Dark Fingers

Rio words trembled, the fear for Agatha’s very soul reflected in her wide, horrified eyes. It wasn’t just the book. It was the way it had latched onto Agatha, how the whispers had already begun to sink into her mind, promising power, seducing with the allure of forbidden knowledge, demanding submission. She could see it, feel it—a twisting hunger in Agatha’s eyes, a deep, twisting hunger, a magnetic pull toward the dark knowledge that could consume her, everythingin its wake.

“He’s talking to you, I can feel it,” Rio said, her voice low, cautious as she slowly edged closer to Agatha, trying to keep her movements gentle, to avoid triggering her. She knew this was no longer about saving Agatha—it was about keeping her tethered to anything other than the dark whispers of the book.

“He’s lying to you,” Rio added, her words sharp with desperation. She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to reach Agatha, to reach the part of her still left untouched by the darkness. “Isn’t the love you had for Nicky stronger than the pain of losing him? This book—it will consume everything, Agatha. Don’t let it take you. Please.”

Agatha lifted her head, the weight of her pain and rage fueling her defiance. Her voice cracked, thick with sorrow and fury, each word spilling out like a weapon.

“I told you—I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. I don’t want to feel you.”

With every word, her voice grew hoarse, strained. It was as if her very soul was unraveling, choked by the lump in her throat, her anger and grief fighting for dominance. The words felt like they were tearing her apart, and yet she couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t want to stop herself.

Her fingers throbbed, the sharp sting of the book’s rough edges cutting into her skin. She gripped it harder, seeking any distraction from the agony in her chest, hoping the physical pain could drown out the overwhelming ache of her broken heart. She wanted the pain to stop—wanted everything to just be silent.

Her gaze flickered to Rio, and she could see the impact of every word she spoke, the hurt, the guilt, and the exhaustion of someone desperately clinging to a forgiveness that was never granted.

"It’s lying to your soul—I know it," Rio said, her voice low but filled with urgency. She moved cautiously toward her, each step calculated to avoid making a sound that might startle her. "It can’t easy the pain."

Agatha’s brow furrowed, an unsettling mix of frustration and vulnerability washing over her. The fact that Rio knew the book was speaking to her made her feel exposed, as if something inside her was laid bare. It made her wonder how much of her was still her own, how much had already been consumed by the whispers.

Rio seized the moment, pushing forward, her words heavy with the weight of their shared history.

“You keep killing all these witches,” she continued, her voice raw, laced with both accusation and sorrow. “Again and again. Knowing what it will lead to, knowing I will show up. That I’ll be the one to come. And here you are, waiting for me.” Her words trembled, heavy with the weight of their shared past. “If you want to punish me, you already have. But don’t let it take you, not because of all this hatred.”

The silence that followed was deafening, thick with the bitterness between them. The air seemed to crackle with tension, heavy with the years of unspoken hurt.

She’s trying to manipulate you. Don’t trust her. You need me, the power. Let it consume you. Don’t listen to her weakness.

The voice was smooth and soothing, wrapping around her thoughts like a shadow, pushing her closer to the darkness she so desperately was ready to embrance.

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it’s like to feel empty, to want something so badly that you’d give everything for it.

The words curled inside her, battling her thoughts and emotions. The power of the book was undeniable, urging her, pulling her toward it with the promise of more—more than Rio, more than anything.

But Rio’s words were still there, echoing in her mind, refusing to fade.

Agatha’s laughter broke through the oppressive silence, harsh and full of spite. It was a sound born of all the pain she had been carrying for so long, the scars of betrayal, the years of loss and longing. It was bitter, raw, and full of sorrow. of the choices that had led them to this moment, and of the loneliness that had consumed her since.

"I don’t need to punish you. You’ve already done it to yourself," she spat, her voice thick with a mix of rage and despair. "You killed my son. Your son."

She took him.

Her words hung in the air, cutting deeper than any blade, a reminder of the sins they could never undo. The past clung to her like a weight, dragging her under.

She felt the words reverberate in her chest, each one a searing lash of truth, and watched as Rio’s face twisted, the guilt washing over her like a wave.

She took Nicky.

“STOP!” Agatha screamed, her voice raw, as if trying to tear the world apart. She couldn’t do it, not again. Not this endless cycle of pain and denial.

Her eyes fell to the book again. That was all that mattered now. She just needed to open it, read its dark knowledge, and let it consume her. The power was waiting for her—her only way out.

“Agatha…” Rio’s voice was shaky now, tinged with a fear that Agatha had never heard from her before. “I couldn’t feel you. I couldn’t feel where you were or how you were…” Rio’s voice trembled, each word more desperate than the last. “How did you get to him? How did you get the book from him? Why did he let you in?”

The questions came too quickly, overlapping, and Agatha could hear the fear in them, the desperate hope for an answer that would somehow make sense of this nightmare. But Agatha didn’t have an answer. She couldn’t remember. The fog in her mind only deepened, leaving behind a void where her memories should have been.

She glanced again at the dead witch on the ground, the one who had been sacrificed. She had done what needed to be done. The book was hers. That was all that mattered now.

Rio followed her gaze, her face crumpling in denial. “Don’t pretend that’s enough. What did you give him for him to accept giving the book in exchange?” Her voice cracked with a mix of disbelief and terror. “What did you offer him?”

Agatha’s brow furrowed. She had done her part. She had killed the witch. She had given up her soul. She had the book. But now… now there was only the weight of something she couldn’t grasp, a heaviness pressing on her chest, and a gaping hole in her mind.

“That doesn’t matter,” she said coldly, as if she could push away the fear that was clawing at her insides. She couldn’t let herself think too much about it. Not now. Not when the book was finally in her hands.

The words hit her like a cold, unyielding wave. She couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t she remember?

The crunch of dry leaves snapped her from the silence—Rio was coming closer, her footsteps slow but purposeful, as if drawn by an invisible force. Agatha lifted her gaze, her eyes locking with Rio's—big, brown eyes, wide with desperation. Eyes full of a plea, of a hope that had already withered and died long ago.

Buried, fifty years ago, with Nicky.

“Agatha… please.” Rio’s trembling hand reached for her, as if trying to bridge the vast chasm between them. As if she could still reach her, hold her here, as if she could close the rift between them with a touch.

“Stay. Away.” Agatha’s voice was raw, strained, but there was nothing left to soften the edges. Her right hand clutched the flap of the book, opening it just enough to see the edges, feeling the pulse of its dark magic seeping through the pages. it was still not enough to read. Not yet.

Rio’s gaze intensified. Desperation bled into her features, her breath quick and sharp. She was bracing herself for something, something that would tear them apart—again.

“Don’t do it.” The words were thick with anguish. A final, futile plea.

The dark, sticky voice whispered in her mind relentlessly, a constant, suffocating presence. It wouldn’t stop. It couldn’t.

She is nothing, Agatha. She is weak, a shadow of what you could be. She is holding you back. Let her go. I will give you everything you deserve. Power, freedom... revenge. Get what is yours, and let the world burn.

Agatha closed her eyes, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her tears. She had no answers, only the cold certainty that had been eating her from the inside. When her eyes opened again, the pain was clear.. And then, with a finality that cracked her heart, she whispered:

“Goodbye, Rio.”

DO IT.

“AGATHA!” Rio’s scream shattered the air. It was raw, a cry of torment and loss that threatened to drown everything else.

With a swift, almost mechanical motion, Agatha opened the book. The surge of anticipation, of adrenaline coursing through her, numbed the pain from the jagged cuts on her hands. The first page greeted her with a cold, ancient power—etched into dark stone by Chthon, as ancient as the creature she had been running from her entire life. At its center, an enormous, unblinking eye, its gaze eternal, stared back at her. Beneath it, lines of a language that she had never seen before, words that seemed to wait for her.

The words twisted, warped, and then, like a beckoning whisper, they shifted to accommodate her presence. They adapted, became clear, legible. As if the book itself was waiting for her. It welcomed her. It needed her.

You see me. I see you.

The words burrowed into her mind, slithering beneath her skin, deep into the marrow of her bones. The eye in the book opened, staring straight through her, not just at her face, but at the very core of her being. It recognized her, and in the same instant, it devoured her.

Dark energy surged from the pages, sharp and hungry, whipping around her limbs, spiraling up her torso, sinking deep into her skin, her veins. Every touch of energy was electric, searing, yet intoxicating. It was as if each pulse fed her, drained her, and then filled her again, giving her more. More power. More hunger. Making her feel both alive and hollow, whole and broken, all at once. It fed her.

And in that moment, as the storm around her raged, a part of Agatha listened—and the last shred of her humanity screamed, “No”.

More. I need more.

The Darkhold—it would consume her, yes. But she was the Darkhold, and its hunger was hers to claim.

Power, purple and alive, surged through her veins, merging with the dark, twisted energy, both pulling and pushing. The beams of black and purple intertwined, enveloping her in a storm of destruction and rebirth. A chaos of raw power that demanded she surrender.

A dome of energy formed around her, spinning faster, gaining velocity, its force pulling everything in its path. Her hair whipped violently, a blur of black strands in the chaos. The storm was becoming her, and she—its master.

The power—it belonged to her.

“AGATHA! STOP, DON’T DO IT, IT WILL DESTROY YOU!”

The voice. That voice. It was her voice—yet it sounded so far away, as though it were a distant echo, belonging to someone she loved. Someone she had long since abandoned.

She wanted more. The hunger was insatiable.

“AGATHA!”

But now, the voice was different. Dark. Deep. Twisted. It was the voice of Death itself, crawling out from the shadows of her mind. Death was trying to break through, trying to tear the barrier of energy she had conjured around herself. But the Darkhold felt so much better. The energy it had unleashed was no longer under her control—it was a living thing, a storm that devoured everything in its path, and it was growing faster, fiercer. Like a tornado—raging, relentless, and unstoppable.

And she was at its heart.

The energy spun faster, the whirlwind of power now a living thing, a ravenous beast tearing through everything in its path. It was relentless—like a storm that consumed all, and at its center, Agatha stood, its master, and yet, she was no more than a puppet, her strings pulled by the dark force she had embraced.

And the voice… the book's voice… it spoke again, its seductive whispers curling in her mind like smoke.

Don’t let her took what is yours again. Not again.

Still, there was a battle raging within her—a war within her soul. Consumed by darkness, yet fighting back. A part of her, Agatha, clinging to life, but not just her. There was Rio's strength, Nicky’s love—each thread holding on, refusing to let go.

Agatha’s fingers trembled over the page, the words dancing before her eyes, her heart pounding with a mix of terror and desire.

“STOP!” The command tore through the air, but it was futile. Another push. Death—dark and relentless—pressed against the barrier of energy that encased Agatha. But all the fear, the desperation in her voice only fed the storm. Every word that struck the dome strengthened it, fueling the Darkhold, fortifying its grip.

Then, her voice shifted. It became weaker. Pleading.

“Please… don’t, don’t do it.” Rio’s voice—fragile, shaking with sorrow. Agatha’s heart clenched as the sound of it reached her, that voixe, fromthe one she had long ago abandoned. For so many years, it had been the only voice that mattered, but now, it only brought her agony. The pain that had gnawed at her soul for so long... She just wanted it to end.

She wanted the book to consume her, to swallow the pain whole.

Rio’s voice pulled her back, like a rope thrown to keep her from drowning. It reached into her soul, tried to hold her, to ground her in the love they once shared.

“Please, my love… don’t leave me.”

But it was too late. The Darkhold’s power surged, and it consumed her. It filled every empty space, every crack and fracture in her soul. There was no longer an ache, no longer a hole. There was only the power, a dark force, building, reconstructing, feeding.

The book felt the resistance—felt her resistance—not in her mind, but in her soul. The door to her mind had been flung wide open, welcoming it in. But her soul fought it.

So the Darkhold did what it did best. It consumed.

Agatha felt the dark energy rising, beginning in her arms, surging up her spine, until it coiled at the base of her neck. There, where a mark lay—a rune. A rune drawn 117 years ago, engraved deep into her flesh and soul. A magic of two extremes—one etched into her soul, the other bound to Rio. Two forces, opposite yet inseparable, forging them into one.

The book knew that the true power lay in the balance of those extremes. It concentrated its energy there, in the very center of the bond between them, and the pain came.

It was like being struck by a blow of fire—pain so intense, it swallowed her whole. A scream tore from Agatha’s throat, but it was echoed by another—Rio’s. Even in the rupture, the disintegration, the bond between them clung to life.

The Darkhold felt the resistance. It felt the bond—the animanexum—straining, pulling at the seams, like a rope stretched too thin, twisting, snapping. It burned.

Agatha felt it—felt them both—the bond stretching, twisting, as if it were pulling apart at the very fibers of their souls. Rio’s pain was becoming hers, their agony intertwined, two separate forces bound by blood and magic, now torn apart. The connection was becoming frayed, unraveling. And yet, it didn’t break.

The Darkhold fought to consume it. To tear it apart. To sever what had once been whole.

Agatha could feel Rio, on the other side, fighting, desperately trying to hold on to the fraying thread of their bond. But it was slipping, like sand through her fingers. No matter how much Rio tried to pull, the bond was undone, bit by agonizing bit.

“Agatha! Agatha, no!” Rio’s voice was raw, a scream of loss that cut through Agatha’s soul like a dagger. The pain was primal now, ripping through her, burning away every trace of magic tied to their blood pact. Corrupting her.

“Sweetheart, please... you deserve better.” Rio’s words—so soft, so broken—reached her. But they didn’t touch her anymore. They didn’t matter.

“You deserve better.” The words repeated in her mind, but they were empty now. Hollow. A distant echo of what had once been love. Rio’s voice tried to find some part of her, any fragment of herself that could be salvaged, but Agatha felt it. The soul that had once been whole was now slipping away. “You deserve better… You always did.”

Agatha could feel it, like invisible hands tugging at the very essence of her being, dragging her further from the woman who had once held her heart.

And the bond between them—the bond of blood and magic—stretched.

It stretched thinner and thinner, a fragile thread, more delicate than it had ever been. A bond that could no longer be pulled back, no matter how desperately they tried.

The Darkhold demanded its toll.

It stretched, unspooling decades of connection, of shared secrets and vulnerable moments, all undone. It stretched, burning through the past, through the moments when they had been each other’s anchor, when they had built something together—a family—out of their love and trust. It stretched, unraveling the memories of when they had chosen each other, despite the odds. It stretched, forcing them to face the ugly truth: even their love, as powerful as it had been, had its breaking point.

The bond was breaking. Burning.

Threads of connection between them snapped like fragile twine, each one fraying and pulling apart as if the very essence of their bond, the heart of who they were to each other, was being torn asunder. The Darkhold's dark power pulsed through Agatha, dragging her deeper into its cold, insatiable grip. It was too late to fight.

Agatha could feel it, like it was her own, but it wasn’t. It was Rio’s—an agonizing flood of despair and resignation, cutting through the bond between them. Rio’s pain, her sense of utter defeat, seeped into Agatha’s very soul. She could feel the weight of it—the crushing knowledge that Rio had already accepted what was happening.

She had already failed. Again.

The thought echoed in her mind, relentless, suffocating. The bond that had once been a lifeline between them now felt like a chain, binding her to the agony of Rio’s defeat. It wasn’t just the loss of her, but the weight of Rio’s broken heart that she felt now, too.

“There’s only Death without you,” Rio’s voice trembled, resigned to what she could no longer change. An agonizing understanding of the inevitable. “Just Death."

Despair surged through her chest, its weight suffocating, pressing down on her every breath. The pain of what was happening was so raw, so sharp, that it was almost unbearable. The realization settled in like a stone lodged deep in her heart—she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t stop the Darkhold from devouring Agatha, from pulling her into its inescapable depths. The bond they shared, the love that had held them together for so long, was nothing in the face of this ancient, insidious force.

As the crushing sound of the forest trembling echoed around them, Rio understood the weight of it. She was losing Agatha. For now. For this moment.

But the thought of the future—the faint hope of someday—gave her the strength to speak. Her voice, still trembling with the agony of her loss, carried a quiet certainty:

“Then so be it, until we meet again.”

In an act of desperate defiance, Rio clung to the last remnants of their blood bond, gathering the green magic that had once been their lifeline. The Darkhold would feed on death, on despair—but Agatha’s symphonic power, raw and alive, was something else entirely. The Darkhold would consume the power of death, but Rio would fight with everything she had left, throwing her green magic into the fray to delay the final rupture.

Rio’s hands trembled, but her resolve never wavered. She didn’t try to stop the Darkhold; she knew that fight was already lost. The pull of the book was too strong, too deep. But Agatha—Agatha was still there, somewhere, and Rio would not let the darkness take all of her.

Rio gathered every ounce of her magic, her power of life and rebirth, and let it surge. Green light exploded from her palms, directed at the dome with a ferocity born of desperation and love. She wasn’t trying to break the dark force; she was trying to give—to infuse Agatha with what remained of her. Life. Hope. Everything the Darkhold couldn’t take.

The green energy surged, twisting in the air like a lifeline, reaching for Agatha. Rio poured everything into that one moment. Her magic, raw and full of vibrant life, shot through the barrier like a bolt of lightning, but the Darkhold didn’t just resist. It consumed it. It consumed everything.

The book sensed the threat—the ethereal pulse of green magic, the power of an entity gathering to strike. It could wait no longer.

Mama? Please, come. Please, mama, find me... find me...

Nicky’s voice rang through Agatha’s mind, a haunting whisper of something long buried. The final blow, pulling her back into a past she couldn’t forget. Agatha's heart seized in her chest, the pain of the memory morphing into something sharper, colder—determination.

"You deserve better, my love." Rio's voice cracked, every ounce of pain and loss pouring through her words. Every shred of hope for forgiveness that would never come, for a love shattered beyond repair. Her love for her, for Agatha, was raw, bleeding through each syllable.

The Darkhold struck its final blow, precise, devastating. Its voice had turned monstrous now, even more grotesque and visceral, a sound that crawled under her skin.

You deserve to be free.

And then—the rupture. The last thread that connected them, the bond woven over a century of shared existence, was torn apart.

She felt it in the core of her being, the violent rupture of their connection. The green magic, once full of life, was devoured in an instant, its brilliance snuffed out like a dying star. The Darkhold swallowed Rio’s magic whole, turning it into a dark, suffocating void. It wasn’t just draining. It was taking. It was unraveling everything Rio had tried to give.

An explosion of energy cracked through the air, a violent clash of forces—the Darkhold’s power gnawing at Rio’s last desperate effort. It tore at her, pulling the green magic into its darkness with a hunger that had no end. The explosion sent shockwaves through the air, ripping apart the world they knew.

A scream ripped through the air, but it wasn’t just one voice. It was both of them—Agatha and Rio—together yet separate. The sound was raw, visceral, like the very marrow of their souls was being ripped from them. It was the scream of something being mutilated, torn in two, as their connection shattered.

Finally, free.

The words of the book slithered through Agatha’s mind, like poison, cold and sticky, but somehow comforting. It had her now. It knew. The bond with Rio was finally severed, ripped apart as the dark power of the book sunk deeper into her, claiming her entirely.

And then—nothing.

Agatha hugged the book tighter, the intoxicating pull of its energy drowning out the ache of the broken bond. She felt it all. Felt how she was no longer just a vessel—but a weapon. The dark magic seeped into her veins, sharp and alive, wrapping around her like a second skin. She was invincible now. Her power surged, and with it, came a sense of absolute control—a sharp, exhilarating strength that made her feel untouchable.

Rio was thrown back, her magic dissipating, and the book pulled Agatha, spiriting her away. The book understood—understood that she was no longer just a victim. She was now its master.

Rio stood there, her body empty. Hollow. All the magic, all the life she had thrown into the struggle, all of it had failed. The very essence of her—her power, her love, her sacrifice—had been consumed by the Darkhold.

Agatha was gone.

She had fought with everything she had. And still, it wasn’t enough.

Now, all that was left was the silence. The cold, unforgiving silence of a battle lost.

Far from there, when Agatha opened her eyes, she was no longer where she had been. She sat up, disoriented, feeling the earth beneath her in a way that felt foreign, yet solid. The emptiness in her heart was profound, a hollow silence that was both soothing and suffocating. The silence of death. Of nothingness.

But as she inhaled deeply, she felt something else. The power coursing through her. It was alive, reverberating in her blood, in her bones. She was stronger, more resilient than ever before. The book, her companion, lay beside her. Unseen, yet always there, a constant presence.

She reached out for it, drawn to its dark allure. Her hands, once scarred and torn by the book's cruel power, were now whole, smooth and unblemished. But it was the sensation, the weight of the magic within her that made her shudder. Her fingers twitched as she looked down at them—dark fingers.

The blackness on her skin wasn't just an illusion. It was power. Dark, relentless power that radiated from her fingertips, like tendrils of shadow moving beneath her skin. She could feel it—the way the magic swirled in her, filling her with an intoxicating sense of purpose.

She was no longer just Agatha. She was something else. Something more.

Her fingers flexed, the dark magic responding to her, wrapping around her like a cloak, as if it had always belonged to her. She could feel it—her power, her darkness, alive and pulsing, hungry and unyielding.

And with it came the undeniable truth: She was unstoppable now.