Dark Fingers

Mephisto had often been described as a ruthless, demonic figure, a far image from the man before her now. Dressed in a sleek black suit and a white blouse with an open collar, he sat comfortably, almost casually, in a grand, imposing wooden chair.

His olive-toned skin and sharply defined features—long face, tapered jaw, and nose—gave him a striking, almost sculpted appearance. His lips were thin, pressed into a subtle yet controlled smile, as if he were awaiting a much-anticipated gift, a gift not for her but for him, as though she were not the one with expectations.

His face was as human as hers, with dark, thick hair immaculately combed back, presenting an image of organization, elegance, and restraint. Yet, beneath this composed exterior, a concealed danger lingered. His slender, almost wiry frame seemed to stretch out in the oversized chair, a clear indication that he was at ease in his own territory. Despite his relaxed posture, his back remained straight, a silent testament to his rigidity, his inflexibility—qualities that could be called upon when it suited him.

Though he appeared all too human, it was his eyes that betrayed his true nature.

His gaze was penetrating, too intense to be masked by any facade. Behind the bright red irises—a hue she had seen before, the same unmistakable color of a purged one—lay an unmistakable malice, and an undercurrent of expectation. No matter how perfectly he concealed it, the power he held, the ties he still had to her world, were undeniable. This, his connection to the world of Death, was the only true asset she had in that moment.

His despise for Death.

One hand rested casually on his knee, while the other supported his face, his eyes never leaving her as he studied, analyzed, and observed his newest guest.

Her baby shifted in her arms, a small movement that seemed to echo her own anxiety. Agatha could almost feel her daughter sensing the danger that surrounded them—danger that was embodied in the man before them. Mephisto’s gaze shifted, moving toward the blanket that concealed her daughter. His eyes narrowed, as though trying to peer through the fabric, to see beyond the protection. Agatha’s heart hammered in her chest, a cold rush of fear sweeping over her as her instinct to protect her child surged.

His gaze sharpened, becoming more intense, curious. For a moment, she saw something flicker in his expression—a slight frown, his brow arching in confusion, as if something had unsettled him. But the moment passed, gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turned his attention back to her, masking whatever it was he’d sensed. His lips curled into a mocking smile, his voice low and rough, like the sound of distant thunder.

Mephisto did not speak at first, but his gaze, intense and all-consuming, never wavered. He studied her, the small figure standing at the threshold of his realm, the mother who would dare cross into the underworld itself. There was something about the way he looked at her—neither with pity nor anger, but with the calm amusement of one who knew he held all the cards.

The silence was nearly suffocating, as if the great hall were closing in around her. Her gaze shifted to the paintings behind him, her attention returning to the one in the corner—the same one that had intrigued her most, as if it held a clue, something that could help her. When she looked back at him, he had noticed her curiosity. His gaze didn’t bother hiding the amusement, as if he knew something beyond her understanding.

“I see this one has caught your attention. I’m pleased to see you have good taste. 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. But what fascinates me most is her dual nature. You see, she’s often depicted with two halves—one black, one white. It reflects her chthonic nature, how she pulls life from the depths of the earth. 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.”

Melinoe? Agatha’s gaze returned to the painting. Her eyes locked on the dark side, the intense gaze, the flowing black hair. She couldn’t see anything but Rio.

His voice carried amusement, as though Agatha were little more than a mere visitor, an observer to his knowledge. She felt her legs tremble from the effort and exhaustion it had taken to get here, and a fear that still lingered in the back of her mind.

Noticing her growing tension, Mephisto interrupted his explanation, his expression turning bored

“Ok, I fogot you have other things in mind rigth now. You come to me..." Mephisto’s voice finally rang out, smooth and rich, that could both awe and terrify. His words filled the room, vibrating through the stone walls. "But what makes you think I will give you what you want, Agatha?”

"I have something you want." Agatha shifted uneasily, exhaustion and despair building alongside the adrenaline that had driven her to finally reach him.

He looked at her, impassive, his expression a mask of boredom that barely concealed the flicker of excitement in his eyes at the sight of her.

“I wondered if I’d ever meet you. The one who made something as ethereal as Death… human,” he said, his eyes gleaming with mockery as he took her in from head to toe. “It always seemed like a waste of her time. For someone who has so much of it. Now, seeing you here, it doesn’t seem like much at all.”

Agatha had anticipated this—his contempt, his arrogance. It was familiar, something she knew how to deal with. But in that moment, it wasn’t his disdain that concerned her most.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you in a meeting you’ve been waiting for so long,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “I wish I could say I was looking forward to it too, but she didn’t exactly mention you often.”

The red in his eyes darkened, swirling with malice. He took a moment to compose himself, then let a smile return to his face. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“For someone who claims to protect the dead, she’s been spending quite a bit of time with the living,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. He let his eyes linger on the baby in her arms. “Pathetic.” His gaze was venomous, thick with contempt.

Agatha tightened her grip on her daughter, the weight of his gaze making her muscles tense, but she stood her ground.

“For someone who hates her so much, you hide it so well. Almost as if all that hatred hides fear,” Agatha replied, the words sharp and cutting. She could feel the tension in the air, the moment hanging on the precipice of something dangerous. “You’re not much better than I am. Still a coward, just with better resources.”

The shift in Mephisto was immediate. His expression turned from mocking to serious. He uncrossed his leg, both arms now resting on the armrests of the chair, his entire demeanor shifting to something more dangerous.

“Death has always been present, even before we understood life or existence. She’s not someone. Not just “her”. The fact that you speak of “her” that way only proves how weak she’s become. She’s allowed herself to get lost in a game of house, made to seem as mundane and fragile as the humans she tries to protect.” His voice thickened with disgust. “She’s debased herself and everyone she claims to protect. She doesn’t deserve Vorago, or any of those there. It’s a disgrace that not everyone sees that yet.”

Agatha shivered, the coldness of his words seeping into her bones. He had made it so easy for her to enter this place, yet it was clear how much he despised everything Rio—Death—represented.

“You act like you hates Death, but you seem desperate to take what’s hers,” she said, a quiet accusation in her tone.

Mephisto’s smile returned, slow and predatory, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction.

“You could say that,” he purred. “And look, here you are. Her special toy.”

His words hung heavy in the air, a silent threat laced within them. Agatha knew what he was trying to do—use her to get to Rio, to Death. To everything that stood between him and what he craved. But she also knew the risk. It was a gamble she was willing to take.

“I know what you want.” Mephisto continued, his face barely containing the eager expectation in his eyes. “One of my many talents, perhaps my favorite, is being a seer. I can look into a person’s path, their destiny. It’s very useful when you know exactly where you want to go, when you understand if you can interfere, help, or leave things be. I can see yours, just as I can always see everyone’s.”

“But not hers.” Agatha interrupted, her voice firm.

Mephisto stopped mid-sentence, momentarily thrown off balance. His expression flickered with confusion, as if she had spoken a truth she shouldn’t have known. But then, just as quickly, he composed himself, his understanding returning, and a hint of amusement danced back into his eyes.

“No, not hers. There is no beginning or end to Death. She exists perpetually. But I can see yours. I know what you came for. For what. The Darkhold.”

Agatha could feel the weight of the moment hanging in the air, the anticipation suffocating her. Would she get the book? If she did, she could disappear, hide from Death, protect her daughter—save her from the same fate that had taken Nicky. She could prevent history from repeating itself.

“You know why I came. For whom,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute.

“You can’t run from Death,” Mephisto responded, his voice lowering, the words dripping with condescension. “For a human, you should know that by now.” He tilted his head as if pretending to think, his brows furrowing in mock doubt. “What was his name again? Nicholas.”

He made a soft, mocking noise, a sad sound that twisted her insides, a low murmur that grated against her grief. Agatha could feel the fresh sting of that loss, the bitterness of a wound that time could never fully heal. Her heart clenched, and the anger she had buried for so long bubbled to the surface.

“Little Nicky.” Mephisto’s voice dripped with mock sympathy. “Don’t you see the hypocrisy? The finiteness of human time? She denied you the chance to be with him, but now, he’s to be with her, for eternity.”

Her chest tightened, that familiar ache resurfacing. Agatha squeezed the baby tighter, her arms instinctively pulling her closer. Mephisto's gaze flickered to the child again, and Agatha felt a rush of fear crawl up her spine, a desperate need to protect her daughter, to shift his attention away from her.

“Believe me,” she said, her voice barely steady, “I know that well enough. But you are the last person who should remind me of it—considering the very fact that we’re here, talking, in this moment. You run from Death just as much as I do.”

Mephisto’s laugh was cold and sharp, full of amusement, as if the whole situation were a game he was enjoying far too much.

“Oh darling, I am not her,” he said, a glint of superiority in his voice. “You’ll need to try harder if you want to manipulate and convince me. I’m not the one here begging for help. You want the book, and you’re not the first, nor the last, to come asking. But what do you have to offer me in return?”

"Knowledge. I know you can't get in. It’s your home as much as hers. But I can help you."

Amusement flickered in his eyes.

"So eager to betray her. I'm sorry, but I don't get involved in divorce drama. It's funny you’d think I want to enter. I already have everything I need right here. There’s nothing you can offer me."

He tried to sound indifferent, but his tapping fingers on the armrest and the slight shifting of his legs betrayed the excitement he was trying to hide, as if he was anticipating her answer—and the power it might give him.

His gaze flickered back to the baby in her arms, then returned to meet Agatha’s eyes, a deeper intensity in them now, something almost predatory. And that was when it hit her. The shock struck her like a bolt of lightning. There was no question in his eyes, no subtlety. He knew who the child was. He feared her, yes, but he also craved revenge.

The realization crashed over Agatha with a surge of anger and protectiveness, an instinct stronger than anything she had ever felt before.

“NO!” she cried, her voice raw with fury.

His laughter grew louder and stronger, reverberating through the room, making the air feel thick with menace. Each chuckle felt like a cold, mocking touch, sending shivers down Agatha's spine.

"You finally understand," he said, the smugness in his voice as sharp as ever. "Took longer than I expected." His expression turned colder, more contemplative, as if considering his next move. "It seems fair to me. We'd both get what we want." Agatha felt her hands tremble, her face contorting into an involuntary shake of denial—a gesture he caught with his keen eyes. "Think about it," he continued. "You would get the book, and I would have a new agent. She would be safe, hidden. Alive." A heavy silence fell between them, suffocating, as if his words were meant to settle in her mind like an anchor. "Unlike her brother. Seems like a good deal, don't you think?"

Agatha's heart pounded in her chest, the beat heavy and frantic, as if fear had dug its claws into her and was squeezing tighter with each passing moment. A lump formed in her throat, choking her, her voice hoarse when she spoke. But the fear couldn’t keep the wave of fury that pulsed through her from breaking free. When she finally spoke, her voice rang out with an aggression and protectiveness that she could no longer suppress.

"Fuck you" she spat, her words dripping with defiance.

Mephisto’s smile deepened. “I want you to understand, Agatha. You cannot keep both. Your soul, your power, your past. Your daughter—all of it is nothing compared to what I could give to you. To what I could offer you. With the book”

“I won’t make that choice,” she whispered. The room felt as though it were closing in on her, the walls pressing tight against her chest.

“But you will,” Mephisto murmured, his voice like silk. “In the end, you will.”

The weight of his words settled over her, cold and unyielding. There was no way out.

“I’m making this sound like a choice, like there’s a trade-off over which you have control. But let me show you—there’s nothing left to negotiate. Don’t waste my time.”

“I can give you anything. Leave me here, let me stay, but let her go.”

The sound of his laughter echoed through the hall, sharp and cruel, slapping Agatha's senses. He was mocking her, as if he had anticipated her every move from the moment she entered.

“That’s the problem with you humans," he continued, his voice oozing with disdain. "You want everything, in exchange of nothing”

“You want me to give you my daughter, the very reason I came here…”

“You came here to escape her," Mephisto interrupted, his voice cutting through her words like a knife. “You want a different fate for her. Unless, of course, your only intention is to leave her with little Nicky.”

His words hit her like a slap to the face. Agatha’s breath caught in her chest, and despair gripped her heart. She forced herself to steady her shaking hands, taking a deep breath to calm her racing thoughts. She had to think of another way—she couldn’t give in.

“There are stories about you,” she said, her voice steady but laced with pain. "Of children sold in deals, only to become your agents. Instruments of destruction."

The glow in his eyes darkened, the ruby-red gleam growing more intense. But it was clear he didn’t care for the implication she was making.

“If there is a story," he said, his voice flat and cold, "it’s because they live to tell it. And that’s already more than you can offer to her out there.”

Another blow. He knew how to twist the knife, using her deepest fears against her. The pain was suffocating, but she couldn’t let him see how much it hurt.

"I could not hurt her," he continued, rising from his chair with slow, deliberate movements. As he walked around the table toward her, Agatha instinctively took a step back, keeping a wary distance between them. He stopped midway, raising his hands in mock surrender as if to reassure her.

“The Animanexumn prevents me from doing that. Her soul, who she is, and whose daughter she is, keeps me in check. I can’t bring myself to harm her.” He let the words hang in the air before adding with a cruel twist of his lips, “But I can hide her. Just as I have done with the others. The purged.”

He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to sink in, and Agatha felt a cold, suffocating dread creep over her. He was savoring this, watching her process the truth that he was offering.

"How ironic," he murmured, "here you are, trying to break a bond that protects her—a bond that has existed since her conception. You’re trying to destroy what keeps her safe.” His voice was filled with amusement, but it was the kind of enjoyment that came from knowing he was already in control.

“It’s good to know at least one of us is having fun.", she said with bittering in her voice.

He glanced down at his hands, absently adjusting the rings that adorned his fingers, before his gaze locked onto hers, colder now, more calculating.

“I can offer her the protection that you can’t,” he said, his tone heavy with finality. “That is my price. For the Darkhold.”

She needed time—time to think, to find an alternative.

“You won’t protect her. You want to use her. But it’s pointless.” Her voice became thinner, strained, unable to suppress the despair overtaking her. “She has no powers. She’s just a child…”

“Enough!” His voice sliced through hers, a deep resonance that shook the walls around her, followed by a profound silence, as though the entire room feared his response.

“She’s spoiled you far too much.” His voice had lost its mocking tone, no longer carrying that smile or the gleam of amusement in his eyes. He stepped closer, his presence imposing. “You take, and take, and take—always asking for more, wanting more, but unwilling to pay the price that comes with it. You wanted the book to hide yourself and the girl from her, and now, I’m offering it to you. Complete liberation.” He stopped just before her, his hand lifting to touch her chin, “Complete liberation—body, soul, and spirit.”

Agatha felt a surge of heat radiating from the mark on the back of her neck, precisely where Rio’s own rune had once been. The blood rune, embedded in her skin from the night they performed the Animanexum—the blood ritual. A pact that bound them together, unbreakable, no matter how much time passed. It always led them back to one another, like two ends of a twisted rope, forever pulling and tightening the connection.

Her eyes widened with the realization of what he meant.

“If we make this deal, she won’t be able to find me…” Agatha’s voice faltered, her breath catching in her throat. This was what she had longed for—the escape, the severance from this cruel connection. A way to never again feel Rio’s pull, never again be bound by the ties that relentlessly dragged her back to Death.

“The bond will be broken.” Mephisto stood before her, silent and unwavering, awaiting her response.

The Darkhold—an artifact as old as the creation of the universe itself. A repository of Forbidden Knowledge transcribed by Chthon, its dark power seeping from the Dark Dimension. It was said to hold Chaos magic and serve as a conduit to energies from other dimensions. Agatha had heard the tales of how the book could corrupt its readers, but she also knew—her soul had already been shattered. There would be little left to corrupt.

There was an opportunity here. A chance to save her daughter from the same fate as her brother. A way to rewrite a destiny that seemed inevitable.

“I know you are bound to certain rules. But I also know that even you cannot defy everything. There are still things in the world that you do not control.”

Mephisto's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. “Ah, you think yourself clever, but you mistake me for something I am not. What makes you think you have anything left to offer that would interest me?” His gaze dropped to her arms, where the baby stirred slightly in her swaddling, unaware of the full extent of the danger they were in.

For a moment, Agatha stood silent. The pain of everything she had lost—the years spent in the shadows, running, hiding, fighting—came rushing back to her. But this time, it was different. This time, she had something to protect.

But she would have a chance to find her. If the book was truly as powerful and all-encompassing as it claimed, its knowledge and magic would allow her to track her down. No matter where she was, Agatha would find her. Just a little time, and she could bring her back. If the book could shield her from Death, it would offer the same protection from Mephisto.

The weight of accepting the offer left a bitter taste in her mouth, guilt beginning to eat away at her. Her lips trembled, and she made one last, desperate attempt.

“Please, she’s just a…”

“Last chance” he interrupted, his gaze cold and bordering on impatience.

Agatha sucked in a shaky breath, her mind swirling in chaos. It was as though her very being wanted to retreat, to dissociate from the dreadful decision she was about to make.

“I accept,” Agatha said, her voice firm despite the churning in her chest. “We will make the exchange.”

A triumphant smile spread across Mephisto’s face.

“Good.” He raised his right hand, preparing to perform something. The air grew thick with anticipation. Agatha felt a creeping fear, but it was distant—sleeping, buried beneath the weight of her resolve.

“Wait.” Her voice cracked, cutting through the charged silence. She lowered her gaze, eyes finding her daughter once more.

The little girl lay there, peaceful and unaware, oblivious to the fate that had just been sealed. Agatha’s heart twisted in her chest. A part of her knew this was the price, but the pain of the choice was unbearable. Giving her up felt like losing her to the dead, to Rio, all over again. But the difference now was that here, there was a chance. A life. And with the Darkhold, Agatha would have time. Time to find her again.

She gently touched her daughter’s face, as though committing every detail to memory—her thick, dark hair, far too thick for a child so new to the world; the rosy cheeks, soft and warm; the tiny hands curled in a tight fist against her chest. A deep breath. She closed her eyes, holding on to the image of her daughter’s peaceful face, the warmth of her small body—until the time came when she could be whole again.

Agatha’s fingers brushed against the ring hanging from the necklace around her daughter’s neck—a reminder, a piece of a story that could have been so different.

Tears blurred her vision as she touched the ring. In that moment, it was as though she was saying goodbye once again to the one thing she loved most. Once again, she was giving away pieces of her soul.

She placed her hand over her chest, trying to ease the pain that was tightening there. She took the ring, the one that had adorned her finger for decades before being hidden away for many more, as though she couldn’t bear to look at it but couldn’t bring herself to discard it, either. She didn’t know if the magic of the runes would be enough, but she had poured every fragment of herself into it.

It felt like a lifetime ago when the ring had been placed on her finger—a symbol of eternal love, of reunions and promises to never be broken. With trembling hands, Agatha let the ring fall again inside her daughter blanket.

It was a promise. Or perhaps a hope from her soul. A hope that, no matter what happened here, they might one day find each other again. She wished for an object once forged in love’s name, now transformed into a portal of reunions, to someday lead her back to her daughter. A beacon that would bring her little girl home.

She felt the tiny grip on her finger, her baby’s hand curling around her thumb, as if sensing that something was about to separate them. Her daughter’s eyes fluttered open slowly, followed by a long, innocent yawn. As she gazed up at Agatha, her eyes were bright, solemn, as though she were trying to memorize her face.

She felt her heart stop, an overwhelming surge of emotion consuming her entire soul.

Violet eyes—purple eyes—stared back at her, cutting through her very being.

A face that mirrored Rio’s, with eyes that seemed to be windows to the child’s latent power—a power that, to Agatha, had branded her a monster in the eyes of her own family. Now, that same power flickered in her daughter’s gaze.

Agatha lowered her head, pressing her cheek against her little one’s soft skin, closing her eyes as she inhaled, committing her scent to memory.

“See you soon, my love,” she whispered, as if confessing a secret.

Turning toward Mephisto, her face wet with tears, her lips trembling, Agatha felt a deep emptiness take root inside her. She always lost. It was always taken from her. She deserved nothing. Yet, she needed to believe that, somehow, there were pieces of herself that would remain with her daughter.

She fought to steady her voice, though it cracked with desperation.

"She has a name. I know it doesn't matter to you, but she has a name." She had thought about it—about everything that led her here. Her daughter's origins, her past, her legacy, and her curse, all woven together in the strength of her name.

"Morana. Her name is Morana.", Agatha said, her voice barely a whisper, a deep sigh escaping her as the weight of the words settled over her.

Mephisto’s gaze remained cold, unwavering—his triumph sealed. To him, anything else was insignificant.

“Morana, then,” he replied indifferently.

He raised his hand again, and with a simple gesture, she was gone. The weight of her small body was no longer in Agatha’s arms, the warmth of her daughter’s blanket against her skin was gone—only emptiness remained. Complete emptiness, once more.

Agatha stared into the space before her, unable to move.

She will be safe. Alive. And safe. She won’t be able to find her. She’ll have time. A life. When I find her again, she’ll have a life. Hidden, and safe.

Agatha repeated the words like a mantra, her mind clinging to them, desperate to maintain some semblance of sanity. She needed to believe it, to convince herself that what she had just done was right, that it was the only way.

Mephisto’s voice broke through her fog, pulling her back to reality. “We’re done here. As you will understand, it is critical that our location and any details of what’s happened here remain in the strictest secrecy.”

His words floated past her, unprocessed—still too lost in the weight of her decision. The pain, though, the pain was unbearable. She wanted it to stop.

“To get out of here, you will need to cross the Elder Gods.”

Elder Gods.

The words echoed in her mind, chilling her to the bone.

The river of oblivion.

She stared at him, shock morphing into fury as she grasped the meaning of his words.

"You liar," she screamed, the weight of despair crushing her chest.

His eyes darkened further, glowing like twin rubies, their intensity more menacing than before. In his head, Agatha saw shadows flicker, as if two horns were trying to form but never fully materialized. It was as if he didn't see her as worthy enough to reveal his true form, as if she posed no real threat to him. He didn’t need to show his full power, only to remind her of who he truly was.

His voice turned animalistic, guttural, grotesque.

“Be careful. I no longer have a reason to keep you here. The deal is done. You have your part, and I have mine. It’s not hard to understand that you need to forget how you arrived here and forget her. Enjoy this while I’m still letting you go, before I change my mind.”

Agatha swallowed hard, a lump in her throat. She felt a powerful gust of wind at her back, pushing her forward. She turned around, heart pounding.

Before her, an immense, dark river stretched out, its surface cloaked in fog. A small stone staircase led to a boat at its end. The bitter taste of betrayal stung her mouth. She spun around, ready to accuse him again.

“You…” Her voice caught in her throat.

There was nothing.

No one.

The pier stretched out into emptiness, surrounded by vast nothingness. She stood alone, the only way out across the cold, shadowy river. She turned back to the boat. The wind howled, biting into her skin, her hair flying wildly. She couldn't tell if the chill came from the gusts of wind or from his words, which echoed in her mind.

“Forget how you arrived here and forget her.”

Her hands trembled as they pressed against her belly, where her daughter had been only hours before. She couldn’t forget her—not after everything, the sacrifices she had made, the deal she had struck to save her.

“Before I change my mind.”

His voice reverberated in her head. She stepped toward the boat, sitting in the center, as it slowly drifted down the river alone. She clasped her hands together, her fingers gripping each other tightly. She tried to focus on the memory of holding her daughter in her arms—her skin, the feel of her hair, the sweetness of her scent. Her mind prayed, begging not to forget, refusing to let go.

"My daughter, daughter of death. My daughter, daughter of death. My daughter, daughter of death."

Tears streamed down her face, hot and uncontrollable. Not again. She couldn’t lose her again. She couldn’t forget.

"Morana, my daughter, daughter of death. Morana, my daughter, daughter of death. Morana, my daughter, daughter of… Daughter…”

Agatha blinked, her eyes stinging, adjusting to the darkness. She looked around, disoriented.

Where was she?

She felt the wind brush against her face, the rustling of the trees around her, the earthy soil pressing against her legs and hands. She drew on some of her power, purple magic glowing in her palm, casting a soft light that illuminated her surroundings.

In front of her, lying on the ground, was the Book of the Damned.

The Darkhold.

She had read so much about this book—its dark magic, its promises of untold power, waiting to be unlocked, ready to be mastered. It beckoned to her, its presence almost tangible, calling to the deepest parts of her soul. She could feel it, as if the pages were whispering to her, murmuring in a voice only her mind could hear.

Come closer, Agatha. You’ve earned this.

The words were not spoken aloud, but they echoed in her mind, a seduction laced with a dangerous sweetness. The book seemed to pulse with a rhythm of its own, as though it were alive, waiting for her to give in. Its dark magic coiled in the air around her, thickening, pressing in. She could almost taste the power, feel it slip through her fingers like silk, promising her everything she had ever desired—knowledge, control, immortality. Freedom.

You know what you must do. You’ve sacrificed so much. The power you seek is within your reach. Just open the book, Agatha. It will be yours. All of it.

Agatha stretched out her arms to claim the book, feeling its weight in her hands, her brows furrowing in concentration.

Her fingers twitched, an involuntary reaction as the pull of the book intensified. It knew her weaknesses, knew the hunger that burned in her heart—the thirst for control, for the power that would allow her to bend the world to her will. She glanced at the fallen witch, the deep cut on her arm, her blood staining the earth. The sacrifice had worked. She had succeeded. But even now, a faint tug of regret clawed at her, mingling with the dark temptation of the book.

Do not hesitate. The price has already been paid. Take what is yours.

The voice was soft but insistent, wrapping around her thoughts, filling her with doubt and desire. Her heart pounded louder, competing with the whispers of the book, urging her to take that final step—to open it and embrace its power.

It felt like a promise of everything she ever wanted.

But something felt off. There was a hollow emptiness inside her, a sharp sense of loss, different from what she had imagined when she finally found the book. A regret, as though a part of her had been ripped away.

How had she even come by this book? The girl, the blood witch from the coven she had deceived and killed—the one who she had given her soul as an offering to Mephisto—had sealed her fate in exchange. Mephisto had accepted, and Agatha had succeeded. She ran her fingers over the cover of the book, its texture like ancient stone. If she pressed too hard, she knew her hands would bleed, as if the book itself exacted a price from those who dared to open it—both body and soul.

Just a single page... That’s all it will take. One page to unlock it all.

Her hand trembled slightly, as the magic thrummed under her skin, urging her closer. It wasn’t just the book calling to her now—it was her own need, her desire for power, for control, for something she could never seem to hold onto long enough.

She had succeeded.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the cover, her heart pounding with both excitement and satisfaction at having achieved her goal. But before she could open it, an old sensation, a tug at her very soul, signaled she was no longer alone.

“Agatha?”

The voice—familiar, dreaded—rang out. Agatha’s body tensed, rigid, as if bracing for battle. The voice she had spent so long trying to escape. Her hand clenched tighter around the book, cutting into her skin, the warm blood trickling down the cover.

Don’t let her get close. Open it.

She looked toward the trees, her eyes locking on a shadow moving, gliding toward her.

Agatha glanced down at the witch lying beside her. Dead. She had been too slow. She should have left already.

Death's voice echoed through the surrounding darkness.

“For a moment, I couldn’t sense you. I waited, thinking I might find you at the crossing, but there was just... emptiness. It wasn’t as if the connection had broken—it was more like a void, a hole where you should have been. And then, suddenly, I felt you again. But this time... you were different. A dark, malevolent energy surrounded you, wrapped itself around you. I became concerned. What...” Her voice faltered as her gaze shifted to Agatha’s left.

Agatha’s eyes followed, seeing the body again.

She had thought the dead witch’s presence had drawn Death here. But no—it was her own absence, that had drawn her in, drawn Rio. She had succeeded. She had found Mephisto and taken the Darkhold. But now, a fog clouded her mind. A hollow, a void, as though something had clouded her memory, distorted her perception. As if the very events that had led her to this point had been erased, consumed by something darker.

Open it now. You will be free. From the pain, from the sorrow.

She gripped the book tighter, uncaring of the pain from the cuts on her fingers. The movement caught Rio’s attention, and the shift in her posture sent a shiver through her.

Her eyes widened, the weight of the situation sinking in as her gaze flicked from the book to Agatha’s face, and then back to the lifeless body on the ground. Rio's breath caught in her throat. A cold fear gripped her chest, something deep, primal, sensing the darkness now intertwined with Agatha. The magic was palpable, a whispering weight, like a shadow stretching across her very soul.

Free of her.

“What did you do?” Rio’s voice was low, barely more than a whisper, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air.