Dark Fingers

It was a warm night, and Agatha awoke in a haze, her body slick with sweat, her clothes clinging to her like a second skin. A heavy weight pressed down on her arm, and the air around her was thick with a pungent, metallic scent—blood. Darkness enveloped the forest, broken only by the occasional rustling of tree branches swaying in the wind.

Agatha found herself in the heart of the forest—a place of protection—but she knew that if she didn’t act quickly, it would become her sentence. Time was of the essence; each passing second counted. As the fog in her mind lifted, she recalled what had just transpired and what she still needed to do. Scanning her surroundings, she sought any sign of danger. The faint glow of a single lantern was the only light in the otherwise impenetrable blackness.

Her head felt heavy with confusion.

Where was she?

How long had she been unconscious?

A sudden jolt of panic surged through her, realizing she had succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep unintentionally. She had been pushed to her limits, and her body had taken over. A soft moan reached her ears.

She had almost forgotten about her.

To her left, a witch lay nearly unconscious—a blood witch, to be precise, and also a protection witch. Agatha studied her closely, checking for any signs of life. The witch had to be alive. If she weren’t, it would mean the arrival of someone Agatha couldn’t afford to face just yet.

The witch looked weak. Blood oozed from a deep cut on her arm, dark and thick. Agatha had used more of her blood than initially intended, pouring magic from the wound to ensure the spell would hold. But exhaustion had overwhelmed her before she could finish what she’d started. She had been studying for months, desperately trying to understand the intricacies of protection magic.

For years, she had fought to master the magic, but her efforts had always been in vain. No matter how many lives she took, no matter how much power she drained, it was never enough. She always felt powerless, incapable of wielding the magic that could save the ones she loved most. But she had sworn, then and there, that she would not give up—not now, not when so much was at stake, even if it cost her life.

Everything had changed when she encountered the coven—a coven bound by blood. Blood witches, their power passed down through generations, much like her own. For her, however, that magic had nearly become a curse.

Unlike her family, where her power had been viewed as a burden, this coven practiced protection magic. The unique bond of family, combined with their inherited magic, created a force that might finally help her.

She had known that to learn more, she’d have to earn their trust, to understand their magic—and how it was entwined with the blood that had flowed through their family for centuries. Protection magic and blood magic, working in tandem.

As the memory of her true purpose there resurfaced, she tried to sit up, but then heard another moan—this time from the bundle she had been cradling in her arms. Panic gripped her, bitter and sudden, suffocating her breath.

A baby. Her baby. Her daughter.

“Shh, it’s okay, mommy’s here. You’re safe, little one.” Agatha carefully pulled the blanket back, revealing her baby’s face.

Her heart raced in a way she thought was impossible. The baby’s eyes fluttered open, meeting her gaze. Tiny fists clenched, her small body warm against Agatha’s. Her hair, black and thick for a newborn, framed her head as Agatha gently ran her fingers through it. A smile tugged at her lips as she felt the softness of the strands, her hand trembling as it moved from the baby’s hair to her cheek, lingering there.

The baby’s eyes locked onto Agatha’s, large and striking, as though they were a mirror to a past she had fought so hard to forget. The eyes held the echo of a gaze Agatha had once done everything in her power to despise. Yet, the color—the color—left no doubt as to where her daughter had come from. It was a reflection of the power on the witch who was now staring at her precious little one, trying to memorize every inch of her.

Agatha's eyes filled with tears, the overwhelming fear of what might come next tightening around her chest like an iron claw.

“I won’t let her take you. I promise… I promise,” she whispered, her voice trembling, as the salty taste of her tears mingled on her lips.

Her daughter’s small hand gripped Agatha’s finger, her tiny fingers wrapping around it with a strength that seemed beyond her age. Agatha gently pressed her finger to the baby’s forehead, placing a soft kiss there.

“I promise,” she repeated, her voice a little steadier now, as she closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the baby’s. She breathed in her daughter’s scent, a mixture of warmth and innocence, as though nothing in the world could ever harm her.

But then, another sound broke the fragile silence. A moan, softer this time, came from the witch bleeding beside her, weaker, as though the life was slipping out of her with each passing second. Agatha drew in a sharp breath, her attention shifting. There was no more time to waste.

With a steady hand, she ran her fingers over the bleeding witch’s wound, feeling the warm, thick blood coat her skin.

She reached for a small bag tucked into her clothing, the sound of stones shifting inside it echoing through the night. Carefully, she turned the package over, letting its contents spill onto her daughter’s blanket.

Three stones, each engraved with a rune—one for life, one for death, and one for blood. And a fourth stone, untouched, waiting to be infused with magic.

Agatha cradled the stone in her hand, bringing it close to her chest. She whispered the incantation she had been training for tirelessly, her words soft but firm in the stillness of the forest.

“Donum sagradale, spontanea traditio.”

A gift in sacrifice, a voluntary surrender.

She repeated the phrase, again and again, letting the magic build, feeding the stone with the power she had summoned. The other three stones had been imbued long ago, through a ritual, with another witch—one way more powerful than Agatha, with an ancient magic that had always felt like something Agatha could never quite reach. In that moment, doubt crept in. Could she really do this alone? Could the magic work?

It has to work. It will work.

“Donum sagradale, spontanea traditio. Donum sagradale, spontanea traditio. Donum sagradale, spontanea traditio. Donum sagradale, spontanea traditio…”

Images of the same words, spoken in another time, filled her mind. A time when the future seemed brighter, when things were supposed to be better than they were now. Her neck began to heat, a familiar, burning sensation creeping across her skin. The mark—the one branded there long ago—flared to life, and she felt the scar on her soul pulse, as though it were bleeding anew. The bond. The bond that only death could sever.

The stone in her hand grew warm, the fourth rune beginning to take shape—an X, carved into the surface.

The Gebo rune, symbolizing self-sacrifice.

She pulled the necklace from her chest, easing it over her head. A ring hung from it, gleaming in the soft light of the lantern, its black stone catching the fire’s glow. Agatha stared at the ring in her palm, her heart heavy with the weight of memories. She remembered all that it had meant, and what it had allowed her to do. The choice she was about to make could change everything—it could reshape her fate. But more than that, it could save her daughter.

Her eyes shifted back to the baby, her vision still blurred by the tears that continued to fall.

“A long time ago, your m…” she faltered, taking a deep breath as she reconsidered her words. “A witch gave me this ring, a portal to home, her home. A part of her… that would become a part of me. Just like you.”

Agatha ran her finger gently over the child’s forehead, tracing a line from the top of her head down to the tip of her nose. Her voice was soft, fragile, but precise as she began the incantation.

A tear fell onto the bloodstained line that now marred her baby’s face, creating a small, shimmering space against the crimson mark. Agatha knew the risk she was taking. She knew the price of this magic—protecting her daughter could come at the cost of losing her completely.

The ring in her hand grew unbearably hot, almost burning her skin. As the heat radiated from it, the three runes she had previously carved in the ring came into sharper focus, their dark forms pulsing with power. Now a fourth form appearing. The Gebo rune stood out, vivid and intense, a phrase etched through it, glowing brighter with each passing second.

Over the course of fifty years, Agatha and Rio had met again and again. Every time Agatha killed another coven, Rio would appear, arriving to collect the souls. And Agatha would always wait for her, almost eager for their encounters, as though hoping to make Rio feel the weight of her guilt—to force her to remember the blood they shared, the bond forged through their son. Each meeting built on a deeper hatred, a more intense pain, but the underlying tension between them was something else—something more complex.

It always began like a war, a battle for dominance, but the longing between them was undeniable. They would reach a point, a fragile truce—what they jokingly called “Switzerland”—and then they would part ways once more, only to repeat the cycle again and again.

Each departure left Agatha with a soul-deep ache, a gnawing guilt she could never shake. Even after everything, even after Nicky, she couldn’t deny the raw, desperate longing she still felt for the one person responsible for her greatest suffering.

But that had changed. Now, there was no more.

It had been months since they last saw each other—specifically, nine months.

From the very first day, Agatha knew something was different. She could feel the magic within her, a force unlike anything she had ever experienced before. It wasn’t the same as the magic of the witches she had slain over the years. This magic wasn’t hers, nor had it come from anyone she’d killed or absorbed. It wasn’t like the usual pregnancy symptoms she had with Nicky—no dizziness, no headaches, no nausea. Nothing.

Still, she knew what was happening. And if she could feel the magic, Rio, the original Green Witch and Death herself, could too. At least, that’s what Agatha believed.

Would this all happen again? The question gnawed at her, tearing at her resolve. How could she protect a child whose mother was an entity—Death itself? Was this her punishment for killing her own coven, for killing her mother? Was this how the universe would repay her—by forcing her to mother children who were destined to die at birth, only to be collected by their other parent?

From the moment she discovered the child growing inside her, Agatha made a promise to herself. She wouldn’t let Rio take her child again, no matter who or what the child’s other mother was. Just like with Nicky, Agatha had been powerless—she had no protection magic, no way to stop it. It was a knowledge that eluded her. But in the months that followed, Agatha had devoted herself to learning about runes. They were a magic she had seen used before, one that she was becoming more and more familiar with.

She and Rio had used runes in the past, when they made the pact—the Animanexum, the bond between them. Three runes had been involved. It was an ancient and sacred magic, tied to the elements of Earth and the very essence of magic itself, much like blood magic.

But neither runes nor blood magic would be enough to protect her daughter now. If anything, they would bind her even more tightly to Death. Agatha needed more—she needed protection magic.

Finding a blood and protection witch had been part of her plan. She needed to hide her baby long enough to find him—the bearer of the Darkhold.

Mephisto.

The caretaker of the extra-dimensional lands of the dead.

What most people called Hell was actually a parallel level to Vorago, a parallel realm where those who had escaped and rebelled against Death were trapped. Legends about Mephisto didn’t just circulate in the world of magic—they stretched across history and cultures.

Lord of Hell.

Hades.

Satan.

He had many names, and over the millennia, his true power had only grown. But most importantly, Agatha knew that access to his realm—hidden from Death herself—would buy her the time she needed. Time to do what she did best: bargain.

It was a simple plan, really. Protection magic, tied to blood magic, directly linked to the blood of a protection witch. It wouldn’t be enough to hide her daughter from Death, but it would give Agatha time—time until she could reach Mephisto.

Over decades of conversations about Vorago, with Rio and Señor, Agatha had learned much. Sometimes, Rio mentioned Mephisto—how he had managed to hide from her, even though he had created his own realm. Rio explained that, despite his power, Mephisto was forced to remain hidden. His world, like everyone else’s in Vorago, was still ultimately under the power of Death.

Then there were the whispered rumors about the Darkhold. “The Book of Sins”. “The Book of the Damned”. Over the centuries, it had been called many things, hidden under many names. But Agatha had heard the stories in passing, especially during her time in Salem, and at the time, she hadn’t realized all the legends were referring to the same, dangerous artifact.

The Darkhold was imbued with dark magic, the kind that could consume the soul of anyone who dared read it. But Agatha, curious about power and desperate for a way to protect her daughter, had begun researching it. Little did she know, the very book she sought could be the key to unlocking the magic she needed to make her plan work, and would let her hide from Death.

And with it, perhaps she could save her daughter from the fate she feared most.

So, Agatha made the decision. She had to go after the book. If the legends were true, then maybe, just maybe, this was her chance—not only to save her daughter but also to find Nicky again.

But to reach him, she had to first get to Amenthes, the fortress of the dead. To do that, she would have to make a sacrifice—a piece of her own soul. That sacrifice would weaken and corrupt her, but it was necessary for entry. And nothing shattered the soul more thoroughly than murder.

She remembered the dagger that had been with her, but as her hand reached out to grasp it, a movement caught her attention in the corner of her vision. Her eyes snapped back, startled. In the shadows, a ball of white fur with piercing red eyes stared at her, unblinking. A rabbit.

Señor Scratchy.

Her heart slowed its frantic beat. But he wasn’t supposed to be here—not now.

“I told you to stay where you were. Come back.”

He remained motionless, his gaze never wavering.

“Go,” she urged, her voice firm but tinged with desperation. “It’s an order. Just go. Please.”

His ears twitched, as if weighing his loyalty against her command. After a moment’s pause, he turned away, moving to leave. But just before he disappeared into the shadows, she called out to him.

“Señor…” Her voice faltered, the words heavier than they had any right to be. “If I don’t make it out... if I don’t make it back…” She paused, allowing the weight of her unspoken fear to fill the silence. “Thank you. For everything. Just, thank you.”

For a moment, he simply looked at her, his red eyes a silent promise. Then, with a final flick of his tail, he was gone.

She turned her gaze back to the witch lying beside her, she was probably on her early 20s, her breaths growing shallower by the second. Agatha didn’t hesitate. One quick, precise movement, and it would all be over. She pulled the dagger from its sheath, and with one swift blow, the witch was dead.

One less piece of her soul. It wouldn't be missed.

Dropping the dagger, Agatha leaned back. Time was her enemy now—there was no turning back. The cost of what she had done would come for her soon. She would feel it, the consequences, any moment now.

Like all magical portals, this one would not open on its own. It would wait to be summoned. Mephisto’s codename was the key. Before he was a fallen one, before he became Death’s counterpart, he had been known by a different name—one that, when spoken, could compel him to answer. He could decide to grant entrance... or not.

Agatha closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, pulling her daughter even closer, feeling her warmth against her skin. In a hushed, almost reverent voice, she called him.

“Keeper of Shadows”

Mephisto, known by many names, had been feared as a demon, revered as a dark angel of death. To some, his name brought terror, to others, a dark reverence. But for Agatha, at that moment, he was her only hope. The only possibility to save her daughter from the fate that had once claimed another child of hers.

A soft rustle of leaves was the only sound she could hear—until the air around her shifted. A warning prickled the back of her neck, and for a fleeting moment, she thought about opening her eyes. Something, or someone, was there—but then, it came.

An invocation. Not a presence, but a response.

“Come.”

Her call had been answered.

The moment the word rang in her mind, Agatha felt it—an invisible force that sucked the air from her lungs, drawing her inward as if she were being pulled from the inside out. Her body seemed to fall through space, weightless and spiraling, until her vision blurred in the darkness. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, feeling the void swallowing her whole. Her arms instinctively gripped her daughter tighter, the only thing she could cling to as everything around her turned cold and empty.

Then, as if by some invisible force, she landed—not in the forest, but somewhere else entirely. A sepulchral silence enveloped her, the kind that pressed on her chest, weighing her down. Agatha’s back ached from the sharp stones digging into her skin, but the weight in her arms reminded her of the reason she was here.

She opened the blanket, her heart pounding as she feared the worst.

Had something happened to her child in the void? Had she failed her yet again?

But to her relief, the little girl was still there, sleeping peacefully, completely unharmed. Agatha exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she’d been holding. Her fingers brushed through her face.

Her thumb traced the soft, faint line of the baby's eyebrows—like a shadow of what they would one day become. Her fingers moved slowly to her daughter's small nose, circling the tip with the same tenderness Agatha had once shown someone else—someone she had loved, someone she had lost.

She held her daughter gently in her hands, pressing her small body against her chest, feeling her heart beating fast, to much fast for someone so small. She stayed like that for a moment, committing every inch of her to memory—her face, the way she smelled, the feel of her skin.

This time, Agatha promised herself, she wouldn’t fail. She wouldn't let the child in her arms suffer the same fate as the one she had lost. She would protect her—whatever the cost.

It was all for her. Everything she was about to do, all for her. The reason she was on the verge of trading her soul.

Her daughter slept peacefully, unaware of the peril surrounding them and the destiny that awaited her. A destiny Agatha was fighting to alter.

“I won’t let her take you. Not like Nicky, not again, not like…” Her voice cracked, and tears fell down her cheeks, drying quickly on her skin.

Not again. Please, not again.

She lifted her head, scanning her surroundings, trying to make sense of where she was. The air was dry and stifling, a haze of gray dust hanging in the atmosphere. Her throat burned, protesting the lack of moisture. Agatha attempted to stand, but quickly realized how weak she still was. The dampness between her legs reminded her of the blood she had lost during childbirth.

Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for another attempt. There was no time to waste. She was in uncharted territory. She needed to act.

Please. Please. I can’t die here.

With a shaky exhale, she leaned on one arm and pushed herself to her feet. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she managed to stay upright. Before her stretched an endless, gray expanse—like she was standing at the peak of a mountain, with nothing but a small patch of earth beneath her. She walked slowly toward the edge, her heartbeat quickening with each step, knowing what awaited her.

A chasm of stone. A narrow, treacherous staircase wound down its length. Small boulders littered each step, and chunks were missing, scattered across the steep descent. The bones of long-lost souls lay scattered like debris, a grim warning. It was an invitation to death—either a swift, physical fall to the bottom, or the eternal death of the soul for those foolish enough to reach the end.

Abyssus Mortis.

Agatha knew the legends. Many feared Death, the underworld, but this... this was the true domain of the dead.

Only the desperate, the broken, those with nothing left to give, ever crossed this threshold. She was desperate, but there was something she could offer. She knew the descent was a diversion, a delay for him. He fed on the hope of those who began the journey, draining them with every slip, every fall, every moment of fear and uncertainty. Agatha would not be one of them.

"I’m not going down, don’t pretend you don’t know that." Her voice broke the silence, strong despite the tension in her chest. In the vast emptiness, she felt a presence—something ancient and heavy. It surrounded her, like a weight pressing against her skin, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

She waited for a response. A sign that he would allow her to pass.

But there was only silence.

How long would he keep her here? He had let her enter, had placed her here—why make it more difficult now?

"You have something I want," she spoke again, her words carrying the weight of her plea, "but you also want something I have. Let me in."

The silence stretched on.

The baby stirred, sensing something wrong, danger creeping close. Agatha rocked her gently, trying to soothe her, unwilling to lose her, no matter the cost. She would sacrifice everything for her.

Humiliation. That’s what he wanted. He thrived on the fear, the despair. The suffering of those who gave in, those who descended into the Abyssus Mortis. She had refused to give him that when she stood her ground. Now, it was her turn to return the favor.

Ever since his purging, his name had become a forgotten echo in Vorago, a name shrouded in shame. They pretended it never existed, swept it under the rug, even though they knew it signified his power, his history. Even with all his might, he still belonged to her—to Death. A name that had been banished, forbidden to be spoken inside these realm. It was a name that represented his humiliation, his weakness.

There was no turning back now. Agatha drew in a deep breath and called him by his name.

"Samael." Her voice rang out, echoing in the stillness, hoping it would catch his attention. “Of all the things she told me about you, ‘coward’ had never come up. But now, I see it.”

A gust of wind slammed into her, unbalancing her momentarily, but she stayed on her feet, defiant.

The silence remained, thick and oppressive.

And then, a deep, mocking voice whispered through her mind, chilling her to the core.

"You think you can provoke me, witch? You think you can challenge me?"

Agatha didn’t flinch. Her heart beat faster, the weight of what was coming pressing down on her.

"I don’t need to challenge you," she replied, her voice steady and cold. "I came for something. I’ll leave with it."

A deep, guttural laugh reverberated through her mind, sending a chill coursing through her body, as if it were consuming her from the inside out. Her vision blurred and darkened, the ground vanishing beneath her feet. Just before she could feel the fall take hold again, but something steadied her, an unseen force anchoring her to the ground. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dim lighting around her.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she stood in the grand hall, surrounded by the imposing portraits and the thick, oppressive atmosphere. The air was still hot, yet suffocating in its heaviness, the very weight of centuries of souls that had passed through here, some in desperation, others in silent reverence. She had entered his domain—Mephisto’s realm—and with each breath, the silence seemed to deepen, making her feel smaller, less significant.

A large, rectangular wooden table stretched across the room, its surface polished and imposing. Along the walls, towering two-meter-high paintings adorned the space. The first one she recognized immediately— a man seated on a throne, flanked by three massive, otherworldly dogs, each with glowing red eyes, poised to strike.

A painting of Hades.

There were many more, each depicting different figures— Anubis, Erebos, Supay, Cronos, Veles, Orcus, Ereshkigal. The list could go on forever, dozens of portraits lining the walls. Every figure’s gaze was fixed upon him, as though each one not only represented him but revered him, acknowledging his presence, his power.

At the far end of the room, five paintings were displayed on the wall, surrounding him. For a moment, her heart seemed to stop. Five figures with dark, flowing hair and piercing, intense eyes. Unlike the other paintings, all five of them were staring directly at her, as though she were the focal point of their gaze. They were draped in black tunics, their expressions powerful and knowing, as if they could see straight through her. Each figure was shrouded in a dark mist, swirling around them.

As she studied them more closely, subtle differences became apparent. Perhaps each one represented a different time or a distinct manifestation of Death, their forms evolving through the ages.

The five paintings lined behind him, a reflection of gods and deities that represented death, all staring at her, all centered around him. The grotesque images of her own torment—the paintings of Rio, each a different representation, each gazing at her with cold, unflinching eyes—made her stomach churn. They were reminders of her past, of the one she had failed, of the love that had been twisted into something dark and painful.

He was toying with her, fully aware of who she was and her tangled history with Rio. In that moment, he was demonstrating just how insignificant she was—insubstantial in the vast sweep of history and time, especially when measured against an entity like Death.

The last one of the five, on the far right, was the most striking. The figure of Death herself, split in two, one side black, the other white, with a green torch held in her right hand. Agatha’s heart stopped for a moment as she studied it, feeling the pull of that figure in a way she couldn’t quite explain. It was a perfect representation of Rio, but something darker, more powerful, a being beyond mortal comprehension. Agatha had always thought she understood what Rio was, but seeing this, it was as if the true weight of it hit her. Rio was a god in her own right.

The Death he had once served, before his purging.

She knew exactly where she was—the place many had sought, hoping to strike a deal with him.

The Hall of the Dead.

Before her stood the one she had come to find, observing, studying, analyzing.

Her host.

Mephisto.

The one who had never been truly purged, whose power was whispered about in shadows. The one who could bargain with Death itself, yet was bound by her own rules.

Agatha’s voice trembled slightly but she forced the words out, “I’m here because I need something from you.”