, and she paid the price for it.”

Something inside her twisted, she said nothing. Her back was to him, stiff, as if his words had physically struck her. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t turn around.

And without another word, she walked away, leaving him behind. She returned to her apartment, a place she had called home for the past four years, the center of countless operations she had orchestrated and commanded.

When she stepped inside, darkness greeted her. The silence was heavy, wrapping around her like a second skin, pressing in from all sides.

She moved on instinct, shedding her coat, unstrapping the holsters, placing each weapon in its designated spot. The knife went beside the bed, the necklace and ring carefully laid beside it. Pugal’s words echoed in her mind, the weight of guilt pressing down, threatening to pull her under. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to silence the storm inside her.

Then, without hesitation, she turned toward the bathroom.

She never made it.

A sound rippled through the apartment, soft but unmistakable.

”Power looks good on you.”

She froze.

A chill ran down her spine as her pulse spiked, her body tensing before her mind could catch up.

Morana whirled, eyes scanning the room.

Nothing.

The apartment was empty. Silent. Still.

But the voice, it hadn’t been in her head. It was a whisper that felt both distant and far too close, curling at the edges of the space like smoke.

"Who's there?"

No answer.

Her fingers twitched. She reached for the knife without thinking, her grip tightening around the hilt as she moved through the dimly lit apartment. The streetlights outside cast long shadows, the glow painting everything in cold gold and deep black. Her eyes darted to every corner, searching.

A woman’s voice. Smooth. Amused.

She took a step toward the terrace when the air shifted.
Then…

”Honey, everything looks good on me.”

The voice purred through the space, rich with amusement. Playful.

Two women.

Morana’s breath hitched. This time, the whisper felt closer. The air in the room shifted, the edges of reality bending under something unseen. The voices echoed in her mind, overlapping, teasing. Familiar.

She moved through the apartment, searching, her fingers twitching at her sides, magic simmering beneath her skin.

“I won’t ask again,” Morana said, her voice low, laced with warning, charged with barely restrained violence. “Who’s here?”

Silence.

Then, a sudden flash of light, searing and blinding.

Purple and green, colliding like fire and lightning, splitting the darkness in two.

Morana flinched back, her own magic answering on instinct. The green glow surged to her hands, ready to be wielded, ready to strike.

But there was no one to strike. The apartment was still empty.

Yet the silence had become too silent, pressing in like a held breath before a storm.

Before she could understand, everything changed. The darkness surged, power swelled. And through it all, the only sound was whispers.

Two voices. Then… nothing.

The world shattered.

A pulse of cold, dark energy spread through the space, thick and suffocating. It wasn't just magic, this was power.

It was her power. But it wasn’t hers.

Morana’s breath caught.

Dark tendrils of energy coiled in the center of the room, twisting, expanding and growing.

The furniture trembled. The very air seemed to vibrate with pressure, the weight of something vast and unstoppable.

Morana's pulse thundered in her ears.

She wasn't calling it. She wasn't controlling it, this wasn't her. The darkness swelled, the pull of it sudden and violent.

What is this?

The ground was gone.

The apartment vanished.

She was ripped from reality.

Her body, her mind, was somewhere else.

Her head was thrown back, her arms and legs outstretched.

She was weightless, she was falling.

No.

She was rising.

The pressure of it crushed against her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her hair whipped around her face as unseen forces coiled around her limbs, holding her in place.

A deep, gut-wrenching terror clawed up her throat.

She had no control, no escape. And then, she saw.

The garden stretched out beneath her. The air crackled with raw magic, ancient and final. And in the center of it, a woman. Suspended in the air, her body mirrored Morana’s own.

Dark energy wrapped around her like a thousand unseen hands, lifting her, taking her.

Power bled from her skin, spiraling into the night, consuming, devouring.

Morana's heart stopped.

It was her.

The one she had felt in dreams. The presence that had haunted her, whispered to her, called to her. The woman she had longed to see, to know. And now she was watching her die.

Her mother.

She had imagined this moment as a kid countless times, meeting her, seeing her, knowing her.

But not like this. Never like this.

Morana could feel her.

Not just the power, but the pain. The pull. The slow, irreversible unraveling of a life being stripped away.

The force of it twisted through Morana’s own body, making her muscles tense, her chest burn.

She tried to move, tried to reach, but her limbs wouldn’t respond.

She wasn’t alone, she felt them, the presence of others.

Four others.

They were suspended like her, caught in the same unrelenting power, their bodies outstretched, their hair whipping in the storm of energy around them. She couldn’t see their faces.

But she felt the connection.

It clawed through her, deep in her bones and in her blood. They were watching too. They were feeling this too.

She wasn’t just witnessing her mother’s death.

She was living it.

Her mind was breaking, slipping through her fingers like water, unable to grasp what was real and what wasn’t.

At the center of it all, she saw it, the darkest mist.

It pulsed and writhed, a force beyond comprehension, swallowing the air itself. It was the source, the beginning and the end, the power that was taking, consuming, claiming.

And within it…

An outstretched hand, reaching for the purple-clad witch. For the face Morana had dreamed of for centuries.

The face she had ached to see.

Now, it was there. Right there. And yet, it was already slipping away.

The finality of it cut through her like a blade, sharper than anything she had ever known.

That look, a sad, quiet look, an acceptance of fate.

The scream never left her throat.

Morana had no voice. No strength. The tears fell, silent, tracing her face as shock and pain cracked through her like shattered glass.

She was trapped. Like all the others. Helpless.

And then, the witch fell, her body hit the ground, her eyes closed.

And she was gone.

Something inside Morana broke, everything collapsed. The weight of it crashed down, the air rushing back into her lungs. The magic unraveled, releasing her, sending her plummeting…

And she fell. Hard.

Gasping, she hit the ground, her body jerking as if she had been wrenched from another reality.

She sat up, her breath ragged, her chest heaving. She was back in her living room, her apartment. But the walls felt wrong, the air felt thin, the world too small, too insignificant compared to what she had just seen.

Her entire body shook.

She couldn’t breathe.

The grief crushed her, thick and suffocating, not hers but hers all the same. Raw and visceral.

It consumed her.

But then, silence. A wall, a block, something slamming down like a heavy door, shutting her out, cutting her off.

Morana staggered to her feet, her legs weak, her hands trembling as she touched her arms, her chest, looking for something.

Anything.

Some sign that it had been real. Her mind reeled, waves of memory crashing through her, drowning her in flashes of purple and green magic, dark beams spiraling, the voices, their voices

She had seen her mother and she had lost her. And there had been others. Others just like her.

Then, a flicker of motion caught her eye, she turned sharply.

The mirror. She froze. Her reflection stared back, but it wasn’t the same. Slowly, her hand rose, fingers brushing the right side of her hair. At the front, standing stark against the rest…

A single white streak, from root to tip, a mark. Proof.

Her stomach twisted, nausea clawing at her ribs, everything slammed back into her, a tidal wave of horror and realization. She hadn’t imagined it, she had just watched her mother die.

And she hadn’t been alone.

Agatha adjusted the collar of her deep purple cloak, fingers grazing the intricate embroidery along its edges. Beside her, Rio smoothed down the long, inky-black coat that marked her as Death, the material shifting like smoke and shadow. Her face remained in its human guise, though the weight of her true nature lingered behind her eyes.

Their daughters stood a short distance away, Morgan, Morrigan, Makarya, and Melinoe, watching with a tension they attempted to mask. Only Morana was going with them, standing just slightly ahead, composed yet observant. The air between them was charged, a silent understanding that even if Agatha and Rio insisted they'd be back soon, the uncertainty of their absence weighed on all of them.

Agatha’s eyes roved over their expressions. She longed for more time, needed more assurance, but knew that no amount of delay would matter if she couldn’t be certain of their safety. The ever-looming shadow of Mephisto, with his inscrutable designs, terrified her.

She watched Morana: the way her black attire clung to her form, her hair tied back in a tight braid with those distinctive white strands, her face set in a hard, prepared expression. Agatha knew that expression well. It was the face of someone who had lived too much, seen too much.

The dim light caught on the dagger at Morana’s waist, glinting off the hilt carved with the wings of an eagle.

“Nice knife,” Agatha remarked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
Morana’s gaze flicked to the blade, then back to Agatha, something unreadable darkening her expression.

“Thank you,” she said smoothly. “It was a gift.”

The words were final, a door shut with no room for prying.

Agatha’s gaze flicked to the others, still, watchful, their bodies coiled with tension, waiting.

“Take care off each other,” Agatha reminded, glancing over at the girls. “We won't be gone long.”

Makarya nodded quickly, a little too quickly, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. Melinoe's gaze flicked nervously between her sisters, and Morrigan shifted her weight, arms crossed but not quite scowling.

Agatha’s eyes glimmered with both warmth and resolve as she continued, “And no opening portals.” Her tone was commanding, a reminder of how they had brought her here. The place fell silent; their eyes widened as they absorbed her seriousness, their lips pressed into tight lines as if holding back smiles. Agatha’s words, heavy with concern and maternal authority, resonated like an unyielding decree: she was their mother.

Morgan broke the silence, her eyes appraising Agatha’s purple attire. “I like it, the color, the details, the way it wraps around your waist.”

Agatha recalled what Rio had mentioned: how Morgan’s fiancée’s death had thrust her into an unrelenting spotlight, how her work as a renowned fashion designer had been dissected, praised, and exploited. A life she had built, only to now walk away from it. A life stolen from her.

Agatha fixed Morgan with a conceited stare. “You work with that, don’t you? Who do you think you got that from?”

Morgan rolled her eyes, unable to hide a small, genuine smile. “I’m glad I inherited the good taste. The ego? That was all Morrigan’s.”

Agatha’s smile broadened, and she shot an arched eyebrow at Morrigan, who was about to retort when Rio stepped forward

Rio, sensing the lingering apprehension, glanced at Agatha. “Maybe I should go first. Make sure it’s safe.”

Agatha’s head snapped to her, brow arched. “I can handle myself just fine, thank you very much.”

“I'm an entity, Agatha,” Rio replied, smirking slightly. “It’s kind of my thing.”

That did it. Agatha turned fully, squaring her shoulders, her expression unreadable, except for the glint of challenge in her eyes.

“Oh, I’ll show you an entity,” Agatha shot back, her voice edged with a mock severity, a threat wrapped in silk, laced with something dangerously close to a promise.

Rio blinked, momentarily stunned, a grin threatening to spill over her face. There was a glimmer of something wicked, something pleased. The girls exchanged glances, struggling to hide their amusement. Morrigan outright snorted, while Morgan’s smirk betrayed her. Even Morana’s composure cracked, a subtle, entertained smile tugging at her lips.

“Are you an entity too, mom?” Melinoe piped up, her curious gaze bouncing between them.

Agatha leaned slightly, gaze never leaving Rio’s. “I am… for your mother.”

Rio’s expression was a mix of admiration and utter amusement, her smirk widening. Agatha shot her a pointed look, daring her to object. Rio, still smirking, could only offer a casual, “Yes, dear.”

Rolling her eyes, though the hint of a smile betrayed her, Agatha turned and strode through the portal. Rio, watching her go, seemed momentarily dazed, all heart-eyes and smug satisfaction.

When she glanced back, the four daughters were staring at her, wide-eyed and gleeful.

Rio’s expression shifted, attempting a more serious, authoritative air.

“Behave while we’re gone. No chaos. No necromancy experiments. And absolutely no portals”

Morana walked toward Rio, following Agatha with a bright smile, shaking her head, unable to hide her amusement at seeing Rio so solemn, just moments ago, her heart had been all eyes for Agatha, she softly teased, “Let’s go, entity.”

Rio shot her a pointed look, her gaze heavy with reproach, as if to say, “Even you?”

Melinoe giggled, “Hurry up, mom. Mama will be mad if you get there late.”

Morgan chimed in, “Yeah, better not risk it. I bet she'd find a way to kill even you.”

Morrigan laughed “Seriously, she'd make it happen.”

Rio’s lips twitched, amusement and resignation mingling. “I wish” she muttered, before finally stepping through the portal after Morana.

They arrived at the house exactly as they had before, the portal spitting them out near the stairs. But this time, everything felt different.

To Agatha, it felt like weeks had passed. The weight of what she had learned, what she had seen, Doctor Strange arriving at her doorstep, being yanked through a portal, discovering she had five daughters, that they were being hunted by a demon Rio had once purged, it was too much to fit into the span of a single day. And yet, less than twenty-four hours had passed.

Wordlessly, the three of them moved toward the back garden. Toward the place where Agatha had died.

The flowers were still there, growing wild and untouched, thriving without care or attention. As if their existence was something beyond nature, something born of forces neither light nor dark, but something else entirely.

Agatha’s gaze flicked toward Morana, waiting for her to speak, to react, but instead, she noticed how the girl kept her distance. How her shoulders were locked tight, her jaw clenched, her stance deliberately farther away than necessary. As if she were afraid. As if stepping too close would force her to relive it all over again.

Agatha watched as Morana’s eyes landed on the patch of flowers, unreadable, unreadable, until she caught Agatha watching her. Then, just as quickly, Morana averted her gaze and started walking, away from them, through the garden, but never too close.

Agatha exhaled, turning back to the flowers. When she finally spoke, her voice was steadier than she felt.

“Do you think there might be fragments?”

Rio stepped closer, her gaze fixed on the flowers, eyes narrowing as if seeing something beyond the visible world.

“If there’s anything left, it’s weak,” Rio murmured, her voice lower now. “Barely holding together. Or… it fell apart the moment Morana touched it.”

Agatha stood among the tangled vines and moonlit petals, fingers ghosting over the leaves as if she could pluck the remnants of magic from the air. It was faint but unmistakable, a whisper of something that had once been immense and that had shaped the very fabric of their lives.

Rio stepped beside her, eyes, her, eyes scanning the darkness. She could feel it too, a lingering thread of power woven into the earth itself.

“It’s residual,” Agatha murmured. “Like an imprint left behind after a spell is undone.”

“Not just undone,” Rio corrected. “Severed.”

Agatha frowned. “You think it was deliberate?”

Rio tilted her head, considering. “Not in the way Mephisto intended, but yes. Something forced the magic apart, something strong enough to unravel what he spent centuries weaving.”

They fell into silence, both searching for the right words, the right knowledge, and then, almost in unison, they said it:

“Eidhaen.”

Morana, who had been leaning against the stone railing of the terrace[descrever outro lugar], watching them with detached curiosity, stiffened.

“Edhaen?” she echoed.

Both Agatha and Rio turned to her, their gazes sharp, expectant.

“You’ve heard of this before?” Agatha asked, surprise threading through her voice.

Morana hesitated for only a moment before straightening. “I heard about it last year. Someone I knew mentioned it.”

Rio’s expression darkened with interest. “Who?”

Morana exhaled, already regretting speaking. But she knew better than to lie, not to them.

“Pugal. He was a friend, from when I was still…” She trailed off, her voice growing thicker. “It was common for me to meet with him, before or after a mission, either to gather intel on something I needed to collect or to leave an artifact with him afterward. He was also responsible for our training. He mentioned it once, tried to make it seem casual.”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a glance, their surprise hidden beneath layers of calculation.

“Was it something Mephisto was interested in?” Agatha asked, her voice steady, though her mind was already dissecting the implications.

Morana nodded. “He has knowledge of dark artifacts, lost magic. He’s spent years uncovering things most people pretend don’t exist.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “He told me that the Sundering Veil wasn’t just a spell, it was an undoing. A magic powerful enough to unravel an enchantment across time and space, severing it at its core.”

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “A kind of magic that shouldn’t be possible.”

“It shouldn’t,” Rio agreed. “But it does.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened around a nearby vine, her thoughts racing. “And Pugal, he knew about it?”

“Why?” Morana asked, catching the shift in the air, the weight of something unspoken between them. “You’re holding something back.”

Rio’s voice carried the gravity of something ancient.

“It is a magic with a specific power, to break contract magic according to agreement. But not just any agreement. A soul contract.” She let the words settle, let the truth wrap itself around them like creeping ivy. “You can imagine why so many have tried to master it. The ability to strike any bargain, surrender your soul, and then undo it, without consequence. It would unravel the foundation of exchange magics, strip the weight from every oath, every price of corruption. It would mean that nothing is truly binding.”

Agatha’s voice dropped into something near a whisper, but it held the weight of a revelation. “The thing is, the magic itself, or at least the legends surrounding it, speak of it only being possible to be done without being done.”

Morana frowned. “What do you mean? Without intention?”

Rio’s lips parted, and when she spoke, the words sounded older than time itself, a cadence not meant for mortal tongues.

“A magic without magic, wielded without wielding, folded without folding, souls taken back.”

A hush fell over the garden. The wind itself seemed to still, as if listening.

Morana shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.” Morana exhaled sharply, resisting the prickle of something crawling up her spine. “It sounds like a riddle. A legend meant to keep young witches awake at night.”

“That’s exactly why it’s dismissed,” Agatha murmured, her gaze unfocused, already unraveling the threads of possibility. “But if it was real, if it had ever been used before…” She trailed off, the implications too vast to voice all at once.

Rio’s gaze was sharp. “The question isn’t whether it’s real. It’s understanding how it connects to the spell Mephisto wants. What lingers here are two things: a magic that shattered something, and the remnants of a magic that was completely, irrevocably undone.”

Morana’s shoulders tensed. “Whatever it is… Pugal didn’t just know about it. He suspected it had been used before. It seemed to interest him, but he never said why.”

Silence settled between them, heavy with realization.

Eidhaen, a spell meant to break that which was never meant to be broken. Not through force, not through will, rather, as if magic itself had a will of its own, and the one who wielded it was merely an instrument.

Pugal had been right. The spell had been cast before. And if that was true, then Mephisto was the most likely culprit. Which meant Pugal must have already known and chosen to keep that information from her.

Morana exhaled, forcing herself to focus. “It’s been months since I last saw him. I can try to find him again, it’ll be harder now. He must know Mephisto is after me. But I think I can still track him down. If anyone has more answers, it’s him.”

Agatha watched her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes, as if she were connecting pieces in real time. “It’s incredibly difficult to do. Almost nothing is known about who actually managed it or how. To be honest, it’s as if the magic itself erased its own traces, like those who succeeded were compelled to keep it hidden from the world.” She paused, her brows knitting together. “The strange thing is finding fragments of it. Because for there to be remnants…”

She trailed off, her gaze drifting to the very ground where she had died.

“…it would mean that somehow, it was broken.” Her voice was quieter now, edged with something close to realization. “Right here.”

Agatha’s eyes met Rio’s, holding the weight of unspoken thoughts before shifting her focus back to Morana. There was calculation in her expression, and hesitation.

“You said that when you touched it, you saw my death,” Agatha said slowly. “For the second time.”

Morana caught the subtle shift in Agatha’s posture, the slight tension in her shoulders. She tried to keep her own tone light. “Yeah. It was like there were still remnants of something. But it was quick.”

Agatha studied her, then asked, “The knife. Was it him? The one who gave it to you, it was Pugal?”

Morana’s breath hitched. The question caught her off guard, and for a fraction of a second, something flickered across her face, something unguarded.

“Oh, no…” she answered too quickly, the words hanging between them. Agatha didn’t push, but the weight of her gaze made it clear she wasn’t letting it go so easily.

Morana shifted, changing the subject. “I’ll find him. I still know the places he might be. It won’t be too difficult.”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a glance. A silent conversation passed between them, their expressions turning more somber.

Morana caught it instantly and pressed on. “I can handle myself. And we don’t have a better option.”

Agatha turned to Rio, and the meaning was clear without a word spoken. Rio, unbothered, simply looked at Morana and said, calm and matter-of-fact, “I could get the answers out of him faster.”

Agatha didn’t disagree. Her posture shifted as if the idea were the most natural conclusion.

Morana narrowed her eyes, already shaking her head. “No. You two won’t kill him. What part of ‘a friend’ don’t you understand?”

Rio raised an eyebrow.

“Besides,” Morana continued, irritation creeping into her voice, “that would only bring more attention. I just need to find him. I think he can help us. The last time I saw him, he said something…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Maybe he’ll help us. But it’s better if he doesn’t know about you two. Or anyone else. Which means I go alone.”

Agatha and Rio didn’t speak. They simply stared at her.

After a long beat, Agatha gave a small nod, though her expression remained unreadable. “Fine. It might work.” Then, almost offhandedly, she added, “Just be careful. And don’t take too long.”

Her lips curled slightly. “Otherwise, we’ll come after you, and it’ll be quite a show.”

Morana looked away, exhaling sharply as if she were out of patience, but the corner of her lips almost curved into a smile, one she quickly suppressed. “I can take care of myself. When I’m done, I’ll go straight back to the house.”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a glance before nodding. Morana gave a small nod in return, then turned without another word.

A flick of her wrist, and a portal shimmered open before her. In the next breath, she was gone, vanished as if she had never been there.

Silence settled between Agatha and Rio.

Then Rio turned, her gaze sharpening. “I want to touch it,” she murmured, her voice laced with something unreadable. “It might take a while. I’ll try to be as brief as possible.”

Agatha arched a brow, a challenge flickering in her eyes. “The last time you said that, you spent four days in a trance, standing in the middle of the garden like some kind of statue.”

Rio’s lips quirked upward, her tone teasing. “Is it already that difficult? Thinking about four days without me?”

Agatha rolled her eyes, looking away as if to mask the amusement threatening to surface. Then she sobered. “Why wait for her to leave?”

Rio’s expression shifted, the playfulness fading. She hesitated, then sighed. “I don’t think she’s ready to deal with what she saw that day. None of them are, really.” A pause. “I thought it best to wait.”

Agatha nodded, understanding. That day. The day you died.

She had noticed it the entire time they were there, how Morana had kept her distance, as if afraid to get too close. As if proximity might force her to relive it.

Agatha exhaled. “Try to be quick. I need to get a few things. I won’t be long.”

Rio smirked, tilting her head. “Yes, dear.”

Agatha ignored her and turned away, pretending she hadn’t heard the warmth laced in those two words. She kept her back to Rio, hiding the small, unwilling smile tugging at her lips.

When Agatha returned, a small suitcase in hand, her expression was different, drawn, tense, her mind clearly elsewhere. She stepped outside, gaze drifting toward the back of the garden.

Rio was there, crouched beside the flowers that had grown where Agatha’s body had once lain. One arm outstretched, fingers grazing the petals.

She was still. Unmoving. Her eyes swallowed in darkness, the gleam of obsidian reflecting the dimming light of day. Her hair shifted around her face, caught in an unseen current, moving with a supernatural grace.

Magnificent. And utterly otherworldly.

Agatha exhaled and sat down outside, waiting.

An hour passed. Then three. Then eight.

Eventually, she gave in, heading inside to rummage through the kitchen for something to eat. The wait wasn’t what unsettled her. It was the quiet. The solitude.

Space to think. To reevaluate. To feel the weight of everything crashing down.

She sensed the shift in the air before she heard anything, the energy in the house bending, the stillness fracturing. She turned just as Rio stepped through the doorway.

Agatha straightened, eyes expectant. “So?”

Rio’s gaze was distant, as if she was still sifting through whatever she had uncovered. “I tried to find any residue, but it was the same as what I’d already felt here.” She hesitated. “Still, I never thought I’d sense magic like this again. It’s old, Agatha.”

Agatha frowned, confusion flickering across her face.

Rio shook her head slightly. “We should go. You’ve covered everything, right?”

Agatha nodded.

Rio lifted her hand, fingers curling in the air. The first tendrils of a portal began to shimmer, crackling with energy, a doorway to the place where their daughters were waiting.

“Wait.”

Agatha’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Rio stilled. Her hand hovered, the portal flickering, then fading. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting Agatha’s, wary.

“What?”

Agatha’s breath was steady, but the fury beneath it was barely restrained. “Before we go, I need to know why.”

Rio frowned. “Why what?”

Agatha stepped forward, magic crackling at her fingertips. “Why did you keep me in the dark for two months?”

Rio’s lips parted, a hesitation so brief it could have gone unnoticed, but Agatha caught it.

“You told me you were trying to understand, trying to find them before Mephisto could, but that’s not enough. You could have come to me the moment you realized the truth. You chose not to.” Agatha’s voice sharpened, demanding. “So why? What’s really happening?”

For a second, just a second, something flashed across Rio’s face, shock and guilt. But then she shut down. Her expression hardened into something unreadable.

“I wasn’t hiding anything,” Rio said, voice tight, controlled. “I was trying to find them before Mephisto could.”

Agatha let out a bitter laugh. “Stop lying.”

“I’m not…”

“This is bullshit, and you know it.” Agatha’s voice trembled with rage. Magic flared in the air around her. “That was to punish me, wasn’t it?”

Rio’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened, not with guilt. Offense. Betrayal.

“Punish you?” Rio repeated, voice low, sharp. Then she laughed, but it was bitter, humorless. “You think I kept them from you, to punish you?”

Agatha felt like the ground beneath her was slipping away. “Tell me I’m wrong, then.” Her voice shook with the weight of it. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t want me to suffer for what I did.”

Rio flinched. Her fingers twitched. Her whole body tensed, like she was caught between fury and something far more fragile. “I didn’t”

“Yes, you did,” Agatha spat, hatred flashing in her eyes.

“I didn’t do anything to punish you,” Rio said, her voice rough, breaking. “I was trying to understand what I was dealing with before I could bring you into this, to understand…”

“Stop it.” Agatha’s voice cracked, raw and furious. “If you wanted me to feel bad for it, fine. You did. I hate how you kept me outside of it, how I was a stranger to my own daughters. And even then, I can’t even blame you completely, because I did this too. I gave Morana to Mephisto, and I still can’t remember how. I fucked up. Maybe I fucked up all of them.” Her breath shook, rage and guilt colliding. “But don’t stand there and tell me you had to hide them, that you needed two months to come to me, that the first thing you should have done wasn’t to tell me about them. You hid it from me, and now you’re standing here acting like it’s nothing, like it’s normal that you spent two months finding them while I was in the dark…”

Agatha’s voice rose, spiraling out of control, fury spilling into every word. Rio’s gaze had shifted, heavier, darker, something aching beneath the surface. Agatha’s breath hitched, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. Her voice carried too much, anger, shame, fear, all colliding, all spilling over.

“SO STOP LYI…”

But she couldn’t finish it, Rio’s voice, when it came, was thunderous.

“I DID IT FOR YOU.”

The force of it left Agatha breathless. Her whole body tensed, her gaze trembling with confusion.

Rio’s eyes burned, and this time, she didn’t hide the pain.

“I shouldn’t feel anything,” Rio said, voice rough, breaking. “I shouldn’t regret anything. But the emptiness you left, the feeling of never having you again, of not being able to feel you anymore, when I can feel everything, dead or alive…” Her breath caught. Her gaze darkened, thick with emotion. “And the one thing I wanted to feel was gone.”

Agatha’s throat went dry.

Rio took a sharp breath, eyes flickering between rage and grief.

“You think I hid our daughters to punish you?” Rio whispered, shaking her head. “I hid them because I was afraid that bringing you to them, bringing you closer to what made you come back…”

She stopped herself. Swallowed.

Agatha felt something twist inside her, sharp and sickening.

“You think I’m going to die again.”

The words left Agatha’s lips barely above a whisper, but they rang through the space like a death sentence.

Rio’s expression shattered. And that was the answer.

Agatha felt the weight of Rio’s words crash over her like a wave, drowning her in their meaning. It was more than fear, more than hesitation, this was grief. A grief that had never left, that had festered in the silence between them.

Rio continued, voice trembling despite the control she tried to maintain.

“I felt the exact moment you came back,” she admitted, the words heavy, thick with something Agatha couldn’t yet name. “The exact moment you were here again.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her breath unsteady.

“For a while, it was enough,” Rio went on, voice raw. “Just to feel you again. Even when I thought you never wanted to see me again. Even when I told myself you wouldn’t come back to me.” Her lips parted, as if to say something else, but then she closed them, pressing them into a thin, unsteady line. “But then… I started meeting the girls. And then Morana entered Vorago, and there was no way to deny what was right in front of me. No way to deny how your return was connected to all of it.”

Her gaze darkened, something like resignation settling into her features. It was the look of someone who had been running from the truth for far too long, only to realize it had caught up with her anyway.

“I thought maybe it was them,” Rio murmured. “That they were the ones tethering you here. That somehow, they were what kept you alive. And I was terrified that if I brought you to them, if I let you see what we had, what we lost…”

Her breath caught.

“I would lose you all over again.”

Agatha’s hands curled into fists. The air between them grew thick, suffocating, filled with words that had never been spoken, truths that had been buried beneath fear and longing.

Rio clenched her jaw, and when she spoke again, her voice was no longer shaking, it was hard.

“I didn’t know how much of you was still yours,” she admitted. “I didn’t know if you were meant to stay. If your return was real, or if it was just…a bridge. A passage for them.”

Agatha inhaled sharply, the pain of Rio’s words cutting deep.

“And if I brought you into this,” Rio continued, “if I let you see them, let you get close…” Her voice faltered for a moment, then dropped to a whisper. “I thought it would break whatever was holding you here. And you’d be gone.”

A sharp breath.

“So, no. It wasn’t to punish you. And it wasn’t just to protect them. It was for you.”

Rio’s voice cracked, her shoulders tense, her expression torn between vulnerability and devastation.

“For me.”

Silence fell between them like an iron weight.

Rio exhaled shakily, forcing herself to look at Agatha.

“I was desperate,” she confessed. “Desperate to keep you here. To keep feeling you. To not lose you again.”

Agatha’s hands were trembling. She hadn’t realized it at first, but now the tremors were uncontrollable. Her breath hitched, her throat tight, her vision blurred. Her eyes burned, and her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Rio saw it.

Saw the way Agatha’s chest rose and fell unevenly, the way her fingers twitched, the way her lips trembled like she was on the edge of breaking.

And for the first time in two months, they weren’t standing across from each other as enemies.

They were just two lovers who had lost too much.

And who weren’t ready to lose each other again.

When Agatha spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper, fragile in a way she hadn’t meant for it to be. Rio’s words had struck deeper than she was prepared for, unraveling something inside her that she wasn’t sure she could put back together.

“This must be our fate, right?” Agatha’s voice wavered, like she was speaking a thought aloud rather than asking a question. “Maybe this is our destiny, for those who believe in that kind of thing. Children born into a war they never asked for, carrying the weight of the choices we made. Destined to die or to be hunted.”

Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she swallowed hard.

“I can almost feel it,” she admitted, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “The danger pressing in on them, circling like vultures. And they really have no idea.”

She fell silent, staring at her hands as if they held answers she couldn’t find.

“Agatha…”

Rio’s voice was gentle, a warning, but Agatha kept going, lost in a spiral of thoughts she hadn’t let herself say out loud before.

“Maybe this is the price,” Agatha murmured, almost to herself. “Like there’s something inherently wrong with what we did. Like no matter what we do, our children are doomed.” Her breath hitched. “I… I don’t know what to think anymore. That maybe just being ours, being your child, puts a sentence on them before they even have a chance. Was what we did really that bad? Was it…?”

“Stop.”

Rio’s voice came sharp, thick with emotion, but not with anger. It was something else, something wounded.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them knew what to say.

Centuries of history hung between them.

Memories of a time when love had been simple, before pain and war and regret had twisted it into something unrecognizable. Before they had lost each other, again and again, tearing pieces away until they were both standing there, broken in ways they couldn’t name.

It felt like a lifetime ago, that cabin, that quiet world where they had once existed together without the weight of everything crushing them. It felt like another life entirely.

They weren’t the same people anymore. The things they had done. The things they had become. They had spent centuries running. From their mistakes. From each other. From themselves. And yet, no matter how much damage they had done, how much pain they had caused, they still found their way back.

Even if it destroyed them in the process.

The house had fallen into silence, thick and suffocating, wrapping around them like a second skin. Neither spoke. Neither moved.

Agatha stood in the dim glow of the dining room, her fingers trembling slightly as she wiped at the stray tears clinging to her lashes. The weight of the past two days pressed against her chest like a crushing forc.

Five daughters. The words repeated over and over in her mind, a reality that felt both impossible and inevitable.

Five daughters.

Rio stood a few steps away, her arms stiff at her sides, body drawn tight like a bowstring. She looked as if she were holding herself together through sheer force of will—just as much as Agatha was.

The silence stretched, filled with everything they couldn’t say. The ghosts of lost years, the scars of choices made in the dark, the knowledge that no amount of power could change the past.

Agatha was the first to break. Her voice, raw and strained, barely more than a whisper.

"The Darkhold… it hid them from me, didn’t it?"

Rio exhaled, rubbing a tired hand over her face. "Yes. From us."

The confirmation was a knife in Agatha’s ribs, twisting.

"And Mephisto?" She swallowed, her voice nearly breaking. "You think he used my fear of loosing another child, to get to Morana?"

Rio’s jaw clenched, her expression shadowed. “I don’t think it. I know it. And not just that. I think… I know there was intent in giving you the book. Not only in exchange for Morana, but for the girls as well.”

Agatha closed her eyes, her breath escaping in a shudder. A cold, bitter realization settled into her bones.

“He already knew.”

The words left her in a whisper, but they carried the weight of something undeniable.

Rio nodded, stepping closer.

“He let you believe it was the only option, that only this way would she survive.” Her voice was softer now, quieter, but no less certain.

Agatha sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers curling into fists. "And now it doesn’t even matter. We can’t change it, can we?"

"No."

Another blade to the heart.

Agatha let out a choked laugh, broken and bitter. "So what do we do, then? Just, just pretend this is normal? That we didn’t lose decades with them? That we didn’t fail them before we even knew they existed?"

Rio’s gaze darkened, her hands clenching at her sides.

"No." She stepped even closer, her voice trembling with conviction. "We hide them. We protect them. We can help them understand their powers, their place in all of this."

"They’re scared," Agatha whispered.

"I know."

"They’re dealing with it in different ways."

"I know."

Agatha let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "Is this our fate?" she asked, her voice barely audible. She looked up at Rio, her eyes red-rimmed, glossy with tears. "Having kids who are either destined to die or to be hunted?"

“Agatha…”

“I hate it,” Agatha spat, her voice laced with fury. “The way they’re forced to hide, like there’s something wrong with them. Like they’re something to be ashamed of.“

Rio's expression faltered. A rare moment of vulnerability passed over her face before she sighed, reaching for Agatha’s hand, her fingers brushing against hers.

"Whatever this is," Rio murmured, "whatever really happened that made you exchange Morana for the Darkhold… we can’t change it now."

Agatha flinched at the words, her breath catching in her throat. The weight of her own past choices wrapped around her like chains.

Rio’s grip on her hand tightened. "But I can feel something shifting, Agatha. This wasn’t random. Mephisto has been planning it for a long time. And he’s not done yet." Agatha shuddered at the thought. "Doctor Strange is already looking for them. For us."

"Then we make sure he doesn’t find them”

The air between them was heavy, charged. They were close, too close. Somewhere in the conversation, in the tension, in the shared grief and determination, they had gravitated toward each other, drawn together by an invisible pull neither of them had the strength to fight.

Agatha’s breath hitched when she felt the warmth of Rio’s body just inches from hers. She could see the flecks of dark in Rio’s brown eyes, the way her lips parted slightly, as if she, too, had just realized how little space was left between them.

The tension crackled like a storm.

The weight of the last twenty-four hours, the revelations, the emotions, the ache. It was suffocating. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, Rio kissed her.

Or maybe she kissed Rio. It didn’t matter who moved first, only that the second their lips met, everything else disappeared.

The pain. The anger. The years lost between them. None of it existed, only the fire, only the ache.

Only this.

The moment their lips met, it was like a dam breaking.

There was no hesitation, no slow build-up, no tentative exploration. It was raw, consuming, a clash of lips and breath and heat. It was the kind of kiss that left no room for thought, only feeling, a desperate, aching need to hold, to take and devour.

Agatha clung to Rio, her fingers pressing into her skin, gripping the fabric of her coat before sliding up, tracing the sharp lines of her jaw. Then her hands were on Rio’s face, touching, memorizing, as if she were afraid that if she let go, Rio would vanish again, slip through her fingers like sand. She kissed her harder, deeper, with the kind of desperation that tasted like loss, like time stolen from them, like she was trying to reclaim all of it in this one moment.

Rio felt it, felt every ounce of Agatha’s grief, her yearning, her rage, and she matched it. She let Agatha pour it all into her, and in return, she took. Her hands roamed, one sliding down to Agatha’s waist, the other tangling in Agatha’s hair, gripping it tightly as she tilted her head back, deepening the kiss with a low, hungry sound.

It was too much. And not enough.

Rio's grip on Agatha’s waist tightened, and without breaking the kiss, without a word, she lifted her, effortless, with one arm around her waist, as if she weighed nothing.

Agatha gasped against Rio’s lips, but she didn’t pull away. She only kissed her harder, fingers threading through Rio’s hair, nails digging into her scalp, as Rio carried her, moving blindly, seeking something, anything, to brace against.

And then the edge of the table hit the front of Rio’s thighs, and that was enough. She set Agatha down with controlled force, her body slotting between Agatha’s legs as Agatha immediately wrapped them around her again strongly, locking her in place.

The kiss was frenzied, greedy, their bodies pressed so tightly together it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. The world outside this room, outside this moment, ceased to exist.

It was just them. It had always been just them.

Rio’s hands traced a slow, deliberate path up Agatha’s thighs, fingers pressing firmly through the fabric, seeking, claiming, feeling the warmth beneath them as she moved in closer, deepening the kiss. The heat between them was unbearable, intoxicating, a wildfire neither of them had the strength, or the will, to put out.

Then, with effort, Rio pulled back, just enough to see her.

Agatha was wrecked. Breathless, lips swollen, her pupils blown wide with want. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her body still reaching for Rio, her fingers tangled in the fabric of her coat as if she refused to let her move away.

Rio wanted to keep looking at her, to savor this moment, to memorize the sight of Agatha like this, here, with her, finally.

But Agatha didn’t give her the chance.

As Rio leaned back more, craving just a second more of space to see her, Agatha chased her mouth, catching Rio’s lower lip between her teeth. She bit down, just enough to make Rio inhale sharply, a low, shuddering sound escaping from deep in her throat.

“No,” Agatha whispered, her voice weak and breathy, thick with need. “Don’t stop.”

And Rio didn’t.

She crashed back into her, swallowing Agatha’s desperate little sigh as their lips met again, harder, deeper. One of Rio’s hands slid up Agatha’s side, gripping her waist, while the other trailed up her thigh. She kissed her like she could never get enough, like stopping was never an option, her mouth moving from Agatha’s lips down to her jaw, then lower, lower, until she reached the soft, sensitive skin of her neck.

Agatha gasped, head tilting back instinctively, her body arching into Rio’s touch, offering more, craving more, and Rio gave.

Her lips pressed against Agatha’s neck, open-mouthed, hungry, her tongue flicking over the pulse point before she bit down, just enough to make Agatha moan.

That sound, gods, that sound.

Agatha’s fingers curled in Rio’s hair, gripping tight as Rio kissed lower, teasing, savoring.

And then, crash.

A loud smash rang through the room as Agatha’s hand, in her eagerness to lean back, knocked a vase off the table. It shattered against the floor, the sharp noise jolting them both like a slap to the face.

They froze.

Agatha sucked in a sharp breath, and Rio, still between her legs, tensed.

Rio pulled back slightly, blinking, her own lips parting as she took in the mess on the floor. Agatha looked too, after a beat, she exhaled.

“…That was a gift.”

Rio, still catching her breath, looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, smirking. “From who?”

Agatha hesitated. “I don’t remember.”

Rio snorted, and Agatha chuckled, low and warm.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, both breathless, both caught up in something too big, too deep. Neither of them moved away.

Rio exhaled, slow and steady, as she reached out, her fingers trembling just slightly as they brushed against Agatha’s face. Her thumb traced along her cheekbone, a touch so soft, so reverent, as if she were trying to convince herself that Agatha was real. That she was here.

Alive.

Agatha barely breathed, her lips parting as Rio’s fingers drifted lower, grazing over her lips, memorizing their shape, the softness, the warmth. She shivered under the touch, her breath hitching as Rio traced down her jaw, then back up, her fingers gliding along her cheeks like she was carving this moment into her very soul.

That any of this was real.

Their daughters, they had been lost to them, hidden, erased from their memories, existing just beyond their reach for all this time. And yet, now, against all odds, they were here. Together and alive.

Rio swallowed hard, her throat thick with something unnameable, something that burned. She looked at Agatha, and the breath left her lungs all over again.

The soft, flickering light of the room cast shadows over Agatha’s face, but her eyes. They were wide, so deep, so unbearably blue, looking at Rio like she was the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Her lips remained parted, breathless, as if just Rio’s touch was enough to undo her.

Rio’s chest ached.

“You are here”

Agatha’s lips trembled, her gaze flickering, and Rio saw it, the way her breath caught, the way her shoulders barely shuddered as her eyes began to water. The blue of her irises turned glassy, her breath heavier, more uneven, as the first tear slipped down her cheek.

Rio caught it with her thumb.

And then she spoke again, voice dropping lower, filled with quiet, unwavering certainty.

“Whatever happens… whoever tries to get to them… they will regret it.”

Agatha inhaled sharply, a quiet, broken sound, as she nodded. Her gaze fell to the ground, the weight of everything pressing down on her, and Rio felt her fingers twitch, felt the urge to hold her together when she was barely holding herself together.

“They will.” The tears kept falling, silent and heavy, tracing down Agatha’s cheeks like echoes of a grief too vast to put into words.

Rio leaned in.

Their foreheads met, soft, grounding, their breath mingling between them. Agatha closed her eyes, and Rio followed, her fingers still resting against Agatha’s face, still memorizing her.

They stayed like that, eyes closed, heads touching, breathing in each other’s presence.

Holding on, not to the past, not to the grief, not to the horrors of what they had lost.

But to this, to what was still here. To them.

Without a word, Rio scooped Agatha into her arms, her strength effortless, her grip possessive. Agatha gasped, the sudden shift making her pulse spike, heat pooling low in her stomach at the way Rio handled her.

Agatha gasped, her breath catching as she clung to Rio’s shoulders, her legs tightening around Rio’s waist instinctively. She could feel the strength in the way Rio held her, the effortless way she carried her like she weighed nothing at all.

Heat shot through her at the sensation.

She barely had a second to process it before a dark mist curled around them, thick and shadowed, swallowing them whole.

Then, they were in Agatha’s room. Agatha barely had time to smirk before she looked at Rio, her eyes dark with hunger.

“Stop showing off,” she teased, breathless.

Rio only grinned, her gaze burning as she leaned in, capturing Agatha’s lips once more.

The kiss was different this time. Deeper. Heavier.

Desperation seeped into every movement as their lips parted and met again, as Rio tilted Agatha’s head, devouring her, drinking in every sound she made. Agatha moaned into her mouth, fingers tangling in Rio’s hair, pulling her closer, until there was nothing between them.

She needed more.

She shifted, moving against Rio’s body, feeling the way Rio’s hands gripped her tighter, fingers digging into her as if she were the only thing keeping Rio tethered to the earth.

She was the only thing keeping Rio tethered to the earth.

Agatha pulled back, just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against Rio’s as she panted. Her lips were swollen, her pupils blown wide with desire, and when she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper…

“Please.”

The word was raw, desperate, like a plea.

Rio groaned low in her throat, a sound of pure want, before capturing Agatha’s lips, her hands sliding over Agatha’s body, memorizing every inch, every curve, as if she’d been starving for this, craving this for far too long.

Rio’s mouth found Agatha’s neck again, her lips trailing open kisses along her skin, her teeth grazing against the sensitive spot just below Agatha’s ear. Agatha gasped, her fingers digging into Rio’s shoulders as she pressed closer, needing more, aching for more.

Rio bit down softly on her earlobe, the sensation making Agatha moan, her body instinctively moving against Rio’s, desperate for friction, for touch, for anything that could bring them closer. She could feel Rio’s breath, hot and teasing against her skin, could feel the way Rio’s hands held her, firm and steady, keeping her in place but at the same time driving her wild with anticipation.

“Stop teasing me,” Agatha whispered against Rio’s ear, her voice breathless, pleading.

Rio chuckled, the sound low and husky, full of something dark and heady. She loved seeing Agatha like this, unraveled, desperate, craving her as much as she craved Agatha.

The kiss deepened, their mouths moving together in a fevered rhythm, tongues tangling, moans swallowed between them. Agatha clung to Rio, her hands gripping at the fabric of Rio’s clothes, desperate to feel more, to take more, to have everything.

She broke away for just a moment, her lips swollen, her breaths uneven, her eyes heavy with desire as she looked at Rio. “Please,” she whispered, her voice raw, aching.

Rio groaned softly at the sound, at the way Agatha looked, wrecked already, needy, hers. Without hesitation, she carried Agatha to the bed, lowering her onto the mattress with a slowness that felt almost reverent, like she was laying down something sacred.

Rio hovered over her, drinking her in. The way the moonlight spilled through the window, painting Agatha’s skin in silver, made her look ethereal, untouchable, like something divine.

Agatha lay beneath her, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide with hunger. The marks on her neck, left by Rio’s mouth, stood out against her pale skin, a testament to how much she wanted this, how much she wanted Rio.

For a moment, Rio simply stared, committing every detail to memory.

Agatha blinked up at her, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

“Nothing bad can come from this,” Rio murmured, her brown eyes burning into Agatha’s.

Agatha’s breath hitched, her eyes glistening, her body shivering, not from cold, but from the sheer weight of Rio’s words, the promise in them, her breath shaky as a single tear slipped down her cheek. She nodded.

Rio leaned in, their foreheads touching, their eyes slipping closed as they breathed each other in, as they let themselves exist in this moment, in this love, in this impossible, miraculous thing that had somehow brought them back together.