Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A thick mist blanketed the floor, tinted green by an eerie light that filtered through every crevice, as though it could seep through walls, objects—even souls. Footsteps echoed softly, muffled beneath a flowing black robe, approaching the still form of a body lying on the floor.

Death moved silently through the apartment—a lavish penthouse, its opulent decor betraying the wealth of its owner. The time between death and the moment a soul was collected varied, influenced by countless factors: the time of passing, the cause, the age of the deceased—especially children. Death never lingered when it came to children. It was crucial they weren’t left alone or frightened during the crossing.

But none of those reasons explained why she had come so swiftly tonight. This time, it wasn’t just the inevitable call of a departing soul—it was something more. A soul had cried out during its passing, a scream that reverberated through the veil, almost accusatory. As though Death herself had taken it. But that wasn’t her role. She didn’t kill. She only guided.

The body lay untouched, no visible wounds or signs of struggle on the young woman’s clothes or skin. She appeared to be in her late twenties, peaceful in death, yet something was profoundly wrong. A slow, haunting melody still played in the background, soft and melancholic. Looking just at her body, it might seem accidental—a tragic misstep. But Death’s attention was drawn to the woman’s face.

Her eyes were wide open, yet hollow, with no trace of sclera, iris, or pupil—just an unbroken sheet of milky white. Tears, thick and black, streaked from the corners of her eyes, trailing down her pale cheeks, pooling near the corners of her slightly parted lips. Her mouth was frozen in a silent, gaping scream, as if her soul had been torn away mid-breath.

Death could sense when a soul was ready to be taken. But this... this wasn’t her doing. And yet, she felt it—as if her own hands had cradled the fading life, feeling the warmth slip away, the terror, the suffocating helplessness. She saw herself, but through another’s eyes.

Her gaze drifted across the apartment, settling on a picture frame resting on a marble counter. Two women smiled at each other in the photo, their faces filled with love. One was the blonde now lying lifeless at Death’s feet. The other—a brunette with short hair and dark sunglasses—was conspicuously absent.

Death's eyes swept the room again. There was no sign of forced entry or struggle. Two wine glasses, smudged with fingerprints, sat half-full on a glass table. A nearly extinguished cigarette smoldered in an ashtray. The scene whispered of intimacy, interrupted.

A soft movement brushed against her robe. She looked down to find a black cat curling around her ankles, its luminous eyes locked onto hers. Humans often believed cats were guardians of the night, watchers over life, death, and the mysteries that bridged them. For once, they weren’t entirely wrong.

“Hey,” Death murmured, crouching to stroke the cat. It purred, pressing into her cold hand. As her fingers traced the sleek fur, they caught on the metal tag hanging from a red collar. She turned it, revealing the cat’s name etched into the silver. Pluto.

“It seems you’ve lost your mommy,” she whispered, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual sepulchral echo.

But before she could say more, the cat darted away, weaving between furniture until it stopped in front of a shadowed corner. It sat there, tail flicking, staring at an empty space between the wall and a glass cabinet.

Death followed its gaze. A faint mist coiled there, dark yet translucent, forming the outline of a shadow—delicate, almost imperceptible. It hovered, shifting like smoke in the breeze. She focused, her ancient eyes narrowing. For a brief moment, she felt it: another presence, watching her, hidden just beyond the veil.

A faint smile curved her lips. Curiosity stirred within her—a rare, dangerous thing.

But a sudden sound behind her—a soft creak, almost imperceptible—snapped her from the trance. She straightened, turning slowly, her senses heightened. Something, or someone, was still here.

“What happened?”

The soul she had come to collect had already left its body.

In cases of violent or traumatic deaths, Death could veil the body, cloaking it in an illusory fog. But not this time. She needed answers—needed to understand.

“It’s time for us to go,” she said gently, watching for a reaction.

“What do you mean, go? Where are my—” The soul stopped mid-sentence, eyes dropping to the lifeless body on the floor. Horror washed over her face, mirroring the frozen terror on her fallen form.

Death observed in silence, her presence looming, patient, like a predator gauging its prey.

“This isn’t me... it can’t be,” the soul stammered. “I was at home, with my fiancée. We were fine—celebrating! How... how did this happen?”

Her voice rose with panic, words tumbling faster, fragmented by mounting despair. She didn’t remember. That suggested either a traumatic event—or something far worse. Death suspected the latter.

“You don’t remember anything?” Death pressed, her gaze flicking toward the shadowed corner. The mist there had faded, now nearly imperceptible. The black cat still stood guard, unmoving, a silent sentinel.

“Remember what? None of this makes sense! I’m getting married. We just got engaged. I landed my dream job—she’s thriving in her career. We had plans... so many plans.”

Death listened, as she always did. She absorbed the grief, the disbelief, the heartbreak. But time was unforgiving.

“We need to go,” Death repeated, her voice softer this time.

A portal opened, swirling with dark mist and emerald light. The air thickened with energy as Death stepped forward, the reluctant soul trailing behind her, tethered by inevitability.

As they crossed the threshold, Death glanced back. The mist in the corner was gone, absorbed into the shadows. She would return. There was always time.

“This isn’t fair!” the soul cried. “Why me? Why now?!”

Her protests echoed into the void as they crossed the Pontem Vitae—the Bridge of Life—entering the Velum, the veil between worlds. Ahead lay Vorago, the domain of the dead.

In crossing, all remnants of life—the dreams, the love, the pain—were shed, leaving only the essence behind. The soul’s ties to the mortal realm unraveled, though fragments would linger in the memories of the living.

The underworld was nothing like the myths described. “Underworld” was a misnomer. It wasn’t beneath anything—it was between everything. An ever-present realm, layered over the world of the living, separated only by the thinnest veil.

Souls arrived here to rest, but they were never entirely gone. They lived on in echoes—within those they had touched, for better or worse.

To Death, Vorago wasn’t just a place—it was an extension of herself, part of her very essence. She guided the lost, protected them, and ensured their eternal rest.

Some souls welcomed this crossing, weary of life’s burdens. Others clung desperately to their fading ties, resisting the inevitable. But once they crossed, Vorago became part of them too—a final sanctuary, a resting place between all things.

Here, Death did what she did best: guarding the dead, waiting for the next soul to arrive, and ensuring that, even in death, they were not alone.

They had never tried to escape. At least, not until now.

Lately, something had shifted—as if her essence, once whole, had begun to fracture. A gnawing sensation told her part of herself was elsewhere, pulling away. A lie echoed within, whispering that these events weren’t connected to her. But she knew better.

Agatha had returned.

Once a ghost—untouchable, unreachable—Agatha now lived again. The storm of emotions that swirled within Death couldn’t explain the chaos unraveling in her world. Yet, it couldn’t be coincidence. The underworld had grown unstable since Agatha’s death... and now, her return.

For the first time in an eternity, Death didn’t have the answers. That terrified her.

The underworld had no barriers, no true walls—only infinite space, where boundaries were set solely by Death’s will. Sublevels sprawled beneath her, realms shaped by the elements of life and death. But now there were cracks—emerald fissures streaking through invisible walls that shouldn’t exist. Threads of green light wove through them, as if something—or someone—was clawing its way out, trying to break free from the inside.

Death hovered before one of the cracks, her black robe swirling around her. Her hood shadowed most of her face, but her obsidian eyes gleamed beneath, seeing through the void, searching. Her fingers brushed the fractured surface, following the glowing lines, seeking their beginning—or their end.

This was the fifth breach in thirty mortal days. It always started the same: a subtle fracture in the fabric of her world, a soft crackling like bones breaking, but distant. At first, she thought it was herself—her essence fracturing, breaking apart.

Since Agatha’s death, that human part of her—desires, love, the fragile things—had struggled against her immortal nature. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She, the embodiment of both beginnings and endings, couldn’t reconcile the loss of what she loved most.

Agatha became an essential part of everything Rio embodied as the Green Witch. Together, they had shared everything: a first kiss, bodies entwined, even the creation of life. But Death had been the one to take that life away. That wound—deep, gaping—had never healed. It festered, splitting them apart.

Agatha hadn’t fully died. She’d lingered as a ghost, trapped between worlds, a flaw in the natural order. During that time, Death retreated deeper into Vorago, abandoning her mortal guise, Rio Vidal. It was easier to bury Rio—easier to forget. But even in retreat, she still felt Agatha’s presence, fragmented but intense.

And now... Agatha was back. Alive.

Since her return two months ago, Death had felt the pull—wild, erratic energy rippling through the underworld, growing stronger each day. Part of her was still missing, fractured, scattered across realms.

But the cracks in the underworld? They weren’t random.

Something—or someone—was trying to break free.

Or break in.

And for the first time, Death wasn’t sure she could stop it.

A sharp sound tore through the stillness, snapping Death from her thoughts—claws scraping against stone, desperate, frantic, as if something was trying to claw its way through the barrier.

“Who’s there?” Her voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of her power—not an immediate threat, but a clear warning.

The scratching ceased, replaced by an eerie silence. Whoever, or whatever, was there had realized it wasn’t alone—and was now trying to remain hidden.

But nothing hides from Death.

“I won’t ask again. WHO IS THERE?” This time her voice echoed, laced with a dangerous edge. It cut through the dense fog like a blade.

From the darkness, pairs of glowing eyes appeared—first two, then four, then six—burning through the shadows. She could see their outlines now. Figures lingering at the edge of her domain.

Elydians.

Lost souls who refused death, who defied the natural order, lingering in the underworld, desperate to return to the realm of the living. She hadn’t encountered them in centuries, but lately, they’d been emerging more and more frequently.

She felt the tension among them, the way they hovered between choices—run or surrender.

“You can’t run,” she said, floating forward, her black robes swirling with her movement. The underworld pulsed around her, alive, a part of her essence. She was this place, and everything within it belonged to her.

“I’ll warn you only once. This is not a good idea. You’re going nowhere.” Her voice deepened into a whisper, but its threat was unmistakable.

The Elydians hesitated. Their glowing white eyes flickered with uncertainty, but she could feel their desperation, their desire to escape.

Death advanced slowly, her presence overwhelming, pressing down on them. She intended to drive them back to the Deep Lands—where they belonged—before more chaos erupted.

The six shadows dropped their gazes, the light from their eyes dimming as they bowed to the inevitable. A simple touch was all it would take for Death to send them back.

But before she could reach them, a violent blast of energy ruptured the space behind her—a deafening crack, followed by a blinding burst of white light.

She spun around.

A colossal star had appeared in the underworld’s sky, its brilliance cutting through the eternal darkness. Pure, blinding white light radiated outward, illuminating every forgotten crevice, exposing everything. Within the star’s core, she could see jagged mountains draped in ice.

The world of the living.

A portal.

The six Elydians didn’t hesitate. Their path was clear now—the escape they had yearned for.

They broke into a sprint, shadows flickering like torn fabric, their eyes burning bright as they raced toward the portal. Death lunged forward, but they were too fast, fueled by desperation and centuries of longing.

The underworld shuddered beneath her as the Elydians closed the distance, the portal widening, pulling at the fabric of her domain.

They would not escape. She wouldn’t allow it.

But they were already slipping through the breach, their shadows merging into the brilliant light—into the world that no longer belonged to them.

Death stood at the edge of the portal, the energy crackling against her skin, fury rising within her. Something—or someone—was tearing open the boundaries between worlds.

And she was going to find out why.

“Fuck!”

Death stretched out her arms and floated higher, her eyes darkening into bottomless voids. A dense, black mist spiraled around her, thickening and transforming into a vibrant emerald energy—alive, pulsing, shimmering with dark tendrils that seemed almost tangible. It radiated from her, a manifestation of her very essence, coiling and ready to strike.

"I SAID, YOU ALL AIN’T GOING NOWHERE!"

Her voice echoed, shaking the very fabric of the underworld. Her power lashed out, gripping the six Elydians in a crushing hold. They twisted and writhed, their shadows flickering wildly, fighting with a ferocity she hadn’t felt in centuries.

Holding them should’ve been effortless—she was a force beyond time, a divine entity, existing outside the mortal constraints of life and death. But their resistance was fierce, desperate. The more they struggled, the more energy she had to pour into containing them—energy they couldn’t possibly endure.

“Stop! Why can’t you all accept your destiny?!”

But they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Their will to escape burned brighter than their fear of her. If they continued, the sheer force of her power would unravel them completely.

The star—the portal to the world of the living—began to flicker, its blinding light dimming. She felt the exact moment the Elydians’ hope shattered. Their glowing white eyes dulled, turning a sickly green, matching the energy consuming them. Their shadowy forms thinned, fragments peeling away, revealing the emptiness within.

Death’s jaw tightened. There was no saving them now.

She released the remaining energy, letting it engulf them fully. The Elydians disintegrated into swirling mist, nothing left but the fading echoes of what they once were.

Descending slowly, Death landed back onto the ethereal ground. Another failure.

The underworld—its boundaries, its balance—was her responsibility. Every soul, every fracture, every ripple in its order fell under her domain. She was its guardian. And once again, she had failed.

Just as she had failed Agatha.

Just as Rio had failed.

The weight of it pressed down, but before she could sink into those gnawing regrets, something shifted—a sensation prickling along the edges of her awareness.

She was being watched.
But this presence… it was different. It felt alive.

Impossible.

Before she could fully turn her attention, a voice echoed behind her—excited, awestruck.

“THAT. WAS. SO. COOL!”

Death spun around, her hood still shadowing most of her face. Standing there was a young girl—no older than twenty, though time’s meaning blurred here. She wore a simple brown tunic, a sash tied at her waist, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Her wide eyes sparkled with wonder as she glanced around, taking in the vastness of the underworld like a child in a toy store.

Death’s focus sharpened. The girl was alive—truly alive. There was no echo of death in her, no tether to this place.

“Who are you?” Death’s voice cut through the space, low and sharp. “And how did you get here?”

The girl didn’t seem intimidated or scared of her. At least, not yet.

“I’m America. America Chavez. Hello! Nice place,” she said with a forced smile. Death could tell she wasn’t scared—just curious. “I wouldn’t call it cozy, you know, with all the darkness and creepy stuff, but still… So, those things with the glowing eyes—what were they? I swear, I thought I’d seen it all, but this?”

“How did you get here?” Death repeated, her voice deeper now, cutting through America’s rambling.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is. I was training, lost focus, started thinking about stuff… doesn’t matter now.”

That’s when Death noticed the necklace around America’s neck—a pendant shaped like a star, identical to the portal that had almost let the Elydians escape.

“It was you. The portal. You opened it.” Death stepped closer, pointing at the star.

She studied America, trying to understand how—who—could open a portal into the realm of the dead so effortlessly.

“I know, I’m sorry! You looked kinda busy, so I didn’t want to interrupt or anything. But that—what you did? It was powerful. Scary, but powerful.”

“HOW?” Death’s voice now rang with force, almost a threat.

This was impossible. No mortal could breach the underworld without her sanction—or without her opening the passage herself. But if the veil had weakened enough for the dead to try escaping, maybe it was fragile enough for something—or someone—to break in.

America stepped back, clutching the star on her chest. She couldn’t see Death’s face—just the flowing black robe and the hooded darkness. But she swore she saw two obsidian-like eyes staring back.

“You shouldn’t be here. Get. Out.”

“Well, about that…” America glanced into the shadows beneath the hood. “Idon’tknowhowIopenedtheportalandIdon’tknowhowtoleaveeither,” she blurted, her voice low, almost hoping the figure wouldn’t decide she was a threat.

“What?” She sounded confused, struggling to comprehend what the girl had just said.

“I don’t know how I opened it! I’ve been training—Dr. Strange has been helping me, and Wong too—but there’s still so much I don’t get.”

She spoke quickly, hands gesturing as if to emphasize her helplessness.

“You can open gates… to other worlds?” Death asked, her interest piqued. “And you said… Dr. Strange?”

“Yeah, I can open portals. It’s hard, but I’m getting better. I can go back to places I’ve been before, but new ones? Total gamble.” She paused. “Wait, you know Dr. Strange?”

“Kind of. He visited for a time… but then he left.” Death’s gaze sharpened. “But more importantly, you’re telling me…”

"Please, just let me go. I promise I won’t try to sneak in here again," America pleaded, her voice trembling.

Death remained still, her hollow eyes narrowing. "Relax. It’s not your time. What were you doing when you opened the gate?"

"My time? I was training. I’ve been practicing for a while now, trying to learn how to control my powers. But sometimes I get lost in thought, and… a gate just opens. I wasn’t trying to invade. I like learning about new worlds, and I thought this might be one. But this place… it’s different. I’ve never seen anything like it."

Death stepped closer, her frustration growing. "What were you thinking about when the portal appeared?" she interrupted sharply. How could someone who claimed to be lost talk so much?

America hesitated, shrinking back under Death’s looming presence. "W-what?"

"Your thoughts. While you were training. What were you thinking about before the portal opened?" Death’s voice deepened, her shadow stretching as if trying to swallow America whole.

"I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinking about anything!" America stammered, backing away. "I just wanted to see a new world, and now I’m here and—please! Stop coming closer like that. It’s scary, and trust me, I’ve seen my share of dark, creepy things."

A lie.

Death could tell America remembered exactly what she had been thinking. Why she was hiding it was another question—but one Death would uncover later. For now, the girl needed to leave. If America had entered this realm so easily, perhaps the instability in the underworld was linked to something… or someone… outside.

"What dark, creepy things?" Death pressed.

America sighed, the tension in her shoulders growing. "Look, I know I shouldn’t be here. I get it. But it wasn’t intentional. If I could leave right now, I would. Just help me, or at least… have a little patience."

Death wasn’t about to let her off that easily. If this girl had stumbled into the underworld, Death intended to learn everything she could. "I can help you leave. But first—answer me. What dark, creepy things?"

America closed her eyes and took a shaky breath, as if dredging up a memory she wished had stayed buried. "Three years ago, a witch tried to kill me… or, more accurately, she tried to steal my powers. Controlling them was nearly impossible back then. But for her? It would’ve been simple. She had this book—dark magic, powerful. She was desperate, though. All she really wanted was to get her kids back."

Death froze, her form stiffening.

“Agatha?”

The name escaped her lips.

And suddenly, she felt herself spiraling into memories she had long buried. Agatha. The woman who had sworn never to see her again, who had blamed her for what happened to Nicky. No amount of time had eased Agatha’s hatred, even when Nicky himself had accepted that he no longer belonged among the living.

Nicky. Their son. Born of Death herself and destined for the underworld.

But why a portal? Agatha had no need for one to enter here. And if she had, it wouldn’t change Nick’s fate. He belonged here… as much as this place now belonged to him.

"Who is Agatha?"

Death’s hollow eyes locked onto America.

America’s question snapped her back to reality. Had she said that name out loud?

“Agatha Harkness. The witch who tried to steal your powers. With the Darkhold?”

America’s expression remained confused, as if she had never heard the name before. But then, her face shifted—fear.

“Are you telling me there are two of them? Maybe I should start keeping a notebook. I don’t know who Agatha is. I was talking about the Scarlet Witch.”

There it was again—that name. How could events from the past few years still be so deeply connected, even here, in the limbo between worlds? Rio knew Wanda Maximoff wasn’t here among the dead, as many believed. But she wasn’t among the living either.

More importantly, standing before her was a girl who clearly hadn’t yet mastered her powers—powers that Doctor Strange had been guiding, powers the Scarlet Witch had once coveted. The same Scarlet Witch who had trapped Agatha in a hex for three years and who had been the mother of a sorcerer powerful enough to defy death.

Now, Rio had one more reason to keep an eye on this girl. There was something about her—something important. Rio could feel it.

“There aren’t two,” Rio finally said. “Agatha is another witch. Like many others. Like me.” It was a half-truth, but it would suffice for now.

America’s eyes widened, a mix of fascination and wonder lighting up her face. “So that’s what you are—a witch.”

Death noticed the curiosity in America’s gaze. She could use that. Maybe they could help each other… at least until Rio figured out what was really going on.

“I’ll get you out of here,” she said, “but you’ll have to come with me. I understand your power—to open gates—but you shouldn’t be here. Not yet. This isn’t just another world. Believe me. Someone might have wanted you here, and we need to figure out why.”

America felt cornered. Rio spoke as if offering a choice, but something deep inside told her it wasn’t a suggestion—it was a veiled command. Still, her priority was leaving this place. She could figure out how to get back to Kamar-Taj later.

“Okay. I’ll go with you.”

Death moved forward, this time without stopping, her dark form gliding through the emptiness. America followed, her footsteps echoing soflty in the vast void.

Suddenly, America stopped. Her eyes widened, her brow furrowing in confusion. It felt like something—or someone—was calling to her. She turned, scanning the endless darkness, but saw nothing. A strange pull gnawed at her, distant yet persistent.

“America, I’m not going to wait for you,” Death’s voice echoed, cold and sharp, pulling her back to reality.

America blinked and shook her head, snapping out of her trance. She turned away from the invisible call and sprinted to catch up, reminding herself she was still in an unknown world.

They stopped in the middle of nowhere, though Death stood as if she knew exactly where they needed to be. She stretched out her hands, palms open, ready to tear through the veil between worlds.

“You asked my name,” America said, “but you haven’t told me yours.”

She hesitated, hands still outstretched. Then, slowly, she lowered her hood, allowing her face—the one she had sworn never to reveal again—to emerge. She turned to America.

“I am Rio. Rio Vidal.”

Without another word, she turned back, raising her hands once more. A shimmering tear split the veil, revealing a portal glowing with pulsing green light. It flickered, inviting them through.

They stepped into the light.

Rio knew that understanding who this girl was—and the true extent of her powers—could finally reveal what was happening to her realm. And she knew exactly where to find help, even if that help wouldn’t be too thrilled to see her again.

Chapter Text

Agatha’s eyes fluttered open, greeted by the warmth of sunlight on her face.

What happened? Where am I?

Beneath her, the rough texture of leaves and twigs pressed into her back. She jolted upright, finding herself sprawled in the garden of her house in Westview. Her eyes darted around—the garden looked empty, stripped of life. No clothes or towels fluttered on the clothesline, but the greenhouse stood intact, its interior neat and organized. Pots of flowers and plants thrived inside, untouched.

"What…"

A sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned quickly to see her neighbor—Herb—frozen mid-step, staring at her in wide-eyed shock.

"Oh no, please no. Not again." He muttered under his breath.

Agatha raised an eyebrow. "Not again, what?"

Herb, clutching a bag of pesticides, stood frozen at the back door of the house. With a sharp spin, he turned his back to her. “Miss Agn… I mean, Miss Agatha, for the love of all things holy, put some clothes on! It’s not even warm today.”

”What are you doing here?”

Herb shifted nervously, clearly eager to leave. “The boy, Billy—he said if we could take care of your greenhouse while you were gone, you’d be so grateful. Said he could almost hear your voice in his ear, threatening him if any of your plants died.”

Gone?

She looked down.

Naked. Again.

Whatever.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, ignoring her neighbor muttering, she strode toward the house, her mind swirling.

What am I doing here? What happened last time? I must have—

She froze at the back entrance.

Dead. I was dead.

Fragments of memory flickered—her ghostly form wandering, helping Billy, months of research and searching for his brother. She had been gone.

She heard whispers drifting through the house—an echo fading, retreating. Like the lingering remnants of an incantation.

Panic surged as she rushed to the mirror inside the house, her hands tangling in her hair. She gasped at her reflection—her dark brown hair cascaded as usual, no longer the intense white it had been. But now, a single stark white streak ran from root to tip on one side, framing her face.

A mark.

Dark magic always left a mark.

Rio?

No. That wasn’t possible. Death couldn’t bring back a ghost, that was beyond her reach. It didn’t make sense.

Her chest tightened. How was I brought back? And by whom? Her mind raced, struggling to piece together how she’d returned to life, body and all, without knowing.

The house was eerily silent. She called out, “Señor?”

No sign of her rabbit. He often lingered with Billy but took every chance to escape, disappearing for days or weeks before returning as if nothing had happened.

Agatha’s hands moved on instinct, purple magic sparking to life. The glow reflected in her wide eyes, vibrant and potent.

Whoever had done this—brought her back—they wanted something. That much was clear.

But for now, none of that mattered.

She was alive.

And her power was hers again.

Rio had initially planned to take America straight to Agatha's meeting, but her anxiety about the reunion and uncertainty over what she might actually find made her postpone the moment. It was as if she were lying to herself, convincing her mind there was something inevitable that needed her attention first.

She hadn’t forgotten the incident in the apartment where she’d gone to collect a soul. It had been a supernatural death, but she couldn’t immediately identify what—or who—had caused it. She’d felt the young woman’s life slip away before the passage was complete, as though another presence had been there. Like a reflection of herself. That same energy had lingered in Vorago over the past few months, since Agatha’s death. She’d assumed it was her own inner pain bleeding out, but now that assumption felt hollow. The feeling of fragmentation hadn’t faded—it had worsened.

Rio and America walked side by side down the street. Rio wore what had become her favorite disguise: an FBI agent's uniform. It drew glances as they passed, though she never understood why. People seemed fascinated by Rio Vidal in life, but they didn’t enjoy seeing her after death.

Not that she needed the uniform to gain entry anywhere, but it made things simpler. It allowed her to go unnoticed when necessary—or attract the right attention when it suited her. It helped her manipulate people into giving her exactly what she wanted.

The plan was simple: enter the police station, trick a detective into believing the FBI's interest in the case, and gain access to the woman’s death file. She wanted what the police had on the fiancée.

Rio left America sitting at the entrance while a detective escorted her to a file room. Inside, she found photos of the dead woman, her lifeless body, and her personal items.

Brienne Stewart, 30 years, the only daughter of a religious family. The file described the absence of illness, emergencies, or any trauma, internal or external. By all accounts, she had led an ordinary existence, a schoolteacher with no history of danger or scandal. The real intrigue of the case revolved around her fiancée—a renowned fashion designer whose name commanded attention. The cause of death was completely unknown—and would remain so. It wasn’t earthly.

One photo of the deceased struck her: the woman’s face appeared calm, peaceful even, entirely different from how she had died.

She flipped through the file, her eyes scanning the details until they landed on something that made her breath hitch—Morgan Jones, the woman's partner, was missing. A photograph was pinned to the page, and the moment Rio’s gaze met those light brown eyes, time seemed to slow.

The woman in the picture was young—34, engaged to the victim for two years. But it wasn’t the statistics that held Rio captive. It was the way Morgan’s eyes stared back at her, filled with an intensity that felt almost otherworldly.

Large, expressive eyes, framed by thick lashes that carried a quiet intensity. Her gaze was captivating, as if she could see into the very essence of a person.

Dark brown and short hair fell in soft, tousled strands, with uneven bangs framing her forehead, giving her a raw, almost ethereal presence. There was something enigmatic about her, a quiet strength.

A pull, a whisper in her essence, something ancient and unexplainable stirred inside her.

Recognition.

Not of the face, not of the name, but of something deeper—something beyond logic or memory. It was as if the universe itself had pressed pause, demanding she see, that she understand. But understand what? The feeling was disorienting, overwhelming, like catching the echo of a long-lost melody she should have known by heart.

She didn’t know Morgan. And yet, somehow, she did.

"Who are you?" Rio exhaled, the words barely more than a whisper. Her mind swirled with confusion, tangled in a recognition that shouldn’t exist—an impossible familiarity that made no sense.

The shadows on the apartment—the presence—Rio could feel it now, as if she was still there.

She shut the file with a quiet snap, the weight of it pressing against her impatience. This wasn’t where her focus should be—not now.

After Agatha.

After Agatha, I’ll find her.

As Rio prepared to leave, she noticed a woman talking with the guard. From around the corner, she heard soft sobbing. The young woman was speaking tearfully to him at reception.

“Please, I just need information about the case. If you know anything about my boss… She’d never vanish like this. After what happened—I just want to help, or at least know she’s safe.”

“Miss, this case is confidential. The most important thing is finding her. Once we do, we’ll have more answers.”

Boredom.

Impatience.

Annoyance.

Emotions washed over Rio so quickly, so strongly, that for a moment she thought they were her own.

She turned toward the voice, studying the woman more closely. She wore a crisp white blouse tucked into black pants, a green overcoat draped over her shoulders, concealing most of her figure. A necklace rests around her neck, with a pendant shaped like a bird. Long, dark hair flowed past her waist, but what stood out were the two white strands framing her face, on both sides—like streaks of moonlight cutting through midnight. The contrast was striking against her youthful features, somewhere between 20 and 30.

A fragile mortal, yet something about her was undeniably familiar.

Once again, the same feeling. Whats is it?

Her features were soft but defined. Her posture, relaxed yet guarded, suggested strength honed through hardship, but there was still a fragility there—like a soul caught between two worlds.

Her large brown eyes, deep and dark, shimmered with fear and confusion, but Rio could sense it was all a performance.

"You're going to let me see the Brienne Stewart case file."

A slow smile spread across Rio's lips. She could hear it—feel it—the pulse of psychic magic radiating from the other. Strong, focused, and deliberate. Rio didn’t move, simply watched as the young woman’s head tilted slightly, sensing the weight of Rio’s gaze.

Her eyes met Rio’s without fear, but with an unspoken question, like she, too, felt the strange pull between them. A recognition of sorts, though neither could place it.

The connection tugged at Death’s essence, a tether frayed and mended countless times. It was more than the usual pull of a soul near the end of its mortal thread. It was older, deeper. A reflection of herself in a form that shouldn't exist. For the first time in an eternity, she felt something strange—a flicker of longing, a distant ache she could not name.

What’s happnening?

The woman’s eyes narrowed toward Rio, confusion flickering in them.

“Who is this? Is she the agent on the case? Maybe I can reach her faster.”

The woman shifted her focus entirely to Rio now, analyzing her with a sharpness that betrayed her earlier fear. Tears glistened in her eyes, but Rio saw the corners of her mouth tighten—not in sadness, but calculation.

Rio felt the curiousity growing inside her. She is good. This will be fun.

With her body fully toward Rio, more tears spilling, her lips trembling in a perfectly practiced cry.

“Good morning, I need help.”

Rio took a step forward, still keeping a safe distance, but close enough to make her presence undeniable.

“Brienne Stewart. If you know about Brienne Stewart’s case, you’ll let me access the files.”

The woman’s mental voice now targeted Rio, completely unaware that it was Rio who was steering the connection. She was skilled—confident in her craft—and it was clear this wasn’t her first time using the ability. But she had no idea who she was dealing with.

Psychic magic worked both ways, and the woman had left the door wide open.

“I can hear you,” Rio whispered, accepting the unspoken invitation. She stepped into the mental link.

The young woman’s face changed in an instant—shock, then fear. She had been exposed.

“Miss? The second door at the end of the corridor. I’ll authorize your passage,” the officer nearby said, oblivious to the psychic duel happening before him.

But the girl’s focus was now fully on Rio, her mouth slightly ajar, trying—and failing—to mask her panic.

“He’s already ready to give you what you’re looking for. His mind is very weak,” Rio whispered into her thoughts.

The woman clutched her purse tightly, her hands trembling. She broke eye contact, as if that would sever the psychic link, and hurried past Rio, nearly sprinting toward the exit.

“Miss, the file—you…” the officer called after her, but she was already gone.

Rio watched her disappear down the street before turning her attention back to the officer.

“Nothing happened here,” Rio murmured, “She was just another curious young woman. You denied her request, and she left.”

The officer blinked, then nodded, the memory already rewritten.

Rio headed toward the exit, her eyes landing on America waiting near the entrance. But her mind was elsewhere, still tangled in the encounter that had just happened.

“Come on, we have one more stop to make,” Rio said, striding ahead.

America followed close behind. “What were you doing in there? And that FBI badge—pretty sure that’s illegal.”

Rio glanced at her, a mocking glint in her eyes. “It’s fun. Besides, I needed some information about someone. I figured it was better to dig around before asking her directly... after I’m done with you.” She gestured between them with a casual wave.

America frowned. “So, you just walked in and got access to confidential files because of some clothes and a fake badge?”

Rio raised her eyebrows, feigning offense. “Of course not. I asked for the files—nicely.”

“That’s it?”

“I can be very persuasive. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one there,” Rio added, pulling a pair of sunglasses from the collar of her white button-down shirt and sliding them on.

America crossed her arms. “You slipped out of your world pretty easily. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just... teleport into the file room?”

Rio smirked. “And where’s the fun in that?”

America shot her a look—a mix of curiosity, fascination, and utter confusion—but decided to let it go.

“Okay, about that city you mentioned—Westview. How exactly are we getting there?”

Rio’s smirk widened. “We’re already here.”

“Huh? What do you mean? I thought—” America turned, her eyes widening. The towering buildings and bustling streets of New York had vanished, replaced by a quaint small town. Rows of mom-and-pop shops lined the street, and they now stood in what looked like the town center.

“Wait—were we just in New York a second ago?”

“We were?”

America’s jaw dropped as she tried to process what had just happened.

Rio rolled her eyes. “No need for that look. Space and time are illusions—bend them the right way, in the right place, and they become tools. I just made things easier for us. Not everything needs a portal.”

Westview wasn’t a big city, and Rio had chosen to stop farther from the house they needed to visit. It gave her time to think—and to delay a meeting she wasn’t quite ready for.

Six months. That’s how long it had been since she’d last seen Agatha. Six months since Agatha had turned on her, drained her power—the essence of Death itself—and left Rio, again.

She had promised she’d leave Agatha alone, that she wouldn’t go looking for her. But something was happening—something that felt connected to Agatha, or at least to those around her. At least, that’s what Rio kept telling herself. It wasn’t like she’d found the perfect excuse to break her promise... it was a matter of necessity. Right?

“Do you live here?” America asked, her mouth half-full, munching on a sandwich. They’d had to stop on the way after her fifth complaint about starving to death if they didn’t find food soon.

“No,” Rio replied, glancing at her, “but I know someone here who might be able to help us. Maybe she knows what’s going on.”

“Agatha?”

The name echoed in Rio’s mind, unspoken but deafening. She froze mid-step, as if hearing Agatha’s name made it all too real that she was about to see her again. Alive.

America noticed the flicker of emotion on Rio’s face but pressed on, curiosity outweighing caution. “The woman you mentioned when I told you about the Scarlet Witch... is she the one who can help us?”

A tight knot of anxiety twisted in Rio’s chest. An entity—Death itself—anxious? But that’s exactly what she felt. Centuries of chasing Agatha, who had evaded her grip time and time again, only to one day choose to die in her arms, like some cruel punishment for something Rio had never done.

“That’s right,” Rio exhaled, trying to steady herself. “Agatha. She met the Scarlet Witch... and her son too. I believe he can help us—or at least, help you. Though... I doubt he’ll be happy to see me. Neither of them, actually.”

America caught the tension in Rio’s voice, how it thickened when she spoke Agatha’s name. “Why? She’s a witch too, right? Like you?”

Rio smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah... let’s just say the last time we saw each other, things didn’t end on the best terms.”

America hesitated. Was this really a good idea? But she didn’t have much choice. Rio had pulled her out of that dark, desolate place on one condition—that she’d stick by her. And so far, Rio had made escaping look easy. Maybe she could help America figure out her powers too.

“I learned a lot about sorcerers when I was in Kamar-Taj,” America began, stumbling a bit over the name, “but no there much about witches, my experience with witches wasn’t that good. Aren’t they kind of the same? Like, in Harry Potter, you’ve got witches and wizards, and—”

“Harry Potter?” Rio cut in, her tone sharp.

“Yeah, you know, with wands, brooms, and dark magic corrupting people?”

Rio shot her a look that could have withered a flower. “Wizards,” she began, her voice tinged with irritation, “are nothing like witches. Though I bet they wish they were.”

She let out a sarcastic laugh before continuing. “Almost anyone can become a wizard. It’s all about study—manipulating energy, training, learning how to bend magic around them to their will. But there’s always a cost. Everything you take, you must give back. That’s the law—of nature, of magic.”

She paused, her expression softening with something that looked like pride. “But witches? We’re born with it. Magic isn’t something we control—it’s who we are. It’s woven into the deepest parts of our being. It’s not about bending energy or casting spells... it’s as natural as breathing. Our power is our essence.”

America chewed her sandwich slower now, the weight of Rio’s words sinking in. “So... witches are basically magic incarnate?”

Rio tilted her head, amused. “Now you’re getting it. Her voice grew more haughty toward the end, laced with pride.

“It sounds incredible... but also terrifying,” America admitted, her brows furrowing. She still hadn’t figured out how to control her powers. “I mean, imagine being born with something that deep and powerful inside you, and having to learn to deal with it—control it—before you even understand what it is.”

She hesitated, her chest tightening at the thought. Would that be the difference for her? After all, she hadn’t always been able to open portals and travel between dimensions. That only started when she was older—on the worst day of her life. The day she lost her mothers. That was when her power had first revealed itself, raw and violent.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced at Rio. “It didn’t show up right away, my power. It only happened... when I lost control. When I was scared. That’s when I opened my first portal—when I lost them.”

Rio’s sharp eyes softened, as if seeing something beneath America’s words—fear, guilt, pain. She let the silence hang for a moment before speaking, her voice low but steady.

“It could be like that. For some,” Rio said, her tone carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. “You met the Scarlet Witch, didn’t you? You’ve seen what chaos magic can do—what happens when someone with the power to change reality refuses to accept their own.”

She took a breath, her eyes locked on America’s. “There are all kinds of magic. Divination, protection, manipulation, illusions, and the list goes on. And sometimes, a witch might manifest more than one kind of power, or it might evolve, reshaping itself depending on who she is. But the most important thing to understand,” Rio’s voice softened, almost reverent, “is that a witch’s magic isn’t just something she uses—it is her. It’s the core of her being. It molds us, shapes us, completes us.
And when we’re part of a coven, our magic connects, intertwining like roots in the earth.”

America listened intently, captivated by Rio’s words. There was something mesmerizing about how she spoke—as if she weren’t just talking about magic, but about life itself.

Over the past few months, during her time training at Kamar-Taj, America had struggled to grasp her abilities. Her way of opening portals felt different from how the sorcerers did it—wilder, more raw, and far more dangerous. It wasn’t refined or learned; it was instinctual, primal. She remembered that first portal—the chaos, the fear, the moment her world shattered. Since then, nothing had been the same. Part of her still tried to bury the guilt of what happened to her mothers, while another part knew she couldn’t keep running. She had to understand this power—her power.

She glanced sideways at Rio. “What about you? You’re a witch, right? What’s your power?”

Rio hesitated, her gaze flicking away as if carefully weighing her words. “I’m the Green Witch,” she finally said, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “My power is deeply rooted in nature. I can manipulate all the elements—earth, water, fire, air, even metal. They’re all a part of me, flowing through me.” She paused, her tone shifting, becoming softer, more contemplative. “It’s the power of life... and...” She hesitated again, as if the next words were heavier than the rest. “The power of life, in all its forms—its beginning, its middle... and its end.”

America felt the weight in Rio’s voice, an unspoken truth lingering beneath her words. She tried to process it all, storing away every detail, every piece of this puzzle she was still trying to solve.

They walked through a quieter part of the town now, past rows of small houses. Rio gestured for them to cross the street, her steps slowing as if they were nearing their destination. America sensed it too—the feeling that whatever Rio had come for was close. But something inside her warned that once Rio got what she wanted, the answers America had been receiving so far might stop.

She broke the silence. “That dimension—the one I found you in when I opened the portal... where was it? I’ve never seen a place like that. It felt... unreal, like it wasn’t fully there. I knew I was in it, but at the same time, it was like it didn’t exist. I don’t know how to explain it. Even the way I got there felt... off. Usually, I open portals with intention, but that time, it was like I got sucked into it. Like something pushed me there.”

Rio’s expression darkened, her eyes distant, as though sifting through memories. “The Velum,” she said quietly. “It’s not exactly a place. More like a bridge—a veil—that connects two portals. A liminal space between realities.” She turned to America, studying her. “I still don’t know how you got there. You said you open portals, but you don’t have control over them yet.”

America nodded slowly. “Yeah... it’s like... I get more erratic with my power when I’m scared or angry. I’m way better than I was some years ago, but still can be hard sometimes”

Rio gave her a look that was half-pity, half-recognition. “That place—the Velum—isn’t somewhere you just stumble into. It’s can be dangerous. But you? You tore through reality and ended up there without even meaning to. That’s not nothing, America. That’s power.”

America swallowed hard, her heart racing. The idea that she had landed in a place so dangerous—by accident—was terrifying.

America suddenly felt a knot tighten in her chest, discomfort washing over her as her thoughts circled back to herself—her power, and her inability to fully control it.

“I’ve been studying, training... trying to learn how to use it,” she began, her voice tinged with frustration. “And sometimes it’s so easy, like it’s just... there, a natural part of me, like I don’t even have to try.” She sighed. “But other times? It’s like I’m completely blocked. Like I can’t reach it at all.”

Rio frowned, her head tilting slightly, as if America’s words didn’t quite make sense.

“But that’s how it should be. Natural. Like you said yourself.”

“It’s not that simple,” America replied, her voice tightening, the words feeling raw. “Sometimes, it feels like I’m right back at the start—like I’ve made no progress at all. I try to reach for it, but it’s like there’s this wall, and I can’t break through.”

Rio studied her in silence for a moment before stopping in her tracks. She turned to face America fully, her expression sharpening into something more intense, more focused. There was a knowing look in her eyes, something ancient and deep, like she was seeing into America—not just at her, but through her.

“Your power is part of your essence,” Rio said, her voice low and firm. “It’s who you are. You don’t stop and think about how to breathe, do you? Or consciously plan every single step you take? No. It just happens. Naturally. That’s how your power should flow—effortless, instinctual.”

She took a step closer, her gaze piercing. “This isn’t about controlling it. It’s about letting it move through you, like blood in your veins. The more you know yourself—truly know yourself—the more your power will respond. It’s not a force to dominate. It’s an extension of you.”

The conviction in Rio’s voice caught America off guard. No one had ever explained it like that before. She was so used to people telling her to rein it in, to control it—to fix herself. But Rio’s words felt... different. Like maybe her power wasn’t something broken, or dangerous, but something that simply needed to be understood.

She hesitated before asking, “Was it like that for you? With your power?” She gestured vaguely, thinking of all the elements Rio controlled. “You said you’re the Green Witch—you can control all the elements, life itself. That sounds way more complicated than just... opening portals. Were you looking for something? Back there? In the Velan?”

Rio let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes. “Velum, not Velan,” she corrected sharply. “And no. I wasn’t looking for anything. I was doing my job.” Her voice cooled, her words sharp. “I keep things in balance. Life, death—everything has its place. Something was trying to escape into this world, and I stopped it. That’s what I do.”

America bit her lip, thinking back to that dark, empty space—the Velum. The creatures, the Elydians, trying to push through the portal she’d accidentally opened. And the voices…

“I heard something there,” she admitted quietly. “Voices, actually. They sounded... familiar. Like they belonged to people I know. People important to me.” She hesitated, unsure whether to continue, but then pushed forward. “Is it possible? For someone to be trapped there?”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but her voice was calm, flat. “Whatever you heard, whoever they sounded like—it wasn’t real. The Velum plays tricks. It shows you what it needs to, to keep you there longer.” She didn’t soften her tone. “Don’t trust what you saw—or heard—in that place.”

America’s shoulders slumped slightly, but she nodded. There was a part of her that had hoped—desperately—that those voices meant something.

Without another word, Rio started walking again, and America fell in step beside her, her mind swirling with questions.

She thought back to when she first found Rio in the Velum, surrounded by those Elydiums. That place had felt so... hollow. Dark. Lonely. And yet, Rio had been there—almost as if she belonged to that emptiness.

Before America could get too lost in her thoughts, Rio spoke again, cutting through the silence.

“It’s different for me,” she said, her tone distant. “But that’s not the point right now.” She slowed her pace, turning her sharp gaze back to America. “You still haven’t answered my question. Not truthfully, anyway.”

America blinked, caught off guard. “What question?”

Rio stopped walking. “What were you doing? Thinking? Right before you opened that portal and ended up in the Velum?”

America opened her mouth to answer—but nothing came out. She didn’t know. Not really. Lately, her mind had been scattered, drifting during training. She’d been questioning everything—her powers, her place in all this. Was this really her path? Or had she been forced into it, stumbling through dimensions without any real purpose?

She hesitated, then spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I told you… there wasn’t anything specific. I was trying to open a new portal—just focusing on finding a dimension I hadn’t seen before. Usually, I can choose when to step through but... this time? It was different.” She swallowed. “It felt like I was pulled in—like something sucked me through before I could stop it.”

Rio slowed her pace, giving her a sidelong glance that made America’s stomach twist. It was a knowing look—the kind that said, I see through you, like Rio could tell there was more to the story but was deciding whether or not to push.

Then, without warning, Rio’s attention shifted. Her eyes locked onto a house up ahead, nestled in the middle of a quiet suburban street.

The house stood out, though it tried not to. Its exterior was the same as the others—white siding, a neatly trimmed lawn—but something about it felt *off*. Almost like it was holding its breath, waiting. Dark curtains hung heavy in the windows, blocking out the sun, and the garden was too perfect, the kind of tidy that came from a spell, not a human hand.

Rio’s body tensed, her jaw tightening as if she were debating whether to turn back. America noticed the flicker of hesitation—the way Rio’s fingers curled slightly at her sides, the flicker of something like doubt in her eyes. But then she straightened, as if steeling herself, and looked back at America.

“We’re here,” Rio said flatly.

America glanced around, confusion crossing her face. “Where is here? It’s just... a neighborhood.”

Rio’s expression darkened, her voice low. “Where I believe our answers might be—or at least the beginning of them.” She took a breath, her next words sharp with warning. “But listen to me, girl. Keep quiet in there. She’s not going to be happy to see me. And since you’re with me? Don’t expect a warm welcome.”

Rio spoke with a tone that suggested concern, but the sly smile tugging at the
corner of her mouth betrayed her true emotions—she was entertained, expectant, and brimming with anticipation.

Without waiting for a response, Rio moved toward the house. Her steps had slowed, a strange tension in her movements—, savoring the moment while wishing she could delay it. America followed, her heart racing, with uncertainty.

They stopped in front of the door. It loomed tall, dark wood with an iron knocker.

Rio hesitated for just a heartbeat, then raised her hand and knocked—three sharp, deliberate raps that echoed through the stillness.

The sound lingered in the air, like the house itself was listening.

Chapter Text

The feeling of the sun on her face was something she would never take for granted again. It had become a promise to herself—a commitment she had clung to since returning to life two months ago.

The memory of how she came back was etched into her mind: naked and alone, lying in the garden of her house.

It reminded her of simpler mornings, stretched out on the grass when all that mattered was her and Nicky. The rustling leaves, the gentle flow of the river, life moving at its own slow pace. Back then, the sun on her face had been their only companion. And before Nicky, it had been just her and Rio, basking under that same sun.

She once had her coven, but even then, loneliness had crept in, deep and isolating. When her own sisters turned on her, trying to end her life, the truth was laid bare—she was alone. A covenless witch.

Until she appeared. Emerging from the wreckage of bodies and death, as if summoned by the very essence of it.

At first, she had called herself Death. Then, Rio Vidal.

Rio—the one Agatha had fallen for, surrendering her body and soul in a love so profound she hadn’t believed it possible. For decades, it was Agatha and Rio, inseparable. She had dreamed they might become three, with Nicholas completing them. But Death had other plans. The reminder came cruelly—she and Rio were bound, two halves of a whole, and not even Agatha's love could alter that balance.

So, it became Agatha and Nicholas, until even that was stripped away, leaving her alone once more.

Just Agatha.

Centuries blurred past, filled with fleeting moments when she felt Rio again—glimpses through death—but it was never the same.

It was always her and Rio. And with that came mourning, pain, and a deep resentment that refused to fade. A love so powerful it ached.

They were supposed to be Agatha, Rio, and Nicholas. But Death denied her that future. And in return, Agatha vowed to deny Death as well.

So she was left with only herself.

And then the darkness came. Complete, suffocating. The Darkhold consumed her, twisting her desires into a hunger for power. Nicky was gone. Rio was gone. And sometimes, even Agatha was gone.

Until Westview.

Where, once again, she lost it all. Her power stripped away, piece by piece, until there was no Agatha left.

Only Agnes.

Pieces of herself remained, screaming in the back of her mind—a lost son, a love she couldn’t forgive, both trapped inside the prison her mind had become. These fragments of her soul fought for her to remember who she truly was, even as she tried to forget them to dull the pain. They were the same pieces that clung to her, desperate to pull her back.

Until Rio appeared again. A door had been opened, and Rio didn’t stop until she tore it wide, shattering the illusion that had trapped Agatha, piece by broken piece, until she was herself again. Agatha. There was nothing more ironic than Death, Rio herself, being the one to free her from the Scarlet Witch’s spell—only for Agatha to die 24 hours later.

But a deal had been struck, a promise made. Rio would take another soul with her, and Agatha would never see her again. Never again face the woman who bore the same features as their son—the son Rio had given her and taken away. From death, to life, to death again.

It had been six months since they last saw each other—two of which Agatha had spent alive again—and in all that time, Rio had honored the deal. She had not sought Agatha out. Agatha hadn’t expected Rio to keep her word, not truly. But she had.

Now there was no more Nicky, no Rio, no Darkhold. No Witches Road, not after her deception had been uncovered. It felt like there was nothing. And yet, even in the emptiness, there had always been Rio. No matter how much hatred, hurt, and resentment Agatha had thrown her way, Rio had been there. But not anymore.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, pulling her from the spiral of morning thoughts.

Westview was calm and uneventful—just as it should be. The town and its people had finally found the peace they’d been denied for so long. Agatha moved to the kitchen, filling the kettle for her morning coffee.

“Good morning, Mister. What’s on the agenda today, huh?”

She bent down to scoop up Señor Scratchy, but the rabbit darted away, heading for the door.

“Even you’re ignoring me now? Fine. We’ll see how you feel when you’re hungr—”

Three sharp knocks rattled the door. Señor Scratchy stopped right in front of it, as if he had known someone was coming all along. Agatha’s chest tightened, a pressure blooming deep inside her.

It wasn’t like she never had visitors. The neighbors occasionally stopped by with food or just to check on her—despite her repeated threats to curse them. Billy came over too, insisting on his weekly lessons in witchcraft, hungry to keeping understanding the world of spells and ancient histories.

But this felt different. Wrong.

Her fingers brushed across the kitchen counter, searching for something—anything—she could use as a weapon. It was absurd. She was a witch, she got her powers back. She didn’t need a blade. She let the knife fall and stepped toward the door.

Shadows moved beneath the threshold—more than one figure.

Señor Scratchy sat silently in front of the door, staring at her, as if urging her to hurry.

Agatha’s breath hitched. And then she opened it.

Exactly six months, two weeks, and four days since Rio had last seen her. Since Agatha had died in her arms. She could still taste it—the salt of her tears on Agatha’s lips, the fading warmth of her final breath.

Six months, two weeks, and four days since Agatha had died in her arms, and Rio had felt as if she had died too. An impossible notion for someone like her. An impossible fate for Death itself.

Rio had always sought to understand grief. It was an abstract concept, something that only mortals seemed to experience in its full weight. But with Agatha, mourning was a wound that refused to heal, an ache that only deepened with time. The pain of losing someone.

Rio had never lost anyone. She was life and death, an unbroken cycle. She created, nurtured, and let perish. She gave and reclaimed.

For centuries, she had tried to comprehend how something so natural—so inevitable—could be so unbearable. She didn't understand mourning. But she did understand the agony of separation. The pain of knowing the one she loved was beyond her reach.

Yet, she had always found comfort in one certainty: that one day, no matter how long it took, Agatha would return to her.

Because Death comes for all.

But what Rio never expected was that even in death, Agatha would escape her. That the pain Agatha carried for her was so profound, so consuming, that she would defy fate itself to avoid her.

And only then did she finally understand.

The true nature of grief.

The torment of loving someone so deeply, of longing for them with every fiber of your being, and knowing that reunion was impossible. No waiting, no hope. Only an eternal void.

The agony of missing someone so desperately, of having limitless power, and yet being powerless to hold on to the one person who mattered most.

And for an immortal, time stretched endlessly. An eternity of loss.

Six months, two weeks, and four days ago, she had made a promise. A vow that when the time came, she would let Agatha go. She would never seek her out again.

She had meant to honor that promise.

She just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

Six months should have felt like an instant—like a blink. But for the first time, time dragged. It stretched and clawed at her, pulling her deeper into pain.

A ghost. That’s what Agatha had become. Something that defied the natural order.

And now, impossibly, she was here. Face to face.

Agatha stood before her, wrapped in a robe—one of the many she loved to wear. Her hair was loose, still mussed from sleep. But something was different. A streak of white cut through the strands, stark against the dark. A price had been paid. For what?

Still, it was her eyes that held Rio captive.

Shock. Recognition. A promise, shattered.

Rio braced herself for the familiar look—the hatred, the resentment. She had seen it so many times before.

But it never came.

Instead, there was something else. Something deeper.

Longing.

And for a fleeting moment, Rio knew—Agatha had felt it too. The absence. The ache. The touch that had once been familiar. But this time, there was no Darkhold to shield her, no ancient magic to smother the longing in her soul. This time, she had to feel it.

But as quickly as it appeared, the moment vanished.

Agatha’s gaze steeled. The mask slid into place.

Rio exhaled slowly, tilting her head, the edge of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Hello, Agatha," she said, voice smooth, sunglasses masking her eyes.

Not just Agatha. Her Agatha.

It didn’t matter that she was staring at her with that same guarded look, the one that had barely wavered for centuries.

She was here. Alive.

And even the coldest gaze was better than no gaze at all.

Agatha’s fingers twitched at her sides, subtle but telling. The way she shifted her weight. The way she braced herself, like she was preparing for battle—not just with Rio, but with herself.

Rio took in every detail, every breath, every tiny movement.

Her Agatha. Alive.

"What do you want?" The words came quickly, but Agatha’s voice was unsteady, nearly breathless—like she had to recover from the sheer impact of seeing Rio standing there.

Rio’s smile, once subtle, stretched wider, unstoppable now. She could feel it, the way it tugged at the corners of her lips, impossible to suppress. Her grin twitched wider. Oh, Agatha was trying to sound sharp, cold, indifferent. But Rio caught it. The way her eyes lingered just a fraction too long, the way her breath hitched before she spoke.

She knew.

"It’s good to see you."

A pause. A breat..

"Alive."

Her voice was almost light, teasing, but there was something softer underneath She stood there, hands in her pockets, rocking back slightly on her heels.

It came out softer than she intended, something real slipping through the cracks. And for just a second—one fleeting moment—she thought she saw something flicker in Agatha’s expression.

Relief.

But it was gone before she could hold onto it.

Like Agatha, Rio’s voice almost faltered, barely more than a sigh. But she held her ground, her expression fixed, waiting—bracing—for the inevitable attack.

"You promised."

Ah, there it was.

Agatha’s voice hardened, shifting from disbelief to something sharper, edged with anger, but Rio caught what lay beneath it. She squared her shoulders, trying—desperately—to reassemble the mask that had slipped.

“You promised you’d stay away. That you wouldn’t come after me."

The accusation cut through the air, but there was something else beneath it. Disappointment. And Rio knew better than anyone—it wasn’t just about breaking the promise. It was about the fact that it had taken six months to do it.

Rio’s smirk twitched, the urge to tease nearly overpowering. You really thought I’d stay away? she almost said, but the words remained unspoken.

She was already pushing it.

The words should’ve stung, but Rio was too busy soaking her in.

Still dramatic. Still beautiful. Still mine.

Her grin twitched, her amusement briefly winning out.

"I did promise that, didn’t I?" she mused, tilting her head as if just remembering.

That did nothing to ease Agatha’s glare.

And for the first time in six months, two weeks, and four days, Rio felt good.

She might’ve stayed like that, just existing in this moment, but Agatha’s attention flicked past her, landing on America.

Rio’s smile dimmed. As much as she wanted to bask in Agatha’s presence, to soak in the reality of seeing her again, she had to stay focused. There was a reason she was here.

"And who’s this?" she asked, gesturing toward America. The shift in focus was deliberate, but Rio caught the subtle easing of her stance, the way her hands relaxed now that she deemed the girl no immediate threat.

For a brief moment, Rio had almost forgotten about America. Seeing Agatha again had swallowed her whole, making the world around them fade. Agatha had that effect on her—pulling her into a world where only the two of them existed. But now tension coiled inside her, anticipating Agatha’s reaction. She never took well to reminders of their past.

America, completely unfazed, grinned.

"I’m America. America Chavez," she said, grinning as she extended a hand, far too casual for someone introducing herself to Agatha Harkness. "Nice to meet you."

Oh. Oh, this was going to be good.

Rio’s smirk deepened, eyes flicking between them, already anticipating Agatha’s reaction.

Agatha stared at the outstretched hand like it had personally insulted her, then lifted her gaze to America’s face, unimpressed.

"A continent," Agatha deadpanned. "Cute. Agatha Harkness. Hope your trip here was short—preferably as short as your return."

Then, without another word, she took a step back, preparing to shut the door.

Rio caught it at the last second, pressing her palm against the wood, her smirk still firmly in place.

Agatha arched a brow, and there it was—just for a second, that look, the one that meant she was enjoying this just as much as Rio was.

The relief.

The happiness.

But Agatha was quick, too quick, to masking it.

"Well, well," Agatha drawled, amusement flickering in her expression. "She does know what a door is. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to knock." Rio dropped her head slightly, a quiet chuckle slipping past her lips.

Rio huffed out a laugh, ducking her head slightly. Oh, she missed this.

"Believe me, I wish I had time for this,” she said, voice warm, “but we don’t. And I think you might be—"

Agatha cut her off with a sharp, humorless laugh.

"And here I thought you had all the time in the world," Agatha cut in, her laugh dripping with sarcasm. "My mistake."

America’s gaze darted between them, clearly missing the weight of the exchange.

Rio, on the other hand, was thrilled.

She could do this all day.

But then Agatha moved, really preparing to shut the door this time, and Rio—finally—shifted.

Her smile softened, her voice dropping into something quieter.

"Agatha," she said, and just like that, the game ended.

For now.

She moved toward Agatha, slow and deliberate, the space between them shrinking with every step. The air grew heavier, charged, thick with something unspoken.

And then—close. Too close.

Rio could smell her now. Azalea and rosemary. Familiar. Unchanged.

Agatha went still. Rigid. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door, knuckles white. She wasn’t breathing. Or rather, she was, but barely—like if she inhaled too deeply, she’d drown in Rio’s presence.

Rio saw it all.

The way Agatha’s pupils dilated, dark pools widening as her nostrils flared, as if her body betrayed her, pulling in more of her. The way her throat bobbed, struggling against the weight of the moment.

And then—the slip. The smallest flick of her tongue across her lips. A swallow, thick and heavy.

The movement hit Rio like a spark to kindling.

She could taste the history between them, woven through every sharp breath, every restrained motion.

She had missed this.

But just as quickly, the moment twisted—shifting from aching desire to the weight of why she was here.

Rio exhaled, a small shake of her head pulling her back, pulling her focus.

Her gaze locked onto Agatha’s.

"Recently… or at least in the last few months, since you—"

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. The truth too heavy, too raw.

Since you stopped being a ghost.

Something flickered in Agatha’s eyes. Recognition. Like she had known exactly what Rio was going to say before she even said it.

Rio’s chest tightened. She closed her eyes, bracing herself.

"Since you came back—" another pause, another hesitation, "—in the last few months or weeks… have you tried to get in?"

Silence.

Then—Agatha’s brows pulled together. Confusion. Processing. Understanding.

And then—shock.

A breath. A heartbeat.

Offense.

Rio watched as emotions flickered across Agatha’s face, shifting too fast to contain, like an open book she didn’t want to be read. Shock, comprehension, disbelief—then anger, sharp and searing. She looked at Rio as if the question had struck her like a physical blow. And the worst part?

Rio hadn’t even considered it. Not really. The thought that Agatha—who had spent centuries clawing her way out—would ever willingly try to return?

It didn’t make sense.

Not anymore.

The Velum was no longer a part of who she was, no longer a part of what they were. And above all else, because of him—the one Agatha had spent lifetimes avoiding. The one she still feared facing.

Only Agatha could enter, aside from Rio. Or, at the very least, she was the only one who could manipulate its threshold, allowing passage without Rio knowing or sensing it. But Rio hadn’t felt her presence there in centuries, and it wasn’t because Agatha had suddenly grown respectful of Death—no, it was because she refused to risk him.

Because he was there.

But America had gotten in. Impossible or not, she had done it. And somehow, Rio hadn’t felt it.

That was what unsettled her the most.

A coincidence? Maybe. But Rio didn’t believe in coincidences. And Agatha?

Agatha was seething.

Her eyes burned with something raw, something broken. A wound ripped open, bleeding fresh.

"I. Want. You. To. Go. Away. Now!"

They locked eyes, the silence between them humming with tension. The words were sharp, precise, punctuated with venom. But her voice—oh, her voice—wavered at the edges.

Rio didn’t move.

Neither did Agatha.

They stood there, locked in a silent battle, neither willing to be the first to break.

A game they had played for centuries.

But this time, it wasn’t just a battle of will.

It was something more.

It was need.

It was longing.

It was the impossible gravity of two forces that could never truly repel each other.
No matter how much Agatha tried.

“HOW CUTE.”

America’s voice shattered the heavy silence, snapping both Rio and Agatha out of their stare. Agatha blinked, turning away first, her gaze shifting toward America—only to realize the girl wasn't looking at them at all.

Her attention was fixed on the floor.

Agatha followed her line of sight, just as Rio did, and found herself face to face with a small, familiar creature. A ball of white fur, its round crimson eyes locked onto Rio, filled with expectation.

Rio’s face lit up instantly.

“Señor,” she breathed, her voice rich with delight as she bent down, scooping the rabbit into her arms with practiced ease. She knelt, cradling him against her leg, her fingers stroking over his soft head.

Señor Scratchy closed his eyes in pure contentment, basking in the affection he had seemingly been waiting for since the moment the door opened. Agatha watched, her expression unreadable, but something flickered in her gaze—something quieter, something almost painful. It had been so long since she’d seen this.

"I know, I know," Rio murmured, her tone playful as if indulging in a conversation only she could hear. She glanced up at Agatha then, amusement gleaming in her brown eyes, mischief curling at the edges of her mouth. "I know how crazy she can act sometimes."

Agatha's lips pressed into a thin line as she watched the two of them—her ex-lover and her demon rabbit—conspire against her, as they had so effortlessly done before.

"Yes, yes, she'll get revenge," Rio continued, a teasing lilt in her voice, her fingers still stroking over the rabbit's fur. "It would be wise if you stayed out of sight for a few days. You know how she is."

Señor Scratchy nestled closer, pressing his small head beneath Rio’s chin as if in silent agreement.

Rio chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. "I missed you too," she purred, the words barely more than a whisper.

Agatha swallowed hard, watching them. There was something different in her eyes now—something nostalgic. As if for just a moment, she had been pulled back to another time, another life, when things had been simpler. When love had been something she allowed herself to hold.

Rio let the rabbit go, placing him back on the ground. Señor Scratch wasted no time darting into the house, already searching for the perfect place to hide.

Agatha’s eyes followed him, her expression shuttered.

“Traitor,” she muttered. “Running straight to the lunatic, I see.”

“Can witches talk to animals?” America blurted out, eyes bright with fascination. “That was amazing. Is it possible to learn?”

Agatha exhaled through her nose, arms crossing. "He's a demon," she answered flatly, gaze still fixed on the space where Señor Scratch had disappeared.

America froze, her excitement faltering. “Wait—what?”

“Well, not exactly a demon,” Rio interjected, ever the amused scholar. “He's purged.”

America looked between them, clearly still lost. “Purged?”

Agatha waved a dismissive hand. “Semantics.” Then she arched a brow at Rio, eyes glittering with something sharp. “You always did love that comparison—the Purged are like fallen angels, you’d say. Expelled souls, cast from the lower levels of Vorago but somehow lingering here.”

“It’s not that simple to classify,” Rio countered, palms up, as if presenting a case. “I can walk through all levels and still be here.”

Agatha’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Like I said—" she tilted her head, mockery dancing in her gaze— “Demon.”

Rio smiled, looking down. Again.

She had missed this. The verbal sparring, the subtle digs, the constant pull between them. This endless, unspoken game of push and pull—how good they were at it, how much they had once reveled in it. And judging by the glint in Agatha’s eyes, she felt it too. The familiarity. The absence.

America’s voice cut through the thick air between them.

“That cute thing that looked like a bunny… is a demon?”

She whispered the question, her voice a mix of fear and curiosity, eyes darting toward the house as if reconsidering whether stepping inside was a terrible idea. For a brief moment, America’s uncertainty was written all over her face—blissfully unaware of the charged stare still lingering between Rio and Agatha.

"No!" Rio answered.

"Yes," Agatha countered at the same time.

Rio shot her a look, but Agatha only smirked, enjoying the way she had thrown her off balance.

America hesitated, then nodded, taking a small step back. “Okay… noted. Be wary of adorable things that are actually demons and can talk to witches.”

Then, turning her attention to Agatha, she asked with genuine curiosity, “What about you? What’s your power? Rio was very insistent that we needed to come here. She also said you wouldn’t like seeing us, which I could already tell.”

She gestured around as she spoke, attempting to soften the tension with a light smile.

Agatha’s gaze slowly shifted to her, sharp and piercing, one brow arched in a way that sent a chill down America’s spine. If looks could kill, she had no doubt she’d be dead.

America cleared her throat, realizing she might have said something wrong.

“Not that you did anything, you just… you don’t seem very happy. Or excited. Or maybe it’s just the time of day? I mean, we did get here kind of early, and not everyone likes waking up early—”

Her voice pitched higher, words tumbling out faster and faster as she tried to dig herself out of whatever hole she had just fallen into.

Rio gave her a slow, unimpressed look, brows raised as if America had just unknowingly chosen a side—and it wasn’t hers. America forced a weak smile in return, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Agatha ignored her now, turning back to Rio, her smirk gone, her expression unreadable.

“What do you want with her? And why did you bring her here?”

Rio tilted her chin toward the house. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll explain.” She moved as if to enter.

Agatha didn’t budge. She lifted her chin slightly, unyielding.

“I’ll ask one more time.”

A challenge.

Rio stared at her. Agatha never made things easy—or at least, not anymore. Not in the last few centuries. She had perfected the art of resistance, of forcing Rio into a confrontation, into a battle of wills, making her concede first under the illusion that Agatha would too—except she never did.

But not this time.

Rio couldn’t play that game now.

“For months, ever since—” She stopped, her gaze locking onto Agatha’s.

Agatha held her stare, unflinching. Daring her to continue.

Rio inhaled sharply. "Since you came back, the veil between the worlds has been weakening, as if something is tampering with it, trying to pierce through. At first, I thought it might be because of me, that because—"

She hesitated, realizing too late that she was stepping into dangerous territory. A place she couldn’t afford to go. Not now.

Agatha swallowed hard, the weight of Rio’s words striking a nerve she couldn’t quite hide. Her face remained composed, rigid, but her eyes betrayed her. A flicker of pain, fleeting yet undeniable.

"You didn’t like that I asked if you were getting in," Rio continued, voice unwavering. "But someone is. And you know as well as I do—that shouldn’t be possible. Not without my permission. Not without me making the journey."

She took a slow step forward, her intensity growing.

"At first, I thought someone was just trying to break through. But they’re not trying anymore, Agatha. They’ve succeeded. Somehow, they’re crossing the Velum. And worse?" Her voice dropped, laced with something darker. "They’re not just slipping through—they’ve learned how to open a portal. An entire portal. That should be impossible. No one should be able to do that. Except for you."

Rio's words hung in the air, heavy, unrelenting.

"You were the only one who could. Once."

Agatha flinched. The reaction was slight, but Rio caught it.

"I could," Agatha replied, her voice sharp with anger—no, with something deeper. Pain. "I could. Not anymore."

Rio’s eyes closed, as if the admission had struck her like a physical blow.

Agatha turned away, jaw tightening. This conversation was tearing through her defenses, and she refused to let it show. Instead, she glanced at America—expression shifting, putting together the pieces.

"Was it her?" Her voice was calmer now, eerily so. "The portal?"

America suddenly felt both of their eyes on her, pinning her in place. A strange, unfamiliar feeling of exposure.

"Yes," Rio answered. “And she had no idea. She must have been used as a conduit, maybe a vessel, but that alone shouldn’t have been enough to break through. Not there. And I didn’t open it. So if you’re telling me it wasn’t you…"

Rio’s voice dropped lower, charged with something unreadable. "Then either one of us is lying, or someone is tampering with forces neither of us understand."

Agatha’s face hardened. In a single, deliberate movement, she stepped into Rio’s space, so close their foreheads nearly touched, their breath mingling in the charged air between them.

Her voice was ice. "I told you. Whatever it is, it’s not me. Don’t pin this on me just because you’ve lost control of your precious realm."

Rio didn’t move. If anything, she leaned in closer.

A flicker of amusement crossed America’s face, oblivious to the tension crackling between them.

"Ohhh, you didn’t see her take down the Elysians. They looked like fireworks!" She clapped her hands together, mimicking an explosion.

"Elydians," Rio corrected through gritted teeth, rolling her eyes before refocusing on Agatha.

But Agatha didn’t back away.

She never backed away.

Rio closed the distance further, her breath brushing against Agatha’s skin.

"If someone is breaking through," Rio murmured, her voice rough with warning, "even on the lower levels… it won’t be long before they can reach the others. Any of them. Even the highest one."

Agatha stilled. The weight of those words pressed down on her. She understood the message beneath them, the unspoken fear laced in Rio’s tone.

"He can…" she started.

"He’s fine. Safe." But Rio’s voice was tight, uncertain. "For now."

Something was very, very wrong.

Agatha exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay composed. "I thought the Elydians didn’t show up anymore. At least, that’s what you told me."

"Like I said," Rio replied, "something is wrong. And whether you want to accept it or not, it might be tied to you."

A beat of silence.

Rio hesitated, just for a moment—just long enough to gather the courage for what she had to ask next.

"The key. I never asked for it back, and you never seemed eager to return it, either." Rio’s voice was steady, but her eyes sharpened, watching Agatha carefully. "Where is it?"

She expected anger. Expected impatience, a sharp remark, or a cutting glare.

What she didn’t expect—what threw her off entirely—was resentment.

Agatha let out a bitter, humorless laugh, venom curling around the edges of it. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and walked inside.

"If that’s all you came for, don’t worry. I can solve it quickly." The words were cold. Detached. A blade slicing through the space between them.

Then she was gone.

"RIO! Don’t leave me here alone!" America called out, panic laced in her voice. She hesitated, then hurried after them, her gaze darting around as if something might leap out at her.

Agatha moved with purpose, heading toward the staircase. One hand on the railing, her back to them, ready to ascend. But then—she stopped.

She stilled.

Seconds passed.

Her breathing grew uneven, her shoulders tightening as though her body had just absorbed a terrible truth.

Then, slowly, so slowly, she turned back around.

Her gaze was lowered, her brows furrowed in something unreadable. Rio took a cautious step forward, waiting.

Agatha lifted her head, locking eyes with her. And for the first time in centuries, she looked… shaken.

"I don’t remember."

The words came out as a whisper, an exhale of disbelief.

She blinked, confusion deepening in the lines of her face. Then, again—stronger this time, like she needed to convince herself. "I don’t remember."

She looked down at her own hands, palms open, as if expecting the artifact to appear there, as if willing it into existence. When nothing happened, her fingers curled into fists. Her thumb brushed absently over the base of her ring finger, searching for the last memory of it.

Her breath hitched. She lifted her gaze to Rio, fear now unmistakably carved into her features.

"It’s like I suddenly know it’s not with me, but I don’t know where. Or when I lost it. Or who I left it with."

A pause. A sharp inhale.

"Rio…" Her voice broke, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "The key—it's not with me. It’s not. It’s not with me."

She repeated the words, over and over, as though saying them enough times would make them real.

Rio stared at her, unblinking. Unmoving.

Because this—this wasn’t just a lost object. This wasn’t just Agatha misplacing something in the centuries of her absence.

No one entered or left the Velum without Death. Without her. It had always been that way.

Until Agatha.

Agatha, who had once been part of her.

When Agatha became intertwined with Rio, in the most human and the most impossible ways, the underworld were no longer just Rio’s dominion. They belonged to Agatha, too. As much hers as Rio was hers. A constant open door, for them and through them. A bond forged in something beyond magic, beyond time.

A pact.

And through that pact, they belonged to each other. In life. In death. Or to Death itself.

There had never been a boundary between them—only the flow of souls, the tether of something neither the mortal nor immortal world could define.

If the underworld were part of Rio, then Agatha’s possession of the key had made her part of it, too. A thread woven into the very fabric of the Green Witch—of Death.

And Rio… was part of her.

But then Agatha left.

She left, in a desperate attempt to save Nicky, and she took the key with her. And Rio—Rio never asked for it back.

Maybe, deep down, a part of her believed it was Agatha’s way of saying she would return. That it was only a matter of time.

But time passed.

Years turned to decades. Decades into centuries.

And Agatha never came back.

Never again.

And yet, Rio had never asked for the key back.

Nicky had been there—who better to safeguard the one thing that could open the door to him? Or so Rio had believed.

But now, the artifact that held the power to breach the underworld was gone.

And worse—Rio had no idea how long it had been missing. Or who—or what—had it now.

Chapter Text

“NO. No way!”

Agatha’s voice rang out as she stumbled backward, putting as much distance between herself and Rio as possible.

They had been at an impasse since the moment they realized someone had
tampered with Agatha’s memory. And now, Rio wanted to help—wanted to go in, rummage through the fragments of her mind, and pull out whatever had been buried, no matter how deeply.

She had done it before. When Agatha was ensnared in Wanda’s spell, trapped like Agnes.

But that was different.

That time, Agatha didn’t know what was happening to her. She was lost in her own mind, powerless. Without choice. Without control. And she would never—never—let anyone invade her mind again.

Least of all, Rio.

"Agatha…" Rio spoke her name with measured patience, bracing for a battle she knew she would likely lose. "Do you understand what this could mean? If someone really took your key, that same person might have been the one who made you forget. They could be holding it right now."

She moved in carefully, step by step, eyes locked on Agatha’s. For decades—no, centuries—Rio had always been the one to give in. It was as if Agatha knew exactly how to bend her, how to break her. The precise words. The perfect timing. And every time, there was a moment where Rio finally yielded.

But Death wasn’t just Rio.

Death was the keeper, the protector, the guardian of the Vorago and all who dwelled within them. Death could not be deceived. Death did not negotiate—not forever. Even Agatha had learned that the hard way.

"I already said no!" Agatha’s voice wavered now, anger slipping into something more fragile.

Rio’s expression remained steady. "Do you understand the risk this poses to everyone? To you? I wouldn’t dig. I wouldn’t touch anything. I’d only try to find traces of a memory—if there’s anything left at all. For all we know, it’s been completely erased."

Agatha’s glare flickered—rage replaced by something rawer. Fear.

Three years of Wanda’s mind control had left scars, ones that still bled beneath the surface.

"If you try," Agatha ground out, voice razor-sharp with barely restrained fury, "I swear on everything that—"

"Wouldn’t it be easier to just… try to remember?"

America’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade, making both of them snap their heads in her direction.

As if remembering, once again, that she was there.

"I mean," America continued hesitantly, "if it really is hidden, doesn’t the mind itself want to free it? Or… the memory, in this case. Wouldn’t it be better to help her remember, instead of forcing it?"

What America didn’t realize was that Agatha’s greatest fear wasn’t the idea of someone forcing her to remember.

It was the possibility that deep down—

She didn’t want to.

Agatha had learned in Salem how to protect her mind from unwanted intrusions. But it wasn’t until she met Rio—who could slip into minds as easily as an entity passing through a veil—that her defenses became nearly impenetrable. Rio could break through, if she wanted to, but there had always been a mutual respect, an unspoken boundary.

The Scarlet Witch, however, owed her no such courtesy. Especially after what Agatha had tried to take from her.

Agatha was about to respond when a voice rang out from the entrance of the house.

“Agatha?”

Billy.

Since her death—and her subsequent return—Agatha had met with Billy often, guiding him through the complexities of witchcraft, spells, and the tangled history of their kind.

She felt Rio’s eyes flick toward the doorway, the sharp gaze of a predator sensing fresh prey. Agatha answered quickly, letting Billy know where she was before Rio could make his presence known.

“I’m here. Near the stairs.”

Footsteps followed.

“You won’t believe it. For a second, I thought I heard the voice of your psychotic ex—”

Billy stopped mid-sentence, stepping into the room and locking eyes with Rio. His expression froze in open shock.

Rio, on the other hand, took him in with a slow, assessing stare—predatory amusement flickering in her eyes, lips curling slightly at the edges, just shy of a smirk.

Then she spoke, voice laced with irony. And threat.

“This psychotic ex?”

Billy didn’t move, glancing between Agatha and Rio as if silently pleading for help.

Agatha only arched a brow at him, her expression making it clear: You got yourself into this mess. You get yourself out.

“Aaaaah… hi… Rio,” Billy finally managed, his voice an octave higher than usual. “It’s been a while since we saw each other. Since the death of…”

He trailed off, realizing too late that he had stepped into dangerous territory. Rio’s gaze sharpened, her brow arching in challenge, in curiosity, waiting to see how he would finish that sentence.

Agatha exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, for the love of—just shut up.” She waved a dismissive hand. “There’s that disgusting sour thing in the fridge. Full of strawberries. Go eat it.”

Billy hesitated, eyes flicking back to Rio, standing stock-still as if by sheer willpower he could become invisible.

Ever since Agatha had returned—her months as a ghost, then her resurrection—he had wondered when Rio would show up. Their deal had been bound to Agatha’s death, which made sense when she was a spirit. But when she came back?

Rio should have felt it. Known.

Yet, she hadn’t come.

Not until now.

And not alone.

And the person beside her—whoever they were—seemed very much alive. And very normal.

Which, in Billy’s experience, meant they were probably anything but.

America grinned, raising her hand. “I like horrible sour things filled with strawberries.”

Billy turned to her—until now, his full attention had been consumed by Rio and the pressing concern of escaping with his soul intact.

America watched as his gaze flicked over her, assessing. Did she look normal? Alive? What was a girl doing hanging around with Death? Did he even want to know?

She extended a hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm America.* A bright, open smile. "Seems like we’ve crashed into Rio’s world, and somehow, I’m getting blamed even though I don’t even know wh—”

She caught Rio’s expression mid-sentence: sharp, serious, the kind of look that promised swift consequences if she kept talking. America cleared her throat. “I mean… we came to visit a friend.”

She turned toward Agatha for support, but Agatha only stared back at her, unimpressed, her lips pressing into a thin, patience-wearing-thin line.

“And eating things filled with strawberries?” Billy quipped, exhaling as if trying to ease the tension. His smile was casual, but his eyes held caution.

America shrugged. “Hey, any excuse for free food.” Then, as if shaking off the moment, she smiled wider. “Nice to meet you, Billy!”

Billy returned the gesture, waving. “Nice jacket. I tried to customize one once, but it didn’t turn out great.”

America beamed at the compliment, gripping the lapel of her own. “Thanks! I didn’t make this one, but I’ve got others I’ve modified.”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a glance. Immediate regret.

Introducing them had been a mistake.

“Okay, enough!” Agatha shut her eyes, done with the distraction. “Billy, take Australia with you to the kitchen to—”

“America,” she corrected with a teasing smile, fully aware of what she was doing.

Rio watched in silence, amusement flickering in her gaze at Agatha’s growing irritation.

Agatha clenched her fists, biting the corner of her mouth before forcing a strained smile. “Like I said. America.” Her voice was tight, barely controlled. Then she clapped her hands, her expression instantly turning cold. “Now go. Go.”

Taking the hint, America and Billy disappeared toward the kitchen, escaping while they still could.

Agatha exhaled, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, mentally bracing for the conversation ahead.

“Before you start, I’m telling you now—I’m not letting you in. So I hope you’ve got another idea for something you’re not even sure happened because of the artifact.”

A lie.

She knew. Rio knew.

Whatever had gotten through, allowing the girl passage into the Velum, had done so using the key. And now, they knew for certain Agatha no longer had it.

But how? How had she lost it without even realizing? Without remembering?

That was what truly terrified her. Not just that someone had the key.

But that they had taken it. And made her forget.

She had kept it for decades, even after Nicky, even after she swore she never wanted to see Rio again. Even in the centuries that followed—through every deception, every witch who had begged her for guidance, only to meet a cruel fate—Agatha had held onto it.

Even when she and Rio met again. Again. And again. Each time drawn together, colliding, parting, the key remained with her.

Had she lost it before the Darkhold? Or after?

Agatha couldn’t place it in the timeline. It was as if the key had always been there—until now, when she realized she couldn't remember the last time she had it. When had she last held it? Where had she been? Who had been with her?

Rio had never asked for it back. And she had never offered.

It was the only tangible proof that everything she had lived had been real—before it soured into hatred, rejection, and pain. It was hers. Even if she never used it again, it remained hidden, tucked away like the memories it carried. The ones she refused to revisit.

She drifted deeper, further into her mind, searching for an answer, for anything that could explain how this had happened.

"Don't pretend you don’t understand."

Rio’s voice cut through the fog, pulling her back to the present.

"It was the perfect situation—not only did they steal the only thing that could allow someone to enter without my permission, but they did it without you even realizing."

Rio studied her, waiting. For a flicker of realization. A lost memory surfacing. A sign that Agatha—who never gave in—just might.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.

"I really don’t know. I don’t know how I lost it. Or when. But if it was hidden from me—if something is stopping me from thinking about it, stopping me from even considering the key—" She hesitated. "I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense."

"Do you remember if it was before it?" Rio’s voice softened, but the weight of the question was anything but. "Before the Darkhold?"

The Darkhold.

Until nearly four years ago, it had belonged to her—consuming her just as much as she consumed it. Every page of dark magic, every spell, every sacrifice. Had she lost the artifact before she claimed it? Or had she still possessed it while drowning in the Darkhold’s power?

Could that have been it?

Had she given up so much of herself that she lost the key without even realizing it?

"Agatha!"

Rio’s voice was sharper now, filled with something almost like… concern. As if she could see her unraveling, spiraling, lost in thoughts when there were far more pressing, dangerous matters at hand.

But what could she say? That she had no answers? That none of it made sense?

She couldn’t even remember the last time she saw the key.

Rio must have sensed it first, because she stepped forward, her voice steady but urgent. "You may not want me inside, but then give me an alternative. I need to understand what’s going on. If someone has buried something in your mind—if they know who’s crossing into the Velum—I have to know."

"You may not want me inside, but then give me an alternative. I need to understand what’s happening. If someone has buried something in your mind—if they know who’s crossing into the Velum—I have to know."

Agatha opened her mouth to respond, but the words never came.

The room shifted.

A sound filled the air—low at first, then rising. A slow crackling, dry and brittle, like fire licking at old wood.

The walls groaned.

The ceiling above them swelled with the sound, pressing down on her, reverberating in her skull. The heat was phantom, but she could feel it, smell it. A thick, suffocating burn in her lungs.

The room twisted with the sound of burning wood, the crackling growing louder, more insistent, like a fire feeding on something unseen. Agatha’s breath hitched as the scent of smoke curled into her lungs, thick and suffocating. She looked up, around, searching for flames, for the source of the sound, but the walls remained untouched—only the air burned.

Then came the voices.

A whisper slithered through the space.

"Arya, get out of here, get out, it’s taking everything."

“Arya?” Agatha whispered, confused.

Agatha’s breath hitched. Her pulse roared in her ears. The voice trembled with fear, desperation crackling through it like the fire that wasn’t there.

A voice—young, desperate, familiar.

"No! I’m not going without you!"

"Go, I’m right behind you! I’m coming right after you!"

The whispers escalated into panicked screams. Two women, their terror soaking into the walls.

Agatha staggered back, her chest tight, fear latching onto her like it was her own.

Screams, layered over one another, echoing through the house. Fear laced into every syllable, and Agatha felt it sink into her chest like claws. Her pulse pounded, the panic in their voices becoming her own, as if the fear itself was alive, feeding off her.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Rio… are you hearing this?"

She turned to her, expecting reassurance, some kind of answer. But the moment her eyes landed on Rio, the words died in her throat.

Rio stood unnaturally still.

As if something held her in place. Her hands were outstretched, fingers slightly curled, as if weaving unseen threads in the air. Her hair floated, weightless, the strands shifting like living shadows, wrapping around her like a veil spun from darkness itself. Her skin, always luminous in its unnatural way, now seemed otherworldly—an ethereal figure standing between the living and the dead.

Something else was here.

Her eyes—

Agatha’s breath turned to ice.

The irises had vanished, replaced by a depthless black, a yawning abyss, gleaming like polished obsidian. The light within them didn’t just reflect; it consumed. There was no warmth, no life, only void.

Her gaze was not human. It was empty. A doorway to something older, something without name.

Death looked back at her.

For a moment, Agatha could do nothing but stare. The air pressed down, thick with something ancient and watching, something that did not belong in this world. The voices shrieked around her, the burning filled the walls, and in front of her stood two versions of the same being—Rio Vidal, and Death.

"Rio…" she started, her voice fragile.

But before she could continue, Rio lifted a hand.

A command. A warning. A gesture of something caught between worlds.

Agatha hesitated but followed as Rio moved, gliding across the room. She walked as if in a trance, her breath slow, her body rigid.

The voices cut off.

The fire roared louder.

And then—

Silence.

Agatha stood frozen, the phantom heat vanishing, the air now unbearably cold. The walls were still. The floor solid beneath her feet.

Rio stopped in front of the far wall.

She stood motionless, body rigid, the lethal threads of power surrounding her recoiled, dissolving into nothingness.The darkness in her eyes flickered—then faded.

Her shoulders slackened, tension draining from her limbs.

When she turned to Agatha, her eyes were human again—deep brown, searching. But the fear was still there.

Something was wrong.

Agatha could see it, the way Rio’s lips parted slightly as if struggling to form the words. As if her mind was still clawing at something impossible.

Her voice came out low, barely above a whisper.

“Agatha… is there any chance, any possibility that…”

She hesitated, her throat working around the words, her courage flickering like a dying flame.

Billy’s voice cut through the silence.

"Is someone hiding something in your mind?"

Agatha turned sharply, only now realizing Billy was standing there, watching them with cautious eyes.

Rio exhaled, shoulders stiff.

They both looked at Billy—then back at each other.

"Is what possible?" Agatha’s own voice betrayed her, the pounding of her heart making the words sharp.

What had just happened?

What had Rio seen?

Rio remained silent, something unreadable passing through her expression.

“Rio,” Agatha’s patience cracked. “What did you see?”

Rio flinched slightly, still trying to piece it together.

“It’s like the veil between the planes is weakening,” she admitted. “But you heard it too. I just…”

She trailed off, looking away.

Agatha’s pulse quickened.

Rio was hiding something. Holding something back. There was more.

Billy frowned. “What happened?”

Agatha turned to him, then to America, both of them standing there—plates in hand. Each with a slice of strawberry cake.

As if the room hadn’t just swallowed them whole.

The sheer absurdity of their presence made the unbearable tension fracture just slightly, releasing her from its grasp.

Rio straightened, her gaze snapping to Billy.

“You didn’t hear anything?”

Billy shook his head. “Just about someone hiding something in Agatha’s mind.”

Agatha and Rio locked eyes again.

They were both searching.

Searching for an answer neither of them had.

"Is someone hiding something in your mind?", Billy’s voice cut in.

Agatha exhaled—only now realizing she’d been holding her breath. The two of them, their casual intrusion, somehow eased the unbearable tension between her and Rio.

“We don’t know,” Agatha said, hands moving restlessly, nerves creeping into her voice.

“Yes, we do.” Rio’s response was sharp, unwavering.

Billy hesitated. “Couldn't I go in? I mean, if the problem is that Rio—”

“NO!”

The response came in perfect unison, Agatha and Rio cutting him off before he could finish. The tension from what had just happened still clung to them, heavy and unshaken, as they struggled to refocus on the problem at hand.

Rio barely gave him time to react before continuing.

“Way too inexperienced. Last time, if I remember correctly, I ended up wading through a chatty old woman, two witches, the Salem heiresses, and a path made entirely of the toys in your room—like some oversized Lego nightmare. Oh, and a ghost. So, no. Absolutely not.”

Agatha rolled her eyes, seizing the shift in focus. “Weren’t you the one practically dying to claim some souls? You even got a bonus. Quit complaining.”

“Souls of what?” America interjected, looking completely lost.

Billy, unfazed, pressed forward, ignoring her confusion.

“I’ve been training. Now that I understand my power better, it’s easier to control. And it wouldn’t be the first time I entered Agatha’s mind. It’d actually be easier for me to try to find something.”

Silence.

Rio’s head snapped toward him, then toward Agatha, a single brow arched in sharp surprise.

“Ohhh, you’ve been inside already?” Rio’s voice was both intrigued and accusatory.

Agatha met Rio’s stare, unflinching. A silent challenge.

“When?”

The question was directed at Billy, but Rio’s gaze never left Agatha.

Billy blinked. “When… what?”

That was a mistake.

Rio turned to face him fully now, stance shifting, gaze dark and knowing.

“When did you enter her mind?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

She already knew—or at least had a damn good idea. Now she was waiting for confirmation.

Billy felt his throat tighten.

The last-minute hesitation. The way Agatha had nearly handed him over—only to change her mind in the final moment. The way she had turned her back, unmoving, and then suddenly walked toward Rio instead. A choice had been made. Something had been said.

Billy swallowed hard, realizing exactly where this conversation was heading.

“Why does it matter?” he asked, feigning nonchalance. “I thought you wanted to figure out what was erased from her mind. Isn’t that what’s important right now?”

He forced a smile. But Rio wasn’t buying it.

Her gaze sharpened, cutting through him like a blade.

“Be careful, Billy,” she warned, voice slow, deliberate—each syllable laced with something dangerous. “I let you walk that day. Don’t make me regret it.”

And then, as if sealing the deal, she turned to Agatha.

“And the answer is still no.”

Agatha repeated, this time speaking directly to Billy.

“Why does it have to be you two going in?”

America’s voice cut through the tension, as if she had just realized something obvious. She continued, her tone thoughtful:

“Again, wouldn’t it be easier for her to pull back whatever it is she’s not remembering? I mean, at least that sounds less invasive than someone digging around in her head.”

Billy shook his head. “We don’t even know if the memory is there to begin with. If someone wiped it clean, leaving no trace, then there’s nothing to retrieve. That would actually be the most logical move.”

Rio and Agatha exchanged a look. One that spoke volumes. One that made it clear they already knew the answer—and that was why they hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“That’s not how a memory banishment spell works,” Agatha explained. “If my memory had been completely removed, I wouldn’t remember anything—not even its existence. It would be an empty space, a total void. But that’s not what happened. I do remember the artifact. I just... don’t remember losing it.”

She trailed off, eyes flicking to Rio, an unspoken message passing between them.

The artifact wasn’t just an object. It was a bond. A memory. A history—one that, even after three centuries, remained very much alive.

For both of them.

“What she means,” Rio picked up, breaking eye contact with Agatha and turning to Billy and America, “is that someone created a hiding place inside another. Not only did they make sure she wouldn’t remember what happened, but they made sure she wouldn’t even miss the memory. Whoever did this didn’t just tamper with her mind—they tampered with her emotions, blocking both the memory and the feeling of its absence.”

Agatha’s discomfort grew with every word. Confusion, unease—

And anger. Once again, she was losing control.

And once again, it was because of something connected to Rio.

Something that had been given by Rio.

Billy frowned. “But why would they go to all that trouble? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just erase everything?”

“Exactly!” Rio exclaimed, pointing at him. “It doesn’t make sense. A full wipe would’ve been simpler. Safer, even. Why risk leaving any trace? Why erase the loss—but not the memories leading up to it? Why make her forget she forgot—but not everything else?”

Agatha’s stomach twisted.

Someone had been inside her mind.

And this time, she didn’t even remember when.

America wasn’t wrong. Instead of someone going in to take something, to search for whatever was hidden—

Maybe she needed to remember.

Maybe she had to pull it back.

Before it was too late.

“Agatha.”

But how was it possible that she had forgotten?

She remembered everything—every inch, every intricate detail of the key. The way it felt in her hand, the weight of it, the cool metal against her skin, the way it circled her finger like a silent promise. She remembered the day Rio had given it to her. The ritual. The meaning behind it. What they had meant to each other.

Even after all these years—despite her refusal to use the key or even carry it—she had kept it safe. She couldn't let it go. And yet... somehow, she had lost it.
And worse—she hadn’t even noticed.

“Agatha!”

Rio’s voice cut through the fog in her mind. At some point, she had drifted—lost in thought, spiraling into the void of a stolen memory. She felt a hand on her arm, a steadying presence pulling her back. Rio’s expression was cautious, concerned.

Her thumb brushed against her skin, a small, grounding gesture—one that told her she felt the tension radiating from her, that she knew how deeply this realization was unsettling her.

“Okay,” she answered quickly, as if snapping back to the present.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Rio’s hand was anchoring her, keeping her from slipping back into the abyss of her own mind. Then, carefully, she pulled away. Adjusting her sleeves, shifting her stance—small, subtle movements to disguise the retreat. She took a step to the side, away from her, as if needing the space to breathe.

“Maybe… maybe the path has to be reversed,” Agatha murmured, her voice exhaling the thought like a sigh. “But I don’t even know where to start. I can’t pinpoint the last time I remember having it. There’s no beginning, no thread to pull.”

A silence fell over them. A shared uncertainty.

“It feels more like a wound.”

America spoke quietly, watching Agatha with an understanding that felt almost too raw, too real.

“Like something was ripped out of you. Against your will.”

Agatha’s expression darkened.

She hated that.

Hated the implication. Hated that they suddenly seemed to pity her—poor Agatha, the woman who had lost a piece of her own mind. Who had something taken from her without ever realizing it.

“Whatever it is, it won’t be solved by invading my mind,” she muttered, her voice sharp.

“A wound,” Billy echoed suddenly, as if something had just clicked into place. “That’s exactly what it is.”

All eyes turned to him.

Waiting.

“When we were on the Witches Road” Billy began, “when I was attacked by Alice’s family curse—”

Agatha’s gaze flickered to Rio.

Her expression shifted.

“Alice’s family curse,” she repeated, slowly. Her voice carried an edge—an unmistakable note of accusation.

Rio met her stare without flinching.

“Yes, Agatha,” she said, dragging out her name like she had no idea why she was looking at her that way.

She arched a brow. “So we’re just calling it that now?”

The realization had come later—after the fact, when the pieces had finally fallen into place. Alice’s trial. The attack. That wasn’t some inherited curse.

And Rio knew it.

Rio, for her part, looked utterly unbothered. “I was curious,” she said, palms up in mock innocence. “And, if we’re being honest, I wasn’t the one hiding who he was.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes. “And apparently, I was right to hide it.”

Billy, caught between them, blinked.

Clearly confused.

And now, more than ever, it felt like the real conversation was happening beneath the surface—between two people who knew far more than they were saying aloud.

“Curious about…”

Billy’s expression shifted as realization struck. His eyes widened. "Wait—was it you?" He turned to Rio, the pieces clicking into place.

Even after everything—even after learning that he had unknowingly constructed the Witches Road—there were still things he hadn't figured out.

Rio and Agatha both turned to look at him. Rio, for her part, didn’t appear guilty in the slightest. If anything, she looked bored by the whole conversation.

"Well, you're alive, aren’t you?" she said casually. "Call it field research, if you prefer.”

Billy froze, staring at her in disbelief.

"You almost killed me!" His voice rose with outrage.

Rio smirked. "Unfortunately, I only almost got there. You did an impressive job with the dead witches, though—kept me busy for a while."

Her tone was light, almost amused, but Billy caught the sharp edge beneath her words. The unspoken reminder: the deaths he had unknowingly caused. The ones that had been part of an elaborate deception.

America, watching the exchange, glanced between them, confused.

"You guys really have tried to kill each other a few times, huh?" she mused with a laugh—before abruptly stopping when all three turned to look at her. "I mean—figuratively. I think."

The air grew heavier. The tension thickened.

And Agatha did not need a fight in her house right now.

Especially not after just discovering that someone had infiltrated her mind. Worse, she knew exactly how a fight involving Rio would end.

"Alright, everyone with their long lists of murders—moving on," Agatha interjected, swiftly redirecting the conversation. She turned to Billy, nodding in his direction. "You were saying something. About a wound?"

She gestured with her hands, encouraging him to pick up where he had left off.

Billy was still glaring at Rio—anger warring with the very real fear of what provoking her might lead to. He swallowed hard, pushing down his pride.

"Like I said," he began, his voice tighter now, "when I almost died on the Witches’ Road—"

He really emphasized almost, shooting a pointed look at Rio.

Rio, predictably, burst into laughter.

"Oh, what a crybaby," she teased, her laughter echoing through the room.

Agatha shot her a sharp look.

Rio sighed, relenting. "Alright, alright—I'll let him finish."

Billy refocused on Agatha.

"My wound, back on the Road—it was healed by Jennifer." His tone shifted now, filled with hope, as if he had finally found a real solution.

Agatha immediately shook her head.

Billy pressed on.

"You yourself said that maybe you could try the opposite approach—pulling the memory back instead of forcing it out. And if it really is like a wound, something hidden, then maybe Jen knows how to heal it. She saved me without her powers. Now that she has them back, maybe she can help you recover the memory. Maybe she can find out where the key is."

Agatha kept shaking her head.

"Even if this could work, she would never agree to help." Her voice was firm, certain. "Not after finding out that I’m the one who cast the spell that imprisoned her power."

“Oh, the spell on her was you?”

Rio’s voice carried a mix of surprise and admiration. “I’m not shocked—I even suspected it. Just didn’t put much thought into it.”

Agatha shrugged, absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair. “Yeah, it was actually pretty simple. Not to brag, but I didn’t even know it was meant for her. And honestly? Not sure if it would’ve made much of a difference if I had.”

She let out a small sigh, remembering that casting the spell had cost her a good chunk of her hair.

Annoying.

Rio smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I did enjoy your little speech to the doctors at the sanatorium. That was entertaining. Especially when they turned on each other and—well, you know. The aftermath. That look of fear before they tore themselves apart?”

Her grin widened. “Delicious.”

Agatha laughed, a dark, satisfied sound. “Oh, yes. Good times. Watching them rot in the very places where they tortured so many of us? Exquisite. I really was always very good.”

“You were,” Rio murmured, voice velvety, something deeper laced beneath the words.

Agatha’s gaze sharpened, her eyebrow arching, as if daring her to elaborate. Rio held her stare, eyes filled with something weightier than admiration—something that glowed like a lingering ember, crackling with heat.

Billy and America exchanged glances.

Billy, in particular, had seen what happened when these two forgot they weren’t alone.

At this rate, they’d spend the next hour locked in some wordless tension while he—who, mind you, wasn't even the most invested party here—stood around waiting.

“We’re still here! Please!” he snapped.

Both witches turned their gazes toward him, not at all looking apologetic.

Rio exhaled, dragging her attention back to the matter at hand. “It could work. And if she doesn’t want to, I’ll convince her.”

Billy didn’t like the way she said convince. That tone promised coercion, not persuasion.

Agatha groaned. “Oh, perfect*,” she said, voice pitched high with exasperation. “All I need is for you to go threatening someone who already hates me while she’s supposed to be helping me heal something we don’t even know is actually broken.”

“Please—no threats,” Billy interjected before this spiraled further.

Rio waved a dismissive hand. “It wouldn’t be a threat. More like… encouragement. A little incentive.”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose.

Rio pressed on. “If we’re really doing this, I just need a few minutes to feel her out, and then I’ll take us to her. Quick and clean.”

She paused, then turned to Billy, flashing him an insincere smile.

“Except you. You can take your car.”

America, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up, grinning. “She is very good at convincing people. I saw how fast she was at the police departament.”

Agatha blinked, turning to Rio. “Police departament?”

Rio didn’t even hesitate. “Vorago business.”

As if that was supposed to make it sound less concerning.

“We still don’t know if she’ll even agree to help Agatha. Not after everything. And she still doesn’t know that the Witches Road was an invention.”

Billy paused, glancing at Agatha. She was absentmindedly toying with her hair, feigning indifference.

Agatha gave an awkward smile. “A minor detail she doesn’t need to know. Might be best to keep it that way.”

Billy sighed. “So I think it’s best if we all go together. I’ll drive, like you said, instead of, you know, leaving a cosmic passage in the middle of her house.”

“It doesn’t have to be in the house,” Rio interjected. “I could open it nearby—”

“We need Billy for this,” Agatha cut in, eyes locking onto Rio. “She won’t want to see us anyway.”

Billy looked to the side, remembering America was still standing there. “So, that’s it? We’re going? …Does she need to come?”

America opened her mouth to answer—

“No!” Agatha said.

“Yes!” Rio replied at the same time.

They turned to each other, Agatha’s glare sharp enough to cut.

“You’re the one who said she opened a portal without even realizing someone else had taken her there. And now you want her to accompany us? For all we know, whoever stole the artifact placed her there just to get to me.”

Rio met her gaze, unwavering. “She came with me. She’s going with me.”

America lifted a hand. “I wouldn’t mind waiting here. There’s still cake—”

Rio shot her a look that shut that thought down immediately.

America sighed. “I came with you. I’m going with you.”

“Great. Settled. Can we go now?” Rio asked Billy. “Where’s the wagon?”

“Right out front. Just need to stop for gas, then we’ll be on our way.”

Agatha clapped her hands, already pushing everyone toward the door. “Perfect. Let’s move.”

She grabbed her sunglasses from the entryway mirror, pausing to fix her hair. A smirk tugged at her lips.

“Magnificent.”

The others stared at her. She turned, raising an eyebrow.

“What? What are you all waiting for? Move!”

Rio was the first to step out, but she stopped under the doorframe. With her back still to them, she tilted her head slightly to the side.

“Adiós, Señor. Te extraño.”

The rabbit, who had been conspicuously absent until now, suddenly reappeared from behind the couch. America yelped, startled.

Señor Scratchy paused, staring at Rio.

A genuine smile spread across her face—warm, almost soft. It lacked the sharp edge of amusement or the underlying threat that most of her smiles carried lately. It was the kind Agatha remembered from before. A tightness wrapped around her chest, and she quickly looked away.

Rio’s expression shifted, her voice quiet but filled with something unspoken. “I know.”

The green witch lowered her head slightly, as if listening to a conversation no one else could hear. A faint, ghostly smile played on her lips—but it never quite reached her eyes.

Then, she turned fully, locking gazes with the rabbit.

“Él también.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

She glanced at Agatha for just a second before stepping outside toward the car.

“Te veo, Señor.”

He too.

Nicky.

Agatha swallowed hard, watching the silent exchange with a mix of grief and anger. Her chest tightened, tears threatening to rise. She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to regain control, to slip her mask back into place.

Señor Scratchy turned to look at her now.

His red eyes held something unsettlingly knowing.

And then, after a few more lingering seconds, he hopped away, disappearing behind the couch again.

“The worst betrayals always come from where we least expect them.”

Agatha exhaled, rubbing at her temple.

Señor Scratchy was happy.

It was good to see them together again, without a knife between them.

Chapter Text

From the little Rio and Jennifer had spoken on the Witches' Road, one thing had always been clear—Jennifer saw her as nothing more than Agatha’s deranged ex. And after the coven learned what Rio truly was, they never crossed paths again.

Now, though, things were different. Jennifer knew the full truth—knew that Rio was Death itself. That knowledge would likely make her more cautious, more restrained in her usual biting remarks. But from what Rio had observed of her, that restraint wouldn’t last long. The important thing was that, fear or not, Jennifer would help them access Agatha’s memories.

They pulled into a convenience store after Billy filled up the car. Inside, Rio wandered aimlessly between the aisles, waiting for the others to finish picking up what they wanted.

“Rio!” America’s voice cut in, pulling her attention. She stood at the cashier, a mountain of candy and snack bags in front of her, grinning like a kid in a toy store. She pointed at everything on the counter, then at Rio, mouthing the words, “Do your magic!”

Rio chuckled, stepping up beside her, her gaze flicking lazily to the cashier.

“Everything’s already paid for, right?” she said, her voice smooth, controlled.

The man behind the register hesitated, his eyes flickering with confusion—then they went blank. His expression relaxed into an easy smile.

“Yes, ma’am. Already paid for.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Billy groaned, stepping forward and shoving them both aside. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

Rio turned her head slowly, amusement glinting in her eyes. She looked back at the cashier, her lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Actually, I think I got confused,” she said lightly. “The purchase hasn’t been paid for yet. He’s the one responsible for covering it.”

She gestured to Billy.

He stared at her, exasperation written all over his face. With a long-suffering sigh, he reached for his wallet. Before he could hand over his card, Agatha appeared beside him, casually tapping two chocolate bars against the back of his hand.

“Add these too,” she said absently, her attention still on the sweets at the front of the store.

Billy shut his eyes, inhaling deeply as if summoning divine patience. Damn witches.

Turning back to the cashier, he forced a tight smile. “Just… put it all on credit.”

With the purchase finally settled, they left the store and headed toward the car.

Agatha and America walked in silence, contently chewing on their newly acquired snacks. Billy trailed ahead, muttering under his breath about how he was supposed to explain to his parents why every trip out with his “friends” from Westview mysteriously resulted in an absurdly high credit card bill.

They were crossing the gas station, heading toward the parked car, when Rio stopped abruptly.

Frozen in place, her body stiffened as her head turned, gaze locked on the gas pumps at the back of the station. A man stood there, absentmindedly filling his car—one hand gripping the nozzle, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers, thin tendrils of smoke curling into the air.

Anticipation slithered through her, coiling in her chest like a beast awakening. The air around her thickened, charged with something electric, something primal. Power surged at her fingertips, flooding through her, pressing against the fragile confines of her form. It wanted out. It needed out. As if her body was too small to contain everything she was when the moment demanded it.

For some, death came as a whisper, a gentle promise long foretold, its presence weaving into the fabric of their existence so that when it finally arrived, it was almost welcome. For others, it struck without warning—swift, merciless, severing dreams, ambitions, entire futures in a heartbeat, pulling them violently into her grasp.

And then there were moments like this.

Moments when she could hear the screaming of fate, deafening and relentless. When she could feel the weight of inevitability pressing in from all sides, an avalanche of souls teetering on the brink, ready to fall into her arms.

The anticipation was intoxicating. Dizzying.

Billy kept walking, completely oblivious. "Seriously, you need to stop making trouble and expecting me to pay for it."

"It's not my fault that the concept of money is abstract to an entity," Agatha quipped, rolling her eyes as she turned toward Rio—only to pause mid-step.

Rio was no longer walking.

She stood rooted to the spot, just a few meters behind them, unmoving.

Billy and America followed Agatha’s gaze, realizing at the same time that something was wrong.

"Rio!" Agatha called, her voice sharp.

Rio didn't move. She didn't react. She simply stood there, her back to them, her focus locked elsewhere—watching. Waiting.

Agatha followed her gaze.

The man.

The cigarette.

The gas.

Her stomach twisted.

No matter how much she had spent centuries refusing to accept it, blaming Rio for the cruel and indifferent nature of it all, Agatha knew how the passage between worlds worked.

Death didn’t take people. It only crossed those who came to it. And when they did—when the inevitable snapped shut around them—Death received them. And from that moment on, it protected them.

And now, here it was. Another crossing.

About to happen.

Slowly, Rio turned to face her.

Agatha’s breath caught.

That look. She knew it too well. The gleam in Rio’s eyes, the way her mouth quirked at the corners, barely restraining a smile. The raw, unfiltered expectation.

The look of Death.

Her chest constricted.

Rio’s lips curved into a wider smile.

"One minute. Two, at most," she murmured, her voice shifting—deeper, heavier, resonating with something otherworldly.

Agatha felt her pulse hammering against her ribs.

Shit.

"RUN!" she screamed.

Before Billy or America could even process what was happening, Agatha shoved them both toward the car, her voice frantic. "RUN!"

Billy and America stumbled, caught off guard.

America turned back, confusion etched across her face. "What? What’s happening? Why is she—"

She gestured toward Rio, whose expression had not changed. She remained perfectly still, bathed in eerie serenity, as if she belonged to a different world entirely.

America’s stomach twisted. "Shouldn’t she come too?"

Agatha whirled, eyes blazing with desperation.

Billy’s face went pale. Understanding clicked into place.

If it involved Death, then they had to leave.

"NOW!" Agatha roared, taking off at a sprint.

Billy didn’t hesitate. He ran.

America ran, heart hammering, still glancing over her shoulder.

Rio wasn’t following.

She remained in the middle of the gas station, unmoving, surveying the people around her with eerie calm—like a predator assessing the herd. A shiver ran down America’s spine. What the hell is she doing?

The three of them reached the car, gasping for breath.

"What was that?!" America demanded, fear lacing her voice. "Why did Rio stay behind? Is someone coming after us?"

"Just get in the car, NOW!" Agatha barked, throwing herself into the passenger seat.

Billy was already behind the wheel, fumbling to start the engine.

America hesitated for a fraction of a second before scrambling inside, slamming the door shut. She twisted in her seat, peering out the back window.

Rio had insisted she come with them. So why were they running away from her?

It didn’t make sense.

"She didn’t tell you, did she?" Billy asked, still panting as he gripped the wheel.

America turned to him, confused. "Tell me what?"

Billy didn’t answer. His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, muscles tensing.

Rio was still standing in the exact same spot.

Slowly, she reached for the sunglasses tucked into the neckline of her white shirt, unfolding them with deliberate ease. That damn smile played on her lips, as if she were about to take center stage at an event no one else had been invited to.

She slid the glasses onto her face, tilted her head slightly—then lifted a hand in their direction.

Not a goodbye.

A see you soon.

America barely had time to process the gesture before it hit her.

The air contracted.

For a split second, everything paused—a moment of absolute, unnatural silence.

Then—

Fire.

The world detonated.

A blinding explosion consumed the gas station, a wave of searing heat slamming against the car like a tidal wave. The roar of the blast drowned out everything else—any other sound that had existed before it was gone.

Flames devoured the station, swallowing it whole. The very place they had been standing less than five minutes ago was now an living hell.

America’s breath caught in her throat.

Her mind reeled, struggling to comprehend the sheer scale of the destruction. She could feel the heat, even through the rapidly retreating car, her skin prickling, the force of the blast making her ears ring.

Smoke. Screams. Car alarms wailing in the distance.

The world had become chaos.

For a brief moment, she thought she saw something through the flames—something in the exact spot Rio had stood. A silhouette, wreathed in green and black mist, untouched by the fire.

Her stomach dropped.

She blinked, trying to focus, but the car was speeding away, the vision swallowed by smoke and distance.

In the passenger seat, Agatha stared into the rearview mirror, hand pressed against her chest, mouth slightly open as she took in the destruction.

Then, after a beat—

"Well, we have to admit," she exhaled, "she does it in a very sexy way."

Billy shot her a quick, incredulous glance, his hands tightening on the wheel.

"She does—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply, throwing his hands up for a split second before gripping the wheel again. His voice was laced with resignation. "Forget it. I give up trying to understand you two."

America snapped.

"Am I the ONLY one who doesn’t understand how we just LEFT HER BACK THERE TO DIE—" her voice climbed higher, fraying at the edges, "—and you don’t seem the LEAST BIT CONCERNED ABOUT IT?!"

Agatha reached up, flipping down the car’s front mirror to check her reflection, casually smoothing her hair.

Through the mirror, her gaze met America’s.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of her lips.

"Oh, please." She clicked the mirror shut. "If only it were that easy to kill her."

She turned back toward the windshield, her tone almost amused.

"She’ll show up looking like she just walked out of a soul-spinning machine."

Billy glanced at America through the rearview mirror, his expression shifting.

For the first time, there was no sarcasm, no frustration—just understanding.

A quiet, knowing look.

"She really didn’t tell you," he murmured, almost to himself. His voice grew louder, tinged with dry amusement. "I get it. I’ve been there. They just… forget to mention that we’ve been casually hanging out with an entity that could rip our souls from our bodies and drag us to another plane at any moment."

He switched his gaze between the road, America, and Agatha, watching for a reaction.

The witch scoffed, turning to him with mock offense. "If I recall correctly," she said, narrowing her eyes, "it wasn’t us who spent hours trapping a bunch of retired witches in some bargain-bin nightmare world made out of dolls, flags, and those tacky-ass lights from your bedroom."

Billy shot her a deadpan look but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned back to America, offering a wry smile through the mirror.

"Welcome to the ‘I was walking with Death and didn’t know it’ club."

America blinked.

"Walking with who?"

Agatha exhaled sharply, losing patience.

"Death."

She turned fully in her seat, meeting America’s gaze head-on.

"Rio is Death."

America's breath hitched. Her entire body went still.

Her mind scrambled for meaning, for logic, for anything that made sense.

Her eyes widened, mouth opening—but no words came.

Then, finally—

"SHE IS WHAT?!"

She was Death.

And she loved being Death.

Only once had she ever resented her power. But even then—who she was, what she stood for, what she defended—it always satisfied her.

She had seen it countless times, the same story repeating like a broken record. In moments of tragedy, people rarely understood what had happened to them. At first, there was denial, a fleeting belief that they were still tethered to the world they had just left behind. The plans, the dreams, the people. They clung to these things like a lifeline, grasping for a reality that no longer belonged to them.

It always intrigued her.

Even the oldest souls, those who had lived decades upon decades, always spoke of what they could have done, what they should have done—loved harder, chased their dreams, cherished their time. And yet, while they had time, they squandered it. Pushed things to later. Promised themselves tomorrow.

Until there was no tomorrow.

Few went willingly. Fewer still without bargaining, without pleading. They swore they had wanted life so badly—but when they had it, they did so little with it.

Rio exhaled, looking around. The gas station still stood, but it had changed. The wreckage was dark now, shrouded beneath an unseen veil. The veil of the dead. The living world and this one occupied the same space, layered upon each other like two pages of the same book.

Fourteen souls.

She had already counted them.

They stood scattered, glancing between each other, then back to her.

The first to approach was a boy, no older than fifteen. He hesitated for only a moment before stepping away from the woman beside him—his mother, by the looks of their shared features. His eyes darted around, scanning the familiar yet warped remains of the station.

"Where are we?" he asked.

Where, why, when, how.

But never who are you?

The dead never asked. They knew. Even if they couldn’t yet accept it, even if their minds refused to process it, they recognized Death when they saw her.

Sometimes they would see her as a thief, a force that had stolen them from the world they believed was still theirs.

What they failed to understand was that the soul—not the body—was what kept them alive. That it was the soul that would be remembered. That it was the soul she would guide to another plane.

Even those who resisted felt it. The pull. The invisible force urging them forward, whispering that they no longer belonged to the world behind them.

The last few months had made her wary of this moment. More and more souls had been refusing to cross over, getting lost in the lower levels, clinging to a fate that no longer existed.

As if the world tilted off balance the moment it slipped from her control.

Rio hadn’t told Agatha what she had seen—what she had felt—when she was in Agatha’s house. The screams, the fear, the suffocating despair consuming her, as if she were in the fire itself. The name, Arya, still echoed in her mind. She could feel her—running, choking on smoke, driven by desperation. As if she were tethered to another life, another body. She had screamed, begged for the other woman to flee, to leave the burning place behind. But she wouldn’t.

Rio had tried to contain the flames, to command them. It felt like her power, as if magic poured from her veins—earthy, green, alive. But she wasn’t the one wielding it. And yet, through the haze of it all, one thing remained constant: recognition.

Agatha had felt it too.

Then, nothing. The contact shattered, the connection severed. And Rio was left with an impossible truth she refused to acknowledge. Speaking it aloud would make it real—would force her to admit that what she knew in her bones, shouldn’t be possible.

She and Agatha were centuries apart.

She would see the passage of souls through. And then, she would chase the answers that refused to stay buried.

She broke the veil between worlds and waited, watching as the souls stepped forward. They drifted across the threshold, hesitant yet inevitable, drawn toward the path meant for them.

A little farther from the group, but still part of it, stood two children—two girls, hand in hand. They couldn’t have been more than eight years old. Unlike the others, they weren’t moving to cross.

Death observed them. One had her head lowered, fear evident in every inch of her small frame. But the other—the other was calm. She leaned in close, whispering, comforting.

Death felt it then—an unseen force tugging at her, drawing her toward them. Without hesitation, she moved, ready to guide them back to where they belonged.

As she neared, she caught the hushed words of the speaking child, her voice gentle yet unwavering.

"It's okay to be scared, but you won’t be alone. She’s nice. She’ll take care of you."

The certainty in her tone gave Death pause.

She slowed her steps, taking in every detail. The quiet girl kept her head down, fingers curled around her companion’s hand. Beside her, the other girl stood turned slightly away, her face caught in profile. Straight, dark hair falling just below her shoulders, framing her face. She wore lilac and yellow overalls—soft, faded colors that spoke of a life recently lived.

Death stopped before them, waiting.

The first girl hesitated, then lifted her gaze to meet Death’s. A moment of understanding passed between them before she stepped forward, walking past her and into the passage beyond.

But the other remained.

Slowly, she turned.

And Death saw.

What had seemed like dark brown hair parted, revealing its other half—striking, luminous white, glowing like starlight. Half dark, half white. The brilliance of it held an ethereal quality, as if it did not fully belong to this world.

Then the girl met her gaze.

Death waited for it. She had seen this moment play out a thousand times—the shift in expression, the flicker of fear, the averted eyes as mortals recoiled from her true form.

She expected dread. Horror. Worship.

But she did not expect this.

The girl’s eyes widened, not in fear, but in wonder. The edges of her lips stretched, slowly, tentatively—then fully. A smile. Pure, unguarded. Enchanted. Admiring.

Her face softened, bathed in a quiet glow, as if warmth itself had taken form upon her skin. A gentle radiance lit her eyes—tender, shimmering, filled with something unspoken yet undeniable. Something deeper. It was as if the very essence of love had settled within her gaze, wrapping around her features like a soft embrace.

It reached places within Death she did not even know existed.

The warmth of it spread through her like a force unknown, something foreign, something she should not be able to feel.

A feeling she had experienced only once, centuries ago—now unraveling before her, repeating itself over and over again, in the last days. With unknown faces. A tether to something beyond time, beyond memory, beyond what she had always believed to be immutable.

But how could that be?

"I actually like it.", the girl’s words came softly, as if in response to a question Death had never spoken aloud.

For the first time in eternity, Death was left speechless.

“Can you help me?”

The voice belonged to the first child, the one who had been afraid. Death blinked, momentarily disoriented, the moment shattered.

She turned. The girl’s expression had changed—less fearful now, more accepting, though perhaps she did not yet understand what she had accepted.

“Of course.”

The words left Death’s lips quieter than intended, her voice still unsteady from what had just happened.

She turned back to the other girl—the one with the radiant hair, the knowing eyes.

But she was gone.

Death’s gaze swept the veil.

Nothing.

No trace. No movement. No presence shifting among the others.

She had simply disappeared.

Her eyes darted to the souls continuing their passage, counting them again, certain she would find the number altered.

Fourteen.

Still fourteen.

The number had not changed.

Yet something had.

Death’s gaze lingered on the place where the girl had stood, where she had smiled at her with such certainty.

The feeling was not new. She had sensed it before—recently, unsettlingly often. Glimpses of familiarity in strangers, a presence pressing against the edges of her understanding.

But this time, it was different.

This time, the recognition was mutual.

A flicker of something impossible lodged itself in her chest, but she forced it aside. There was still work to be done.

With a breath she did not need, Death turned, following the souls, ensuring they made their passage safely.

But the lingering warmth of that smile did not leave her.

They arrived at Pontem Vitae, the winding path stretching endlessly before them, shrouded in mist that curled around her knees like ghostly fingers. The crossing was nearly complete when Death felt it.

That same pull. But this time, from another source.

It was there—lurking, waiting—just as she had been sensing it more and more. A presence pressing against the edges of her awareness, tugging at something deep inside her, as if a fragment of herself had been severed and was now screaming for her, calling her back. It was both familiar and utterly foreign, an intrusion that should not have been.

As if a crack had formed.

Another one. Like the many that had been appearing over the past few months. But never here. Not in this place. And never with this intensity. This time, it was raw, electric, something that did not belong.

She turned to the fourteen who followed her.

“Continue on the road. I’ll follow behind.”

Her voice was low, a whisper that carried command, and they obeyed without hesitation.

Road.

The word held a strange irony now. She thought of Agatha—of the first time she had stood in this place and mocked its name, claiming it should be something more creative. Years later, she would weave a tale about another road, drawing witches toward their fate… toward the truth. The real road. The road of death.

Her gaze lingered on the retreating figures before she turned, facing the darkness that loomed ahead.

In the distance, the void shifted—black mist coiling like living shadow, dark yet strangely luminous, reflecting a light that should not exist there.

She moved toward it. Slow. Purposeful. Expectant. Energy crackled around her, her power hungry, writhing, aching to be unleashed.

It was the same mist that had risen the day the Elydians had tried to escape. The same presence she had sensed then. It resembled the same eerie fog she had seen in the apartment when she had gone to retrieve a soul.

But there, it had carried something different—fear and desperation clinging to the air like a whispered warning. This time, the energy was stronger. It pulsed through the air, seeping into her, as if drawn from the marrow of her very being. And yet, she knew it wasn’t hers.

It was something else.

Two points of light cut through the darkness—staring straight at her.

Eyes.

Bright. Piercing. Like windows where the light managed to slip through, while the rest of the form remained an abyss.

I found you.

Whoever—whatever—had dared to enter her domain would regret it.

Her voice, calm yet laced with quiet threat, held a dangerous amusement. Anticipation. Whoever had the audacity to cross into her territory would soon face the consequences.

“You’ve trespassed. I was anxious to meet you."

Death’s voice was deep, smooth, yet edged with something unreadable. Her eyes, once piercing, were now nothing but black voids, darkness swallowing them whole.

Death moved without touching the ground, gliding forward as the energy around her coiled and expanded, thrumming with the need to be unleashed.

"I have to admit," she mused, her voice reverberating through the endless void, "it takes a great deal of courage to enter this place… to escape it… and then to return." A pause. A shift in the air. "I don’t give second chances."

She could feel it now—the pulsing, bubbling anticipation, raw and exultant. This was it. The source of the disturbances. The force behind the emergence of so many new Elydians, the cracks forming in the sacred balance of death itself.

No more.

It would end today.

A laugh drifted from the mist—dry, taunting, threaded with amusement… and arrogance. It was not just laughter. It was mockery.

And then came the voice.

Not deep. Not monstrous.

A woman.

Now, it wasn’t just the eyes that Death could see. The mist coiled and thickened, folding in on itself, taking shape—not merely a presence, but a form. It wrapped around something solid. A body.

Like Rio, the figure hovered, feet never touching the ground. Yet only fragments of her were visible—the pale outline of hands and feet, the silhouette traced by the flowing black robe that shrouded her. Her face remained nothing more than shadow, obscured beneath the hood, as if darkness itself refused to let her be seen. The energy surrounding her was alive, a restless veil of swirling void that slithered around her like a serpent.

"I wish I could say it was anxiety I felt," the woman purred, voice curling into the air like smoke, dripping with mockery. "But now, I would describe it more as… disappointment." A pause, a tilt of the head. "And also a little amusement. For a so-called entity, you seem rather… ordinary."

She laughed again, soft and taunting. With every word, the tunic around her billowed and whipped, moving with unnatural force. It wasn’t random. It was responsive—as if the meeting itself thrilled her, as if, despite her words, she had been waiting for this, longing for this.

Death smiled, mirroring her.

"I’m sorry to disappoint you," she murmured, power humming beneath her tone. "Unfortunately, we won’t have much time to change that perception of yours—but I promise, I’ll make this quick."

Her hands shifted at her sides, fingers flexing as energy crackled between them. Dark tendrils of power twisted around her wrists, gathering, pulsing, coiling like storm clouds before a strike of lightning.

The intruder noticed. And in a silent, knowing response, she matched the motion. Her own energy flickered into existence, mirroring Death’s stance as if preparing to counter, to meet power with power.

But then—

A glimmer. A flicker of light against the dark.

Something on the woman’s right hand caught Rio’s attention.

A glow she knew. A glow she remembered. Because centuries ago, that same light had burned against her own chest—until it was taken. Given away. Passed into the hands of another.

Now it pulsed, wrapped around the woman's middle finger.

A ring.

Death didn’t need to move closer. She knew it instantly. She had crafted it herself. As Rio.

Gold metal, delicate yet unbreakable. Beams of intricate etchings spiraled along its surface. At its heart, four small prongs held an imposing black obsidian, cut into the shape of a diamond. Within the stone, something moved—a flickering, shifting glow, the power of Death itself, contained, sealed, pulsating.

And on the inside of the band, hidden from casual view, were three ancient runes.

Blood. Life. Death.

Each rune held a sound. A word. A binding. Together, they wove an unbreakable oath—one that transcended realms, linking souls across the earthly, the spiritual, the cosmic, and even the domain of the dead.

Three runes. Three phrases. Three vows.

Pars vestrum. Pars mea. Pars nobis.

Part of you.
Part of me.
Part of us.

The artifact that had been stolen.

The key that allowed entry to the Vorago.

Agatha’s ring.

Chapter Text

The ring she had forged—the very same stone now embedded at the center of her own chest. The ring that had once belonged to Agatha, given to her on the night of the Animanexum, allowing her to cross the Velum, even if only for a fleeting moment. Never again, by her own choice.

Yet somehow, at some point, it had been stolen. And now, as Death stood there, watching the ring gleam on another’s hand, a feeling so primal to her very existence surged within her.

Rage. Seething. Boiling over.

Whoever this woman was, she had done the unthinkable—not only taking the ring but erasing Agatha’s memory of it, leaving no trace of how or when it was taken. And worse, she had been using it. Entering her domain. Learning to walk the paths between worlds undetected, as if they were hers to claim.

Until today, not anymore.

"Who are you?"

The woman laughed—low, drawn out, mocking.

Arrogant. Foolish.

Or perhaps just powerful enough to believe she could stand against Death and live. It wouldn’t be the first time someone mistook their own audacity for invincibility.

Rio’s eyes darkened, the swirling shadows in them deepening, her voice edged with fury.

"Nice ring." A pause, deliberate, her power crackling in the air between them. "I don’t know how you got it, but unless I’m mistaken… it belongs to someone else."

The intruder lifted her right hand, turning it, studying the ring like it was nothing more than an accessory. Then, lowering her hand, she spoke.

Her voice rang through the mist, resonating with something ancient and unyielding.

"It belongs to me."

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just a declaration. A claim.

She began to move, floating effortlessly, circling. Her presence, her mere existence, exuded a knowing, an ownership, as if the Velum itself recognized her right to be there.

Rio moved too, matching her step for step, observing. Calculating.

And then she reached out—not with her hands, but with her mind. Slipping past defenses, slipping into thoughts, into memories.

Nothing.

A wall. A void. A silence so complete it was unnatural.

There were few in existence who could do this. Few who could keep Death out. Agatha had learned, over decades, how to shield her mind, a skill gifted by Rio herself. But even then, when Wanda’s spell had consumed her, trapping her in Agnes’ mind, Rio had found a way in. She had created a reality, manipulated it, until she could pull Agatha back.

With Billy, the sigil had hidden him. But the moment it broke? She had seen him, felt him, as clearly as she did every soul.

But this woman? Nothing.

No echoes. No whispers of thought. No lingering memories for her to grasp. No threads of memory to pull. Just a void. A wall so absolute, so perfect, that only one other could have built it.

Herself.

Another laugh cut through the mist—low, curling, filling the space like smoke. The sound wrapped around them boath, stretching, clinging. And again, Death felt it.

Not fear or uncertainty. But something deeper and wrong. She didn’t know how. Not yet.

"Hm. I can almost taste it—bitter, sharp… disappointment."

The woman rubbed her fingertips together, as if savoring the tension, as if it amused her. “If you'd like, I can give you another chance. I have all the time in the world."

The silence that followed was thick, stretching between them like the pull of an unseen thread. Energy crackled in the space they shared, expanding, waiting. Neither moved. Neither struck first.

But Death noticed it—the slight shift in her voice, the way she kept her tone measured. She had tried to breach Death’s mind, just as Death had done to her.

And just like Death… she had found nothing.

That sent a slow, dangerous smile to Death’s lips. Oh, this was going to be fun. It had been a long time since she had fun.

A laugh—low, dark, resonant. This time, from Death.

"I wouldn't call it disappointment. More… curiosity. At least on my part."

They circled each other, never breaking the precise distance between them. One mirrored the other’s movements, like two celestial bodies locked in an orbit neither wanted to break.

Rio’s eyes glowed with the light of the abyss itself. "But you… I don’t think you truly know the taste of disappointment. Or regret. Not yet. But after tonight? I promise, you won’t forget it."

A sigh. A purr. Boredom, or the act of it. A deliberate attempt to irritate her, to force her into striking first.

She had seen this before. Arrogance as a mask, as a shield. An attempt to buy time, to control the pace. But she was Death. And Death did not play by mortal rules.

Her eyes sharpened. She wasn’t the intruder here. She wasn’t the one who had something to lose. The woman standing before her was.

She tilted her head, her voice dropping to something darker, something deeper.

"How. And. When," she intoned, each word heavy, deliberate, "did you get that ring?"

The Velum itself seemed to tremble.

Dark energy coiled around Death like a living thing, sharp-edged and hungering. Shadows twisted, black tendrils curling through the mist, forming jagged branches that cracked like splintering bone. A warning. A promise.

She wasn’t waiting anymore, this had never been about patience or curiosity. This was about territory. Power. The sacred balance of the dead.

And the ring—Agatha’s ring. A relic that should have been untouchable, unwearable, by anyone else. A creation forged from a piece of her own essence, bound in magic that was never meant to be severed, let alone stolen.

So how?

How was it here, wrapped around this woman’s finger, thrumming with energy that should have rejected her?

It shouldn't be possible for her to even be able to use it. And yet, the proof was undeniable. The ring pulsed in time with its wearer, as if it had always belonged to her. As if it had never known another hand.

"It’s mine."

The words lacked their previous ease. The woman wasn’t calm anymore.

Death felt it—the creeping impatience, the tiny fracture in her overconfidence. The way her hands began to move, curling, shifting.

The glow beneath her hood, once white and luminous, darkened, shifting, twisting—green, deep and unnatural, like the glow of something ancient, something alive. The eerie light spread, saturating the darkness, leaving only two slits—green, gleaming, watching.

A green witch.

Around her tunic, which rippled like liquid shadow against her form, a dense, dark energy began to churn—alive, restless, waiting. Power, deep green and all-consuming, coiled around her, seething, gathering, preparing to be unleashed.

The glow intensified, swallowing the space where her face should have been, obscuring it entirely—a presence more than a person, a force rather than a figure.

As if Gaia herself had risen, ancient and relentless, to reclaim what was hers.

The power around her thickened, a deep emerald haze, rich and weighty, sliding like smoke over her tunic. The air became charged, vibrating with something primal, something vast.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Death felt it like a blade against her spine, the weight of recognition pressing in, as though the universe had placed a mirror before her and dared her to look.

Something that almost—almost—felt like the original green witch itself. Not an equal. Never an equal, but something… close enough to make her pause.

A pull and connection.

The unmistakable weight of recogntion—a knowing that defied time, that should not exist. Somene connected to her essence, like part of her.

For the first time, she considered the possibility that this woman wasn’t merely trespassing. That she wasn’t just another foolish soul who had stolen something she could not possibly understand.

Without warning, a surge of energy—green as the deepest abyss—shot toward her, tearing through the mist, crackling like a thunderstorm given form.

It hit her, or rather, it should have.

Instead, Death remained still—untouched, unshaken. She let the energy crash against the darkness that coiled around her, a living shroud that stretched from her back, from her very being. It did not harm her. It did not break her.

She let it be absorbed, devoured—drawn into the swirling abyss that surrounded her, a storm given form, vast and insatiable.

And now, finally, she feel it—the hesitation, a beat and flicker of surprise. The woman had expected impact. Resistance. A struggle. Not… nothing.

Not Death taking her power like it was nothing more than a whisper against an endless void.

She smiled. And when she laughed, it was slow, taunting, full of amusement, full of power.

The audacity.

"You may be experienced. I can see it. I can feel it."

Death’s voice deep and resonant, filling the space between them.

"But not against me."

The shadows at her feet deepened, spreading like ink, like an ocean of darkness reaching toward the green. She extended a hand, palm open, inviting.

Give me more. Death smile sharpened. Let me see who you really are.

"I want the ring."

Death’s voice reverberated through the abyss, deep and resonant, like a thousand echoes converging at once. The very air around her darkened, her power spiraling outward, consuming the mist, the silence, the space between them.

"It does not belong to you."

The intruder hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—floating higher as if the height would offer safety. As if distance could change the inevitable.

She tilted her head and stopped midair, the eerie green glow around her deepening, darkening into near-black. Then she began to chant.

A whisper, a murmur, a summoning.

Death stilled.

She could saw the shape of the woman’s mouth moving beneath the hood, lips forming the forbidden words in a place meant only for safe passage.

Necromancy.

Death magic.

The summoning of the lost—those trapped in mid-death, souls who refused to let go. The Dance of the Dead.

Forbidden.

Her eyes sharpened, but something else caught her attention—a glow, a flicker of something pulsing at the woman’s hand. The ring. It pulsed, shifting between the markings Rio had carved into it.

Life. Death. Blood.

The three core runes, embedded into its very existence, formed by her magic. Cosmic magic. But now there was a fourth.

Gebo.

Sacrifice and protection.

A rune that had never been there before. A rune she had not placed.

Before she could even begin to unravel how—why—it was there, two pinpricks of light appeared in the distance. Then two more. Then four. Then dozens.

The Elydians, summoned by the spell. The silence thickened, a tension so sharp it could split the very fabric of the Velum. Then, a sound, a scream, deafening.

A chain reaction. One after another, dozens of shrieking specters wailing as they emerged, forming a half-circle behind the intruder, their glowing eyes flickering like dying stars.

"RELEASE THEM!"

Death’s power surged, the space around her warping, reality itself bending to her will. She could end them all, wipe them out with a single command—but that wasn’t her purpose. The Elydians weren’t hers to destroy. She was their guardian, their keeper, their tether between the worlds. She protected them as much as she protected the living from them.

But the woman laughed, and her power exploded.

Not just green now, but black—deep, endless black, magic forming like claws, twisting through the air, consuming the Elydians one by one.

Their shrieks became frantic, bodies crashing into each other in their frenzy, footsteps like rolling thunder, desperate, mindless, controlled. They didn’t know what they were running toward. Didn’t know why.

Only that they obeyed. Obeyed her.

Their eyes burned the same green as their master’s, their open mouths glowing with the same cursed energy.

And instead of running from Death—they ran toward her, a distraction and a test.

Death didn’t move or flinch, but she wasn’t alone in the Velum. There were others here. Others she had vowed to protect. Her patience shattered.

"ENOUGH."

Her voice tore through the abyss, power detonating from her like the collapsing of a star.

Dark tendrils shot outward, twisting into branching forms, each one latching onto an Elydian, wrapping, tightening, consuming.

The shrieks grew more desperate, an unholy cacophony of suffering. But she wasn’t just fighting them.

She was fighting her.

The woman’s magic wrestled against Death’s grip, a silent war between two forces. But this was her realm. Her dominion.

"THEY DON’T BELONG TO YOU!"

Another laugh. This time, quieter. More deliberate.

"You have the nerve," the woman mused, power rippling from her in waves, "to speak of ownership. You think you're the best judge of what belongs to whom?" Her voice dripped with venom, thick with hatred.

Rio narrowed her eyes.

"He told me about you," the woman continued. "How you stole what was his.”

A cold pause.

Death’s mind reeled, reaching for an answer that did not exist.

Him?

She hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty threaded through her thoughts. Who was she speaking of?

"How you cast him out. Him and all the others who dared to challenge your power."

Mephisto.

The air itself seemed to constrict, heavy with the weight of history pressing in around them.

"Like me."

A flicker of something—doubt, unease—unraveled within Death. Confusion.

She did not know this woman. Did not recognize her voice, her presence. It was impossible. Even the young ones—before their exile—had belonged to Vorago. She remembered them all. Every single one.

Yet this one was a void. A mystery. Blocked from her sight in a way that should not, could not, be. Her voice was steady, but the question cut deeper than she wanted to admit.

“Who are you?”

Her mind drifted, tangled in the accusation. Stealing? From Mephisto?

The very idea was absurd. He had been the betrayer, the one who had turned on them all in Vorago, consumed by his own thirst for power.

The thought of Mephisto stirred something deep within Death, unearthing memories she couldn’t buried. He had been the one to ensure Agatha could hide, the one who had given her the Darkhold—the Book of the Damned.

Agatha had sacrificed her very soul for it.

But why?

Death had never truly known. Not the full truth. Not what Mephisto had demanded in return. It hadn’t been Nicky, she was sure of that. But Agatha had never spoken of the real reason.

And yet—something in her whispered. The answer wasn’t hidden. It was right there, in front of her, waiting to be acknowledged.

Her mind spiraled, sinking into the weight of realization, into the truth clawing its way to the surface—

Until the screams of the Elydians shattered through her thoughts, wrenching her back to the present. Her fists clenched, and she tightened her grip on the Elydians, grounding them—anchoring them—claiming them.

"Inevitabilem finem, reditus consequi non potest." The unavoidable end. The unattainable return.

The wailing intensified. They struggled, fought, but there was no escape. They belonged to her. Their energy was already unraveling, splintering into streams of light that twisted and coiled before shattering into nothingness.

One by one, they burned away, their lingering pain dissolving, their existence erased. Only a few remained, less than five.

Then—

A scream. Not from the Elydians. Not from Death. From her.

And the very fabric of the Velum trembled.

"NO!"

The witch’s power flared—a sickly green, dimming, darkening, twisting into something else.

Death stood still, watching in disbelief as she wrestled seven Elydians back under her control. Their spectral forms no longer screamed or resisted, their bodies weightless as they drifted toward her like puppets, strings of dark energy pulling them into her grasp.

The green glow around them deepened, blackened—consuming flesh, consuming essence, until only bone remained. Seven skeletons, stripped of their spectral veils, clustered together, pressed unnaturally close, and then they latched onto her.

A grotesque formation, their hollow sockets staring outward from the intruder’s back. A shield of the dead.

The woman exhaled sharply, triumphant. Her voice rang through the void, laced with arrogance.

"I say when it ends."

Her hands lifted, positioned before her chest, fingers curved into half-circles. The hooded face tilted upward, and in the space between her palms, pure darkness took shape.

Death watched. She knew this power. Knew it better than anyone, because it was hers.

The magic of Death itself—older than time, woven into the very fabric of the universe—swirling in the witch’s hands. Channeling. Expanding. The more it grew, the more the woman’s fingers spread, feeding the abyss between them.

It was impossible, and yet, there it was. Disbelief gave way to fury.

Beams of black magic crackled through the witch’s body, pulsing through her veins like a parasite feeding on something it had no right to touch. She unleashed it.

A scream ripped through the Velum as the witch hurled the darkness forward, pulling every ounce of energy from the air, converging it into a singular, obliterating force aimed straight at Death.

Impact.

A vortex erupted around Death, black beams spiraling into a chaotic maelstrom. At first, it seemed like a barrier—but no. It wasn’t meant to shield. It was meant to consume. To pull her in.

The abyss swirled higher, stronger, a windstorm of stolen power tearing through the mist.

A laughter. Low. Deep. Amused. Disbelieving.

Death’s voice, when she finally spoke, was guttural—inhuman—layered with restrained violence. Each word a promise of wrath.

"Did you... truly think... you could use my own power AGAINST ME?"

The vortex exploded outwar. Like a waterfall breaking free, dark energy cascaded around her in violent, clawing waves. She stood at its center, wreathed in shadow, her true form unveiled.

Unmoving. Unyielding.

Shadow wreathed her like a second skin, revealing her in all her terrible glory.

Cadaverous hands. Hollowed cheeks. A face stripped of life yet bound to existence. Black robes writhing in the unseen current. And eyes—deep, endless, filled with something ancient and furious.

She raised her hands, power coiling at her fingertips.

“Let’s see if you truly know how to wield this power—“

A pause, her voice a whisper of death itself.

“—as well as I do.”

And she struck back.

Unlike the witch, who had stolen and channeled, Death embraced. She let every trace of power reach her, let it weave into her very being—because it was hers.

The counterattack slammed forward, colliding with the witch’s magic midair.

Their powers collided.

A detonation of darkness, each force consuming the other, tendrils twisting and writhing like serpents locked in war. Death watched. She felt it.

A tightness coiled in her chest, constricting, pulling, squeezing. A sensation so foreign, so deeply wrong, that for a moment, Death did not recognize it as her own. It pressed against her essence, against her throat—an unbearable pressure, not of pain, but of something far worse.

Recognition.

It clawed at her, sharp and insistent, forcing its way into the spaces she had kept untouched. Unshaken.

A hollow, suffocating weight settled in her being, incomplete, an emptiness that was neither pain nor fear but something far worse—absence. It coiled through her essence, unraveling the certainty that had always anchored her.

Every surge of power felt distant, diluted, as if the very truth itself was leeching strength from her form, fracturing something fundamental within her.

She didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to understand, but the truth stood before her, glaring and unrelenting. The familiarity in the way she moved. The way she fought. The way her power curled at the edges, refusing to bend, refusing to break. The echoes in her presence—not a stranger, never a stranger.

A part of her.

A thread of her own existence, woven in ways she had never imagined, never prepared for.

A daughter.

Their powers clashed, colliding midair, but instead of annihilating each other, they merged—intertwined—recognizing, refusing to oppose, refusing to destroy.

And yet, something deep within Death recoiled, her body rebelled against the realization, against the inevitability of it, as if denying it could unmake it. As if ignoring it could change the shape of what was already wide open, laid bare before her.

Undeniable and unrelenting.

Her daughter.

She could feel it. The collision of their power was not just a battle—it was a bridge, a tether that neither of them had forged willingly, yet existed all the same. In that space between them, amidst the onslaught of magic, Death felt it all: the conflict, the doubt, the shock unraveling inside the intruder—and inside her. A storm of emotions clashing with understanding, growing with every pulse of power exchanged between them.

And then, as the beams of death itself twisted together, resisting separation, the witch—her daughter—fought against it. Pushing back. Trying to sever the bond before it could take hold

But it was too late.

She knew.

And now, she would never be able to unknow. Neither of them could.

The witch’s power—equal, unyielding. Anyone else would have disintegrated by now, erased from existence. But this one—

She resisted.

Their magic clashed, black against black, pushing, merging, unraveling.

It was like fighting herself.

Her mind recoiled, something raw and instinctive screaming that this was beyond logic, beyond possibility. The surge of anger and fierce protectiveness consumed her, an unstoppable force rising within.

What does he want with you? How did he get you?

A feeling coiled within her, expanding, pressing against the very core of her being.

Protection.

It surged, relentless and consuming—suffocating her.

The Darkhold.

Agatha.

She could feel it—the doubt. It seeped into the invader’s magic like poison, unraveling it, weakening its foundation.

“You feel it too, don't you?" Death’s voice cut through the space between them. "It eats away at you, gnaws at the edges of your conviction. You know the truth, but you refuse to face it. Stop lying to yourself."

Their magic beams held tighter, intertwining—no longer separate forces, but one, indistinguishable from the other.

"He lied to you," Death said, her words striking like a blade.

Then, the ring pulsed.

The glow intensified, the four runes burning bright—responding, feeding, as if awakening not just to the power but to the conflict. To her struggle.

Hatred surged.

It burned, raw and consuming, not just within the invader but within Death herself, blurring the lines between them. The fury, the blinding rejection of truth, it stormed through her veins like it was Death’s—but it wasn’t. It was hers.

"Get out of my mind!" the witch screamed. And then, she pushed harder.

Death felt it—the barrier reforming, slamming down between them, desperate, defiant.

The space between them convulsed, fragments of magic breaking free, shattering like glass.

And Death’s power advanced, overwhelming and consuming.

The witch’s stance wavered, the force of the attack ripping through the air. Her robes snapped violently, and the hood—

The hood was torn back.

And Death saw.

She saw her.

Her breath caught.

Shock rippled through her, splitting through the rage, the hunger for dominance.

The face before her was Agatha’s.

And yet—not.

She was young—no older than thirty-five. Her face human yet everything about her spoke of something ancient. Her power carried the weight of experience, the sharp edge of knowledge far beyond her years.

Her hair cascaded in dark, untamed waves, not reaching past her shoulders, black as the void itself—except for a single streak of white cutting through the front, stark and defiant. A mark of something unnatural. Dark magic.

The same white strands, in the exact place Agatha bore them now. Cold, silvery threads gleaming—just as they had in the two streaks marking the hair of the woman she had met at the police station.

The same brilliant, luminous white that had overtaken half the hair of the child she had seen while guiding the dead past the wreckage at the gas station.

Like a reflection warped by water, familiar yet wrong.

The same bone structure. The same cheekbones. The same mouth, set in quiet defiance.

And the smile that ghosted at the corner of her lips—arrogant, defiant, unshaken.

Just like Agatha’s.

Her eyes, large and, brimmed with barely contained violence, the intense gaze, like Rio’s, the tension in her arched brows betraying the strain of holding her ground. On the right eyebrow, a small scar was visible.

And the color, deep, luminous, and burning with an otherworldly shade—held something that snared Death’s attention like a hook buried deep in her core.

Not black. Not green, or blue.

Violet.

Rio’s eyes, burning alive with Agatha’s power.

A slow smile curled at the edges of the witch lips, enjoying the scrutiny, reveling in the weight of Death’s gaze.

Death pushed harder, pouring more power into the assault, expecting to shatter whatever arrogance the intruder possessed. She watched the shift—the tightening of her expression, the flicker of realization. The power was too much. She was reaching her limit. .

And still, she showed no fear. With deliberate ease, the woman pulled her arms apart, inviting the onslaught, leting it hit her square in the chest.

Rio waited for her to crumble, to be consumed, to vanish beneath the weight of Death itself.

But instead, she laughed.

A rich, amused sound, eyes locked onto Rio’s, daring her, then she raised her arms again.

The power meant to unmake her, to erase her from existence, was no longer an attack—it was fuel. She seized it, fingers curling around the darkness, pulling it into herself, demanding more.

Her hands glowed.

Not with the sickly green of a witch who toyed with death.

Not with the deep abyssal black of the Velum’s unrelenting grasp. .

A light so vivid, so unmistakable, that Death froze.

Purple. Raw. Brilliant. Unyielding.

This witch, this intruder, was wielding Agatha’s magic.

As her magic.

The violet glow pulsed, heavy with the weight of something ancient—something claimed. In the witch’s gaze, Death’s power wavered, its darkness twisting, warping—transformed. Not stolen. Consumed. But it belonged

A birthright, undeniable, woven into every flash of amethyst light that stared back at her. Death’s chest constricted, her grip tightening around the realm itself as if the very fabric of Velum could keep her steady.

Her power. Her gaze. Her core.

Deep. Unfathomable. And filled with violence.

Her mind wandered. The battle blurred at the edges of her perception, concentration slipping through her grasp like sand.

The true was undeniable now, suffocating. It clawed at her mind, demanding to be acknowledged. These last few days had been filled with strange encounters, fleeting glimpses of something she couldn’t name. Faces she had barely considered before, yet ones that called to her.

How many times had she looked at someone and felt it? That inexplicable pull? That deep, irrational certainty that they were hers—even though they couldn’t be?

She almost laughed.

Would it be impossible?

Or worse—would it be possible?

But when and how?

The witch was still fighting, still trying to make everything thrown at her hers, trying to steal Death’s power, claim it, wield it. But the cadaverous remains of the Elydians, which had bolstered her strength, began to disintegrate, crumbling into nothingness. The power she had stolen was betraying her, turning against her.

Dark tendrils slithered out of the mist, anchoring themselves to her limbs, twisting around her wrists and legs.

Dragging her down.

The very power she had absorbed was marking her, binding her to the Velum. The realization dawned in her eyes. Death saw it, saw the shift—the subtle tightening of her jaw, the flicker of understanding.

She could resist for a time, but the Elydians that sustained her could not. And the power of Death—if it didn’t kill her—would do something worse. It would claim her and make her part of this realm. There was no escape or victory.

The witch’s smile vanished.

Her arrogance was gone, replaced by the quiet acceptance of something inevitable. But in her eyes, beneath the surface, Death saw frustration. Wounded pride.

Still, she did not lash out. She did not rage. Instead, she cut off the flow of magic, her arms crossing before her, severing the deadly currents that had been surging toward her. She stepped back.

Death watched, unmoving, as the witch lifted her hand—her thumb brushing the ring on her finger.

Her escape.

She’s going to run.

A surge of power rose within Death—not the raw, annihilating force she had wielded before, but something controlled, something to hold the intruder in place. Not to kill.

She needed to understand. To know.

The moment Death’s power reached for her, the witch’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

She had accepted defeat.

But not forever.

Not here.

"Until next time."

NO!

But it was too late.

The portal flared to life behind her, sparks of power crackling along its edges, its energy radiating outward from her hands, from her entire body. Her dark hair was whipped back by the force of it, the single white streak glinting like a sliver of light amidst the chaos.

She was pulled in. The black of her robe—her body—vanished. The portal snapped shut just as Death’s power reached it.

Gone.

The air stilled. The mist settled.

Silence.

As if there had never been anyone there at all.

Death should have been furious. This intruder had mocked her, had toyed with the Velum, had fought her, had stolen from her—and she had escaped.

But anger was overshadowed by something deeper, gnawing, pulling her down, demanding her attention, refusing to be ignored.

The witch’s face.

Her dark hair—except for the streak of white, stark against the rest, the same way it was on Agatha.

Her features—strong, sharp, and defiant—held echoes of someone else. That mocking, infuriating smile.

The way she wielded magic—how effortlessly she bent green energy to her will, how her power had reflected Death’s own, twisting shadows, playing with the dead as though they were mere toys.

Disrespectful. Arrogant. So much like her.

And then there was the magic—the final power she had unleashed before fleeing. Alive and pulsing. A luminous, consuming force that clashed violently against Death’s own. A power that didn’t just resist. It absorbed.

And those eyes. That deep, burning violet. Purple magic.

Agatha’s purple, with Rio’s green and Death’s essence.

Their daughter.

Chapter Text

Rio stepped into Agatha’s living room, the hum of an open portal still lingering near the stairs. She had lost track of time, her mind tangled in the weight of what she had seen, the questions that had haunted her for weeks. The truth had already settled deep within her, undeniable, yet she still hadn't grasped it. She needed more. Answers that went beyond understanding—answers only Agatha could give her.

She had searched, relentlessly, through old ties and unknown names, through whispers of power and shadows of past deals. Every revelation had only led to more. As if, in unlocking one door, she had been forced to face the endless hallways beyond, each one daring her to step forward, to look deeper. But in the end, it all led here. To Agatha.

Rio had taken her time. Too much time. Not because she didn’t want to see her, but because she didn’t know what would come next—how much danger still loomed, how much of what they had built could still be undone. But she could hesitate no longer.

For the past two months, her mind had circled the same thoughts, over and over. The accusations. The revelation. The witch—her daughter—had called her a betrayer. A traitor to Mephisto.

Mephisto. The same Mephisto who had placed the Darkhold in Agatha’s hands.

The truth clawed at the edges of her mind—insistent, unrelenting. She had chased answers and uncovered many, yet some remained just out of reach, lingering in the shadows, waiting to be unearthed.

What had really happened? What had the exchange been? What price had been paid?

The answers lurked just beyond her reach, tangled in the past, in decisions she hadn't been there to witness.

But she couldn’t piece it together alone.

She needed to hear it from Agatha—to see the truth reflected in her eyes. Only then could she begin to make sense of it all. And only then could she pull Agatha into the chaos that awaited them both.

Rio’s mind screamed for clarity, for the full truth. She had tried to piece it together herself, but it wasn’t enough. She needed to hear it from Agatha’s lips. Needed to know, once and for all, what the cost had been.

But there was something she hadn’t yet made peace with.

Agatha had never forgiven her for Nicky. Never. The weight of it still bled into every glance, every word spoken between them. A wound that would not close.

And yet, if what she had learned was true—if Agatha had truly given up her own daughter for the Darkhold—how could that reconcile with the woman who had once sworn she would do anything to protect her son? How could she have mourned one so fiercely, only to sacrifice the other?

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Rio lifted her gaze, expecting to see Agatha storming toward her, irritation written across her face, demanding an explanation for being left behind at the gas station before the explosion. But she wasn’t alone.

America followed at her side.

She had almost forgotten about the girl—the reason she was here in the first place. But the portal in the underworld was no longer a mystery.

She used America, tapping into whatever emotion surged through the girl in that moment, bending it, shaping it, forging a bridge between worlds.

America's eyes widened the moment they landed on Rio. There was no mistaking what she saw in them—fear, awe, hesitation.

Rio felt a shift in herself, a silent realization.

She still hadn't fully returned. Her face had taken on its human form again, but her eyes remained swallowed in darkness—what Agatha always called obsidian eyes. They made it easier to move between realms, to see between the layers of existence. But to a mortal, they must have seemed endless. Hollow.

Agatha, however, was unmoved by it. Her face was set in hard lines, her posture tense, frustration bleeding through as she spoke.

"Look who finally decided to show up." Arms crossed, expression unyielding. A challenge.

"Agatha. America." Rio greeted, voice measured, though she could feel something unsteady beneath it.

Agatha scoffed, tilting her head. "Oh, so you do still remember her name? That’s a surprise. Since you had no problem abandoning her here while you vanished without a word."

The sharpness of it landed. Agatha’s voice only rose as she continued.

"You were the one who said this was important. The memories. The key. Understanding what the hell happened. And then you just disappeared. Left me to deal with Jen. Left me to deal with—" She stopped herself, jaw tightening, but Rio could hear the unspoken words.

The frustration, the blame.

It wasn’t just about America. It wasn’t just about what had happened at the station. Agatha resented her for being left alone with the questions. With the fear that she might never truly know what had been taken from her.

But Rio already knew. Most of it, at least. She just didn’t know how to say it.

"Agatha, we need to talk."

Agatha’s gaze sharpened, the urge to snap back, to challenge Rio outright flaring in her eyes. She opened her mouth, ready to argue—but Rio cut her off.

"Alone. You decide where."

Her voice was sharp, unwavering. There was no room for debate, no opening for Agatha to twist this into something else. This wasn’t just Rio standing her ground. This was Death, demanding what was owed.

She saw the flicker in Agatha’s expression—confusion, hesitation. Her body tensed, caught in some internal war, poised between defiance and reluctant surrender. But the weight of the moment forced her to relent.

Agatha turned to America, but before she could say anything, the girl stepped forward.

"I was just going to bed anyway." A forced smile flickered across her face, an attempt to lighten the suffocating tension between them. "Good night."

She moved quickly, disappearing up the stairs.

Rio waited, gaze steady on Agatha, listening for the sound of a door clicking shut—making sure America was gone, that no one would overhear what came next.

Agatha was the first to break the silence, arms crossing tightly over her chest.

"What's all this? You come here, act like I'm the one to blame for whatever’s happening in the Underworld, nearly get us all killed, and then show up again like nothing happened?"

Rio stood there, taking it all in—the frustration, the anger, the resentment in Agatha’s voice. She let her speak. Even now, seeing her like this, fuming and sharp-edged, Rio could have stood here forever, just listening to her.

"Oh, fuck, not again," Agatha said as she walked to the window, stopping mid-sentence. "Every day like this, and it still keeps ruining my plants."

Rio turned her gaze towards the window, her sharp eyes locking onto a crow with shimmering black feathers. The bird perched there, watching them intently, too focused, too aware—waiting, listening.

Rio's expression shifted. Her eyes darkened slightly, not with anger, but with surprise and knowledge. Recognition flickered across her face, the kind of someone wears when catching a child red-handed.

The crow tilted its head, realizing too late that it had been caught. In a swift beat of its wings, it took flight, vanishing into the distance. Rio exhaled through her nose, a quiet, amused huff.

"Shoo, shoo, get out. If it weren’t for Lilia, I’d think it was the Salem’s Seven again."

"She won’t show up again, you can be sure." Rio said, with certainty in her voice.

Agatha frowned.

"She?" Agatha echoed, eyes narrowing. But Rio said nothing more, already shifting her focus back to the reason she had come.

"And I didn’t try to kill anyone. But the souls needed to be crossed." Rio’s voice was steady, deliberate. "I planned to come back, but... things didn’t go as expected. Some unforeseen circumstances. It took longer than I thought."

Agatha let out a sharp breath, a sarcastic smirk twisting her lips.

"Longer? You vanished. For weeks. It's been nearly two months since the gas station, and you left her here like it didn’t matter. And now you just waltz back in like—"

"What did you trade for the Darkhold?"

The words hit like a blow.

Agatha stilled.

Rio saw it—the flicker of shock, the subtle shift in her expression as her mind tried to process why this was suddenly important.

The Darkhold was gone. Wanda had stolen it, destroyed its copies. Rio herself had freed Agatha from the hex Wanda had left her trapped in. The book should have been nothing more than a lost artifact of the past.

And yet.

"What do you mean, what I traded?” Agatha scoffed, the wariness in her eyes betraying the forced mockery in her tone. "I got to it. I sacrificed a witch to—"

Rio stepped forward, closing the space between them.

"Agatha." Her voice dropped, quiet but insistent. "I don’t know if you’re lying to me or if you genuinely don’t remember. But do you really believe you got the Darkhold just by killing a witch? A witch who meant nothing to you—no significance, no value. Do you think that was the price?"

The question hung between them, heavy, unshakable.

Agatha’s lips parted, but no words came. Her expression flickered—uncertainty, confusion, as if she were grasping for something just out of reach.

And for the first time in this conversation, Rio saw it—Agatha wasn’t just refusing to answer.

She didn’t know.

“But that’s what happened. Or are you going to tell me now that I imagined my entire time with the Darkhold?”

Rio took another step forward, the space between them dwindling, tension thickening like a storm ready to break.

“When I found you that night…” She hesitated, her voice tight, searching for words to describe a moment burned into her mind for over two centuries, as vivid now as if it had happened yesterday. “The Darkhold spoke to you, Agatha. I could almost hear it. The energy pouring from it was suffocating, screaming, clawing to keep me away, to claim you entirely.”

Agatha’s breath hitched. Her face, tense, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, mirrored the weight of the past pressing in on them.

“He clung to you,” Rio continued, her voice quieter, but no less sharp. “Pulled you under. And nothing I did—no matter how hard I fought—was enough. You’d already made your choice. Your soul was already his, even before you surrendered it completely.”

Another step.

Now, only a whisper of space remained between them—close enough that if either of them reached out, they could touch. But neither did.

Rio’s gaze bore into Agatha’s, demanding, relentless.

“I asked you once, when I found you that night. And now, I’ll ask you again. What did you trade, Agatha?” Her voice dipped into something raw, almost pleading. “Don’t tell me it was just the protection witch. You know that wouldn’t be enough. Not for him. Not for him to give you something as powerful as the Darkhold. It had to be more. Something that mattered. Something of true value to him. What could that possibly be? What would make you desperate enough to sell your own soul?”

Agatha’s eyes darkened, shining now with something fiercer—fury, grief, the unbearable weight of a truth she refused to voice.

And then, finally, she broke.

“You dare ask me that?” Her voice was venom, shaking with rage and agony all at once. “You, who took him from me?”

Rio stilled.

Agatha’s breath came faster, her control splintering. “You ripped my son from me. And still, you never left me alone. You took him, and then you forced me to see you—again and again—never letting me forget, never letting me—”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, as if she could physically hold back the agony clawing its way up her throat. “Every time I looked at you, I saw him. Your face was his face. The same shape of his noise and mouth, the same smile, the same look when you were sleeping and when he took his last breath.”

Her voice dropped, low and shattering. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

She exhaled sharply, almost a sob, shaking her head. “I didn’t even have to close my eyes to see him, because there you were—everywhere. My punishment. My reminder. The thing that took him and the thing that looked just like him.”

She swallowed, but it did nothing to steady her voice, nothing to quiet the storm raging inside her.

“I lost him. And I never got the chance to let him go. Because you wouldn’t let me.” Her breath hitched, her eyes burning with a fury that barely concealed the devastation beneath.

“You—my constant reminder.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward, the words clawing their way out. “Every time I saw you, it was him. Every time you spoke, it was his voice echoing back at me. I could never grieve him, never bury him, because you wouldn’t let me forget what I had lost.” She exhaled sharply, a sound caught between a laugh and a sob.

“He was so much like you,” Agatha whispered, her hands clenching at her sides. “And I hated it. I hated it so much because it made me love him even more.”

Agatha could no longer hold back her tears; they fell relentlessly, unstoppable.

Rio’s jaw clenched, a flash of frustration and exhaustion cracking through her composure.

“You were the one who called me,” Rio shot back, her voice low, measured but vibrating with intensity. “Every time. To every coven. To every witch.” She exhaled sharply. “You waited. You watched. You made a point to be there. You punished me for simply being what I was meant to be.”

Agatha let out a sharp, bitter laugh—dry and venomous as she turned away.

“And you always came,” she countered, voice cutting, turning back to face her. “You made sure I saw you.”

Her words hung between them, and the silence that followed was as violent as the history they carried.

Rio swallowed hard, her mind racing. She had come here for answers, but now, caught in the gravity of Agatha’s rage, her grief, she hesitated.

She knew what she had learned in the last few weeks. She knew the truth that had been buried, the lives they had never known existed, the secrets that had been kept from them.

But how could she say it?

How could she tell Agatha that, after all this time—after centuries of pain, loss, and anger—there was still something left to lose?

She watched Agatha now—the rigid posture, the fire in her eyes, the way she held herself together by sheer force of will.

It had always been like this between them. A battle neither of them could ever truly win. A dance neither of them had ever truly been willing to end.

Rio met Agatha’s gaze again, her voice now a whisper, trembling with the weight of the words that had to be said, the storm that would follow once Agatha uncovered the truth. The key, she now realized, had likely never been stolen.

The silence stretched between them like an unspoken battle, thick with the tension of unvoiced accusations. Rio could feel the heaviness of it pressing down on her chest. She knew she couldn’t postpone it any longer.

"Before the day you disappeared with the Darkhold," Rio started, her voice lower now, more deliberate, "the last time we saw each other was months ago. Almost nine months ago." She let the words hang in the air, slow and heavy, hoping they would settle in Agatha’s mind like a weight that couldn't be ignored. "You’d never disappeared for so long. There was always someone, some witch, some body or bodies, pulling us back together."

Agatha studied her, brow furrowed, eyes searching for meaning, her expression unreadable but tinged with confusion. She couldn’t yet see where Rio was leading her, but she was trying to follow, desperate for clarity.

"Right after you vanished with the Darkhold," Rio continued, her voice thick with emotion, "I… I collected her soul. The witch who was killed. She asked me what had happened, if the woman and the baby were okay. At the time, I didn’t even understand what she meant, didn’t care to. I thought she was asking about her coven, that you had tricked her into helping you, telling her someone else needed aid. But that’s all she asked me, Agatha. If the woman and the baby were okay."

Rio’s gaze darkened, the depth of her emotion seeping through her words, a grief she hadn’t realized was still there. Agatha, her expression still unreadable, felt a chill crawl up her spine. She was lost, confused.

"The woman and the baby?" Agatha repeated, a question laced with confusion, her mind racing to make sense of the puzzle pieces that didn’t yet fit together. Rio’s eyes narrowed, her voice deepening, thick with accusation and sorrow.

"She wasn’t talking about her coven," Rio said, the weight of each word pressing down on Agatha like a fist. "She was talking about you.”

The weight of it settled between them, thick and suffocating.

“But I couldn’t hear her. I was so consumed by the void you left behind—lost in the pain of not being able to feel you.” Rio’s voice wavered, not from weakness but from the unbearable truth pressing against her ribs. “I buried Rio. There was no me anymore, only Death—just one soul to cross, one soul to collect.

She exhaled, a sound too hollow to be relief.

“I couldn’t even stop to listen, couldn’t make sense of what she was trying to tell me. What she was asking me."

Agatha’s heart thudded in her chest, her breath catching. She stared at Rio, her face contorted with the effort to understand. Her brow furrowed, her lips parted, as if she were trying to find air, struggling to comprehend the gravity of Rio’s words.

Rio could see it in her eyes, the confusion, the dawning realization that something had shifted, but Agatha wasn’t there yet. Not fully. The air between them was charged, heavy, and Rio pressed on, the words tumbling out like a tide she couldn’t stop.

"On the day of the explosion at the gas station," Rio said, her voice cracking slightly before gaining strength, "when I crossed the souls, I found the key. And whoever had it. And now… now I believe…" She stopped, her breath catching as the realization hit her like a blow. "I know now. It wasn’t stolen. She broke into Velum, used the ring as a key—"

"She?" Agatha interrupted, her voice a mix of disbelief and confusion. "Rio, if you think this is some kind of game—"

"Yes. She." Rio’s eyes burned, defiant and raw. She wasn’t backing down. She couldn’t. "She wears the ring like it’s hers. Like it was always meant for her. Like it was made for her."

Agatha scoffed, her eyes flashing with incredulity. She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "That’s impossible. Whoever she is, even if she took it, it wouldn’t matter. She couldn’t use it. Not with the way it was made, not with the magic bound into it. She wouldn’t be able to wield it. It was forged as part of you and me. The very essence of its creation connects with its bearer. You know that better than anyone."

Rio froze, staring at Agatha, her heart pounding in her chest. The words had landed. She could see the recognition start to flicker behind Agatha’s eyes, the dawning comprehension of the truth that Rio had long carried in silence.

"Like you said," Rio replied, voice thick with emotion, her gaze locked onto Agatha, daring her to understand, to finally grasp the magnitude of what she was revealing.

"It was made as a part of me and you. Just like Nicky." Rio’s voice broke, raw and shattered. The truth was undeniable now, and as she said the words, her whole body trembled, the weight of them too much to bear.

The words hit Agatha like a blow, their weight sinking deep, reverberating in her chest. What Rio was trying to say, what she was hinting at—it was too much to grasp, too painful to comprehend.

When Agatha finally spoke, her voice no longer trembled with confusion but was edged with raw fear. Her eyes darted to Rio, wide with disbelief, as if she couldn’t fathom the suggestion.

"You can't possibly mean to imply that..." Her voice cracked, desperate to deny the truth that Rio was forcing into the open.

"I am," Rio interrupted her again, her tone unwavering, almost cold. "There was no way you could remember who stole the ring because it was never stolen."

"Stop." Agatha’s voice shattered, barely a whisper, as if the words themselves were too much to bear.

But Rio couldn’t stop. Not now. Not after everything. After the past six weeks, after everything she had discovered, the truth that had clawed its way to the surface, and the overwhelming fear that letting Agatha in on it would expose far more than just their history—it would tear apart everything.

“Her magic," Rio started, her voice low but fierce, filled with the weight of years of silence, "she knew how to control green magic, death magic—she moved through the Underworld like she owned it. Like it had always been hers.”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t speak, her face paling as she tried to process Rio's words.

"She entered the Velum," Rio continued, the words pouring out now, "hid there, watched, like she had always belonged. Like it was as much hers as mine. She controlled the green magic like a witch far superior to anyone else I’ve ever met. She commanded the Elydians—manipulated them, bent them to her will. And death magic? She wielded it like it was nothing. As if I were the guest, watching her reign in my own realm."

A tear ran down Agatha’s face, her lips trembling as the weight of Rio’s words settled in her chest, the reality of it all starting to sink in, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“And when I fought her..." Rio’s voice faltered for a moment, before steadying again, her eyes narrowing in remembrance. "She pulled power like it was a game—absorbed it, sucked it from the air, as if it were nothing. Purple magic, life itself, illuminating, pulsing through the veins of the place. I saw it, Agatha. I saw it all. It was… overwhelming.”

Rio’s face was now inches from Agatha’s, her breath mingling with hers, their proximity amplifying the intensity of the moment. Rio’s voice dropped to a whisper, fragile yet urgent, like a secret meant only for them to share.

"Her face..." Rio's words broke, her gaze unblinking as her mind slipped back to that moment there, to the face of the witch—the face of her daughter, the daughter she never knew existed. Her voice cracked as she continued, unable to tear her eyes away from Agatha. "It was like seeing you there, in front of me."

Agatha recoiled as if struck, her face paling, her breath shallow and unsteady. The air between them thickened with an unbearable weight, and she pulled back, her voice now faint and trembling, as if Rio’s words had physically hit her.

“Enough." Her voice broke, but the force behind it was undeniable, the power of her denial ringing clear in the room. But Rio couldn’t stop.

"You traded her for the Darkhold... all this time... all these years..."

"I told you to stop," Agatha spat, her words laced with a growing aggression, the anger bleeding through the cracks of her fragile composure.

But Rio couldn’t stop now. The last two months had torn down every wall she’d built, the last few weeks shattering any attempt to shield herself from the truth. It was all too much—too much history, too much emotion, too much silence between them.

“Our own daughter,” Rio whispered, the accusation heavy with centuries of pain and lost time. Her voice trailed off, cut off by a scream that split the air between them.

“I SAID ENOUGH!” Agatha’s voice cracked with power, an uncontrollable burst of energy filling the room. Purple magic flared, swirling violently toward Rio. But Rio didn’t move—she didn’t flinch. She let the power strike her, pass through her, as if it were nothing, as if it couldn’t touch the depth of her pain.

The two stood facing each other, the air thick with the weight of their words, the meaning of everything that had been said. It didn’t matter how much time passed or where their paths led—whether they moved in opposite directions or drew closer again—they always ended up here, together once more, and always, inevitably, hurting each other again.

Agatha couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. Her face was wet, her breath shallow, her mouth half open, struggling for air. When she finally spoke, her voice emerged low, broken, as though surrendering to the depth of her defeat.

"For six years, I believed… I hoped—no, I knew—that love could be enough. That we could be enough. That you, Death itself, could choose something else. That you would choose him. I thought… I thought maybe, just maybe, you would let him stay. That the love we had—what we built, what we were—would be stronger than whatever laws, whatever fate you claim to serve.”

Agatha paused, her hand trembling as she wiped the tears from her face, taking a quiet moment to steady herself, as if summoning the strength to continue.

“But even love wasn’t enough for you. Not for him. Not for our son."

Her voice cracks, but she forces herself to keep going. She has to say this. She has to let it bleed out.

"Do you know what it’s like to hold a child in your arms, knowing the world will try to take him from you? To listen to his heartbeat and know, deep in your soul, that one day it will stop? And that the person who will take it from him—the one who will end him—is the same person who once held me? I fought for him. Every second of every day. I did everything, I became everything, to keep him safe. And I would do it again. I would do worse. I would burn the world down if it meant keeping him in it.”

The words hung between them, sharp and unyielding.

“But you… you, with all your power, all your eternity—you couldn’t even bend. Not for him. Not for us. You took him. You came for him like he was nothing more than another name on your list. Like he was just another flickering light waiting to go out. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was ours. He was mine. And you let him die."

A breath, ragged, broken. A pause, but only for a moment. Then, quieter, sharper, poisoned with grief

"You could have let him live. You just didn’t."

Rio could no longer hide the agony in her eyes as Agatha continued speaking, her words cutting through the air with raw, searing intensity.

“And now you come here and accuse me of giving up on a daughter?” she snapped, her voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and anger. “You think I would give her up—exchange her for the Darkhold? Why would I do that? Why would I abandon her when all I ever did was hold on to Nicky, just so I could keep him?”

Agatha’s face was flushed with emotion, her eyes wild with the hurt of the insinuation, as if the idea itself was too much to bear. She couldn't fathom the suggestion that she would ever willingly let go of their daughter, not when she had fought so hard to keep Nicky.

“You think I wanted this?"

Rio’s voice is quiet, but the weight of it could break the world. There is no fire, no rage—just something hollow, something undone.

"You think I don’t ache with it? That I don’t feel it—every moment, every breath that should have been his?”

Now, it was Agatha who listened, each word landing with the force of a blow, the weight of them settling heavily in her chest.

“I tried, Agatha. I tried. I stayed away. I kept my distance. I let you believe—let myself believe—that maybe he could stay. That maybe I could ignore it. Ignore him. But I couldn’t. Because he called me, Agatha. He called me."

Her voice wavers, not from weakness, but from something deeper—something that has never wavered before.

"You held on to him with everything you had. You fought the world. You fought me. But it didn’t matter, because he already knew. He could feel it.

Rio let the words slip from her lips, heavy with unspoken pain, fully aware that their weight might be more than Agatha could endure.

“He didn’t belong there, not anymore. And no matter how tightly you held him, no matter how much you refused to accept it—he had already accepted it. He was waiting for me. Do you know what that was like? To hear him? To feel him reaching for me, calling for me—his own mother—to take him? And to know that if I turned away, if I ignored him, I would be the one to leave him alone?

The words piled up, a conversation centuries in the making, long avoided but now inevitable.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t choose to take him from you. He called me. And I answered. Because no matter how much it broke you, no matter how much it breaks me—he was mine too."

A pause. A breath that never comes. And then, the quiet, shattering truth

"And I loved him enough to listen."

Agatha shook her head, a silent plea, a desperate refusal. She didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to know.

But Rio couldn’t stop, not anymore.

"Just like you held him, kept him, even when it cost me—I had to take him, even when it cost me you."

The two of them stood locked in a tense silence, eyes fixed on each other, both wanting to strike, to hurt, and yet, both defeated. The weight of centuries of unspoken words hung between them, a burden too heavy to carry but too real to ignore. It pressed down on their shoulders, before slipping away from one, only to fall onto the other.

A shared weight. A shared loss.

Rio watched Agatha, her gaze softening despite the storm in her chest. Agatha stood there, her eyes closed, her head bowed, her arms crossed defensively over her chest—as though trying to shield herself, to hold on to something that was slipping away. The sight twisted something deep within Rio. It hurt, seeing her like that, but she knew it was the only way Agatha could protect herself in this moment.

"Agatha..." Rio’s voice faltered, the words too heavy to carry but impossible to hold back. She paused, trying to find the courage to say what had been locked away for so long. "I don’t know how, or why this could’ve been hidden for so long… how it happened, if it was truly just an exchange. How it was erased from your mind like it never existed. But she..." Rio stopped, feeling the weight of what she was about to reveal pressing on her chest, almost suffocating her. "She’s ours."

Agatha’s eyes snapped open, her expression raw with pain, as if the words struck her like a physical blow. She didn’t speak, but her silence screamed louder than anything Rio could have said.

"She’s ours, Agatha," Rio repeated, her voice breaking, desperate for Agatha to understand. "And he knows it.

The words felt like a wound torn open, bleeding between them.

“He used it—used her.” Rio couldn’t hide the desperation spilling into every syllable. “Whatever he wanted with her... whatever he still might want, he waited centuries for it. And it’s not just her.”

She saw the flicker of confusion in Agatha’s eyes, the split second where anger faltered and fear threatened to take its place.

“There are others.”

Rio’s hands clenched at her sides as the weight of it pressed harder against her, as if saying it aloud made it more real, more dangerous. “You accused me of disappearing, but I had to. I was looking for a way, a way to protect them, to keep them safe without exposing them. Without letting him see them."

Rio’s breath caught as the words started tumbling out faster, an uncontrollable rush of fear and frustration. "But I think he already knows. I think he always knew."

“What are you talking about?” Agatha’s voice trembled, confusion flickering across her face again. Rio’s words spilled over, fast and urgent, the panic rising in her chest.

"The day we were here, in this very room, we heard some whispers. The feeling of fire, spreading, consuming everything."

Agatha’s face shifted. The confusion and fear that had clouded her expression faded, replaced by something sharper. Concern, instinct, rushing to the surface. "Yes… what’s wrong? Was it her?"

Rio shook her head, her heart pounding. "No," she whispered, almost to herself. "I almost didn’t recognize her. Unlike the others, there was no face. No form. Just… a presence, consuming the air."

The weight of that statement hung between them, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. It was like the room itself was holding its breath.

“Rio, what are you—”

Rio turned sharply toward the kitchen, her senses suddenly alert to something unseen, something just beyond the ordinary. There was a presence there, but it wasn’t one of danger.

She turned back to Agatha, her eyes now completely black again, gleaming with an eerie intensity. “Someone came in,” she said, her voice dark, heavy with an unspoken gravity.

Before she could finish, a shadow materialized from the kitchen, moving toward them with an unexpected calmness. The figure stopped abruptly upon seeing them, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender, clearly not wanting to provoke any further hostility. Rio’s lips curled into a tight, knowing smile. She recognized him instantly.

Doctor Strange.

Chapter Text

Strange crossed the room, drawing closer to them.

"Agatha. Death, it’s been some time" he greeted, his voice laced with the weight of years spent navigating this strange world. He gave them a half-hearted smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Agatha lowered her head, her hand rubbing across her face, trying to wipe away the remnants of tears. She didn't speak, her exhaustion clear in the slump of her shoulders.

"Yes, you are," Rio replied sharply, her patience wearing thin.

Doctor Strange gave a small shrug, his face tight with that familiar tension. "Nice. Well, I was waiting for you. I’d come by last time, hoping to find you, but America said you were gone. The energy scattered, and Miss Agatha kindly made it clear I wasn’t exactly welcomed."

“I told you to shove your witchcraft toys right up the middle of…” Agatha cut off, her voice quiet but biting.

Doctor Strange sighed, cutting through the tension with a glance at the two women. “Okay, anyway.” He gestured to Rio, frustration seeping into his tone. “But now you’re here, and I really, really need you on this.”

Rio’s eyes narrowed, the interruption gnawing at her. It always seemed that whenever she and Agatha were on the brink of something important, someone—something—would always barge in. She opened her mouth to protest, but Agatha’s look stopped her.

“Rio,” Agatha’s voice was calm but firm, her eyes locked onto hers, “you’ll want to hear this.”

Rio hesitated, irritation flaring, but Agatha’s gaze was resolute. With a sigh, Rio folded her arms, waiting for Doctor Strange to continue.

Doctor Strange turned to Agatha now, a surprised and grateful expression on his face. “Thank you,” he said, his voice caught between confusion and gratitude.

“Is everything okay?” A voice called from the stairs. America appeared, gliding down with her usual vibrant energy. She flashed them both a smile. “I know you asked me to stay upstairs, but I heard Strange’s voice, and I had to come down.” She glanced at him, a teasing light in her eyes. “You took your time.”

“Not everyone can go on vacation like you,” Doctor Strange replied with a fond smile. He turned his attention back to the serious matter at hand, his expression shifting to one of concentration.

With a fluid motion, he reached down and unhooked a small pendant from his clothes. At the end of the chain was a small, block-like object. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he manipulated the item, using elemental magic to expand it. The block grew, shifting and reshaping until it became a book, its edges glowing faintly.

“You might be hard to find, but ever since I came to America,” Doctor Strange began, the weight of his words settling over the room, “and she told me about meeting Death... I saw an opportunity. An opportunity I’ve been waiting for months.”

He paused, his expression darkening, the gravity of the situation settling on him.

“Exactly eight months ago, we started having problems in our sanctuaries—bodies of deceased mages began to reappear. They weren’t coming back randomly, or all at once, but in a disturbing, calculated way. At first, we thought it was necromancy—someone controlling the dead.”

Eight months.

Since Agatha had died.

The thought hung heavily in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. Agatha and Rio shared a look, a silent understanding passing between them. Rio noticed the apprehension in Agatha’s eyes, the barely perceptible shift in her posture—both of them bracing for what was coming next, both of them knowing exactly where the conversation was heading.

Strange continued, unaware of the silent exchange between the two.

“But the bodies always appeared one at a time. At first, they seemed like nothing more than empty husks, just lifeless carcasses. But the magic… it kept evolving. Perfecting itself. The bodies started to stay alive longer, more conscious, almost like they were truly coming back to life. And just when it seemed to be escalating, when it looked like it might get worse, it all suddenly stopped. Four months ago.”

Rio’s mind flashed to the battle at the Velum—the way she had wielded Death magic, summoned the Elydians, controlled them with terrifying ease. She could still feel it, the power, the skill. It wasn’t just mastery; it was experience, decades, perhaps centuries of familiarity with the dark forces she commanded. The mages’ resurrection, however, felt like something more recent. It had only been a change in focus, a shift in purpose. Eight months since it started, four months since it stopped.

Eight months since Agatha had died. Four months since she had returned.

Rio’s gaze drifted to Agatha, focusing on the lock of white hair that framed her face—just like her daughter’s. A price had been exacted. Agatha met her gaze, unflinching, but Rio saw the subtle flicker of tension in her eyes.

“America mentioned about a key, that you were searching for it, that something—or someone—was trying to breach the realm of the dead,” Strange said, pulling Rio back into the present. “And you were worried. I believe it may be connected, mostly through the timeline. Is there anything else different about all of this?”

Rio’s thoughts began to swirl, but she kept her focus on Agatha. She could see the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. A silent message passed between their eyes. Agatha’s face hardened, the emotional wall slamming down. She straightened her back, her posture rigid with defiance.

Turning to Strange, Rio spoke with icy precision, her voice unwavering.

“The key situation is resolved. The individual responsible for attempting the break-in was someone purged from the Underworld. He can try again, but he won’t succeed. As for the mages returning to life… it’s likely someone playing with dark magic who simply grew tired of it. You said it yourself, it stopped four months ago. Seems like a solved problem to me.”

Rio spoke in the same cold, resolved tone, trying to downplay the situation, pushing it aside. All she wanted was to avoid more interference from Doctor Strange or the other mages. Death had its own way of handling things.

Strange didn’t flinch, but he stepped forward, holding the book open in his hands. With a flick of his wrist, the pages of the book began to float in mid-air, suspended between them.

Agatha stepped closer, her curiosity piqued as she tried to see the page Strange had opened to.

Strange turned the book towards Rio, positioning it so that the image was crystal clear. The book, ancient and weathered, hummed with an unspoken energy. At the top of the page, words were inscribed in a language so old, it seemed to have existed before even the concept of Death itself. Two words, cold and foreboding.

“Black Witch?” Rio’s voice was low, the recognition settling deep in her chest.

Agatha stepped back, her movements stiff, forced. A laugh—sharp and hollow—escaped her lips. “Black Witch is a myth. A children’s tale to keep them in line.”

Strange ignored her, his tone unwavering as he continued. “The texts speak of a demigoddess, a being of death and winter, who after being cast from her kingdom, created her own coven—the Blood Moon. The legend tells of four witches who served under her, each bearing the mantle of Death itself. They were sisters and heirs to death’s dominion, spreading its shadow wherever they went.”

Agatha shifted, her discomfort evident, but Rio remained still, her gaze unwavering, focused on Strange. She could feel Agatha’s eyes on her, searching for something—an explanation, perhaps. But Rio held her composure, the words from Strange sinking in deeper than she let on.

“The Black Witch received many names,” Strange continued, his voice cutting through the air, “Marzanna, Marena, Mara, Morana…”

Morana.

The name struck Rio like a sharp blade, and her breath caught for a moment. She could feel the weight of Agatha’s stare, the tension building between them, as if they were standing on the edge of something both terrifying and inevitable.

Doctor Strange continued, his tone steady, as though he had been researching this for years.

“The legends surrounding them are ancient, originally found only among small Slavic tribes. However, in recent centuries, there have been more frequent apparitions and specific accounts mentioning a witch known by the pseudonym “The Black Witch”. She’s said to be responsible for the theft of powerful artifacts and the mysterious disappearances of individuals tied to the underworld. Some believe she works with Mephisto, serving as one of his many agents, while others claim that Mephisto himself is actively searching for her.”

Rio couldn’t help but glance at Agatha. The purple witch’s gaze mirrored her own tension and surprise, an unspoken understanding passing between them as they processed everything Doctor Strange was saying.

When Rio spoke, her voice was steady, though it trembled at the edges, betraying the unease rising inside her. “It’s still just a legend meant to frighten children. What does this have to do with some mages?”

“There’s a mark.…” Strange’s voice was low, deliberate, as if he were letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. “At first, I didn’t recognize it, but the more I saw, the more it became clear. I knew you would recognize it too.”

Strange’s eyes narrowed as he turned the page of the book. His finger traced over a large drawing that seemed to consume the next page entirely.

A crescent moon, shaped from intertwining thorned vines, their jagged edges curling inward as if trying to grasp something unseen. At the center of the crescent was an eye-shaped void, glowing faintly with dark crimson and violet hues, a pulse of ancient energy emanating from its depths.

An ancient sigil, one that Agatha and Rio both knew all too well.

Agatha fell silent. The room’s atmosphere thickened, becoming suffocating with the weight of the conversation, the silence between them stretching into something unbearable.

Rio’s breath hitched, the image unnerving her. Beneath the drawing, words in a long-dead language were etched in thin, delicate script—words that Rio knew, a language few in the realm of the living could even comprehend.

The room fell into complete silence, the weight of the book’s contents pressing down on them all. Strange stood motionless, his finger still pointing at the mark, his eyes locked on Rio. He was waiting—for her reaction, for her understanding. Waiting for her to admit the truth he knew lay between them.

“All the mages who came back to life,” Strange said, his voice low and deliberate, as if he were letting the weight of his words settle befor continuing. “all of them had this same mark. Some on their necks, others on their wrists, some even over their hearts. Different places, different intensities, but they all bore it. And when they died again, as if the magic that had reanimated them wasn’t powerful enough to keep them alive, the mark… vanished.”

He paused before continuing. “Whoever did this had a focus, someone specific. They were improving, refining their magic, perfecting it. They succeeded. Until they stopped.”

The implication hung heavy in the room like a dark cloud, suffocating every breath. Everything was starting to fit together, too perfectly. The mark. The resurrection. The disappearance of the magic. Agatha’s return. It wasn’t just a coincidence, it was all connected. And the closer they got to the truth, the more dangerous it became.

The look Doctor Strange gave Rio was more than just a gaze, it was a weight, heavy with judgment and suspicion. She could feel it gnawing at her, prickling beneath her skin.

He knew.

Or at least suspected something. Something they both wanted to keep buried.

Rio’s gaze, once cold and detached, transformed. It was no longer the indifference. It was a raw, ferocious aggression, fueled by a primal need to protect. She could feel the air thickening, thick as smoke, and the room darkening, as if her very presence was pulling the light from it. Her fingers twitched, her power, a swirling storm of death, begging to be released.

“Ask,” she said, her voice low, dangerous. The words were sharp like a knife, urging him to ask the question that had been hanging in the air, unspoken, between them.

Strange turned his eyes to Agatha, his gaze piercing. He studied her, his focus lingering on the white streak in her hair. The telltale sign of dark magic, but there was more. He was looking for something hidden, some mark, some clue that would connect Agatha with what was happening.

“The legends speak of a witch, but the texts make it clear that she is not alone, there are four others who follow her. And these aren’t just stories, are they? This power—it’s much greater, much more deadly, than the legends suggest. A power that, individually, is already lethal, but when combined, could become uncontrollable. Whoever wields it… it all depends on how they control it, on what they know...”

But Rio was already moving, stepping forward, her body a force of nature. Her eyes, now devoid of any human trace, glowed black with the intensity of something ancient. The very atmosphere around her grew heavy, as if the room itself recoiled from her power. The beams of death coiled like serpents around her, the air charged with an oppressive weight.

When she spoke, her voice was no longer human. It was a gravelly whisper, a threat that reverberated like thunder in his mind.

"I would watch this world, and every other world, every plane and universe, burn to ash—explode into nothingness—before I let you lay a finger on either of them."

The words crackled with the finality of a vow, as if the universe itself bent to her will. Her power rippled through the space, alive with a palpable, violent energy.

Strange’s gaze flickered to Agatha, uncertainty shadowing his expression. But Rio’s presence was like a wall between him and her, and when she spoke again, her voice was colder, more lethal than before.

"You think you know who they are? You think you understand the power they wield? You know nothing. You haven't even begun to grasp what you're dealing with.” Her eyes locked onto his, the black glow intensifying. “I will not let you drag them into your game. Not now, not ever."

Strange’s voice faltered slightly, his brow furrowing in offense. “I don’t mean any harm. I just need to understand. We need to know what we’re dealing with, this is already impacting all of us.”

Rio’s laughter was dark, hollow, echoing in his mind like a cruel mockery. It wasn’t her laughter—it was Death, reverberating through her very being.

"You weren’t so eager for answers when you were the one dead and clawing your way back. Do you think I don’t know? That I didn’t know you read it?

Her gaze narrowed, the air heavy with menace. “The Book of the Damned, Strange. How much of it is really you wanting to help, and how much is it the book still feasting on the fragments of your soul?”

Strange took an instinctive step back, as if struck, the words hitting him like a physical blow. The room seemed to pulse with Rio’s power, an undeniable force threatening to consume everything in its path.

Rio didn’t move. She remained where she stood, a living embodiment of the darkness, of death itself. Her voice was a whisper now, but one that held the weight of worlds.

“Stay away from them. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the hell away from all of them”

Rio's voice did not hide the violence and threat.

“What it’s happening?” Agatha's voice barely escaped her lips, a whisper laced with confusion.

The sound of it cut through the storm of hatred and raw aggression surging inside Rio, dragging her back from the edge.

She turned, meeting Agatha’s wide-eyed stare, shock and confusion battling for dominance in her expression.

A loud bang thundered through the house, rattling the walls. Agatha's head snapped toward Rio, instinctively assuming it was her doing. But Rio was already shaking her head, reading the question in Agatha’s eyes before it was spoken.

“It’s not me.”

The weight in her voice made the air feel heavier.

All of them stilled, their gazes snapping upward, as if the source of the sound would reveal itself at any moment. The silence that followed was thick, charged—an omen hanging in the air.

A crack split through the silence.

It started as a whisper, an almost imperceptible hum that slithered along the walls, vibrating in the air, crawling under the skin. Then came the sound, deep and shattering, like the sky itself was breaking open. The very foundation of the house trembled.

Above them, the ceiling ripped apart.

The room filled with an unnatural echo, voices sighing through the fracture—soft, longing, reverent, as if the universe itself exhaled in recognition. But behind the sighs, beneath the chorus of whispers, a pull.

A black light, impossibly dark, swallowing the room in its expanding glow, burst from the wound in reality. It wasn’t just darkness; it was something alive, stretching and growing, bleeding into existence.

Rio’s breath hitched as she felt it, the energy curling outward in a massive, violent circle of raw power.

Not just any circle.

A portal.

It surged forward, expanding, and in an instant, Rio understood. Knowing that power to much well.

FUCK, not now!

It wasn’t opening just anywhere. It was opening around Agatha.

Her heart clenched, instincts screaming at her to move, to reach, to stop it, but before her body could obey—before she could even get a word past her lips—the void swallowed Agatha whole.

“I’ll get her,” Doctor Strange shouted, already surging forward, his steps determined, ready to follow Agatha into the abyss.

“NO!”

Rio’s voice ripped through the room, sharp as a blade, as she thrust out her hand. A surge of green fire exploded from her palm, colliding with Strange mid-step, hurling him back. He barely had time to throw up a shield, skidding across the floor with a grunt as the impact rattled through him.

“Rio, what the hell are you doing?!” America’s voice was frantic, the disbelief in her eyes piercing.

But Rio didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at Strange, still bracing himself against the force of her magic. Her gaze was locked on the portal, on the gaping void still lingering where Agatha had been. The power in the air hummed, tugged at her, waiting—she could still feel them on the other side, the source of the magic that had stolen Agatha away.

And Strange couldn’t reach them.

He wouldn’t.

Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. Her voice belonged to the magic now, curling in hushed, ancient whispers, weaving into the air like tendrils of smoke. The portal pulsed, its edges flickering.

One heartbeat.

Two.

And then it was gone.

It collapsed.

The light vanished. The voices silenced. The crack in the ceiling sealed itself like it had never been there.

The room was still again.

Agatha was gone.

Swallowed itself whole in a rush of energy, sealing shut before Strange could even move. The room lurched with the force of it, the walls groaning, the last remnants of the void vanishing into nothingness.

A heavy silence fell.

Strange pushed himself upright, his expression dark with realization. “You closed it.”

Rio exhaled, her shoulders rigid, her chest rising and falling with steady control.

“She’s gone,” she said simply, but there was an edge to her voice, a finality. A warning.

Strange’s jaw clenched, his hands still glowing with the remnants of his own spell. His gaze flicked between Rio and where the portal had been, suspicion sharpening his features. He didn’t ask—why she had done it, who had taken Agatha.

But he would. Soon.

For now, Rio only turned away, her mind anchored to what she had just prevented.

Because he couldn’t get to them. She wouldn’t allow it.

Agatha stirred, her body sinking deeper into the plush cushions beneath her. A soft breath escaped her lips as she turned slightly, eyes still heavy with sleep. For a moment, everything was quiet, peaceful even, the weight of morning settling over her limbs like a warm embrace.

Then it hit her.

Her eyes snapped open, her breath catching in her throat. This wasn’t her bed. This wasn’t her house. It was still night.

She sat up sharply, her pulse quickening as the memory flooded back—the violent rupture of space, the blinding darkness expanding around her, swallowing her whole. A portal. She had been pulled through a portal.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, magic already thrumming beneath her skin, crackling at her fingertips. Whoever had done this, whoever had dared to pull her here against her will, would live to regret it.

Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the soft glow of lamplight against rich wooden walls, the inviting scent of something faintly sweet in the air. The house was warm, comfortable in a way that felt eerily lived-in. Her fingers pressed against the fabric of the couch, grounding herself as her eyes landed on a small wooden table beside her.

A photograph sat there, framed in silver.

Hesitantly, she reached for it, lifting it with careful fingers. The image was simple—two figures frozen in time, hands linked, smiles unguarded. A girl, no older than fourteen, with long brown hair parted neatly into two braids. A fringe skimmed her forehead, just above eyes of piercing blue, bright with laughter.

Her smile was wide, effortless, reaching all the way to those eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. Beside her stood an older woman, no more than sixty-five, her own expression just as warm, just as full.

Agatha's stomach twisted.

Familiarity scraped against something deep inside her—something raw and aching. The girl’s face, her features, the way her eyes narrowed slightly when she smiled... it seized something in her chest.

Like looking into a mirror. A reflection of herself. Younger. Unburdened. Innocent.

Then, a whisper. Low voices carried from another room.

She tensed, her senses sharpening as she placed the photo back on the table with a controlled precision. The voices were coming from the kitchen, murmured words exchanged between women. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she could hear them soft and measured, unaware that she was listening.

Pushing herself to her feet, she moved slowly, careful not to make a sound. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears as she navigated the unfamiliar space, her body coiled with tension, ready for a fight. Whoever had brought her here had answers, and she was going to get them.

Power surged through her fingers once more, the deep violet glow pulsing, alive. It built steadily, coiling, waiting. On the edge of release.

As she neared the kitchen doorway, her eyes flicked to the figure standing near the counter. A woman, her back turned. For a fraction of a second, her breath hitched, her chest tightening with something sharp and disorienting.

Rio?

No.

Agatha's eyes narrowed, her confusion deepening as she took in the woman’s form. The same height, the same build, even the same natural ease in the way she carried herself. But the hair—shorter, tousled in a way that was distinctly different. The woman hadn’t noticed her yet, still engaged in conversation with someone just out of view. There was tension in her stance, a quiet rigidity in her shoulders. The voices, once muffled, grew clearer—three distinct tones cutting through the air, rising and falling in a rhythm Agatha couldn’t yet decipher.

As Agatha crept closer, the voices in the kitchen became clearer.

“I still think we should tie her up,” one muttered, irritation laced in every word. “We don’t know how she’ll react. At least we could take advantage while she’s still out. I don’t know how much longer my magic will hold.”

“I don’t think Rio will like that idea very much,” a second voice countered, younger, more cautious. There was something oddly familiar about it, something that scraped at the edges of Agatha’s memory. Somehow, she knew that voice.

“I think we should wait,” the third voice interjected—the woman standing near the counter, the one Agatha had mistaken for Rio. Her tone was even, calm, edged with quiet authority. “See how she reacts when she wakes up. Talk first, without shouting, without fuss. We don’t want to wake Mel.”

Agatha clenched her fists at her sides, her anger simmering beneath the surface. Purple magic crackled at her fingertips, pulsing, eager.

She stepped forward, slow, measured, her voice slicing through the air like a blade.

“Who the hell are you?”

The woman whirled around, hand flying to her chest in shock.

For a split second, Agatha swore her own heart stopped.

The face staring back at her was nearly identical to Rio’s. The same sharp features, the same deep brown eyes, large, expressive, impossible to ignore. But the differences sent a jolt of confusion through her. Shoulder-length hair, slightly tousled, framed her face. White strands ran through her bangs, cutting through the dark like silver streaks of lightning, mirrored by identical white streaks tucked behind her ears.

Agatha felt like she was falling again, plummeting into another portal, another impossibility. Her mind reeled.

Where the hell am I?

Is this some twisted spell? A Doctor Strange illusion?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s awake—she’s awake!”

The woman’s panicked shriek shattered the silence, her entire body jolting as if Agatha had just risen from the grave.

“Oh my god, she’s looking at me—crazy eyes as fuck—I think she’s gonna pass out!” The woman in front of her spoke next, hands raised in surrender, eyes darting between Agatha and the growing purple energy crackling at her fingertips.

Adrenaline surged through Agatha, her instincts taking over.

"Okay, okay—this is weird, I know it’s weird, but we can explain," the woman tried again, voice low and measured, as if speaking to a cornered animal.

Before Agatha could respond, two more figures came barreling into the room, both wide-eyed and frantic.

“Fucking told you we should have tied her up!” one of them shrieked, her voice pitching so high it nearly pierced Agatha’s skull.

The little air left in her lungs vanished.

Those eyes—Rio’s eyes—stared back at her again, but on a different face. The features were sharper, the nose slightly longer, the mouth fuller. Long, dark hair cascaded down her back, nearly to her waist, and on either side of her face, thick strands of white ran from root to tip, framing her like some ethereal mark of fate. A black cord hung around her neck, a silver pendant resting against her chest. A bird.

Agatha’s breath caught.

Who are they?

Her hands flexed at her sides, the purple magic sparking violently now, fueled by the chaos. The second girl noticed her hands.

“No, no, no—please no—we’re not gonna hurt you, I swear!" She babbled, holding up her hands as if she could physically push the tension away. "We were just trying to—”

"Stop! You're only making it worse—I'm trying to calm her down," the first one snapped, exasperation clear in her voice. She took a slow, steadying breath before turning her attention back to Agatha, hands still raised in a careful, non-threatening gesture.

"Okay. Hi, Agatha," she said, her tone deliberate, as if choosing each word with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. "My name is Morgan. I know this is a lot—confusing as hell, even—but I swear, we were just trying to…"

“Put her back to sleep,” the other one, the youngst, muttered under her breath, failing miserably at masking her fear.

Morgan—the one who looked like Rio—groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as if barely containing a migraine.

Agatha narrowed her eyes, still poised to strike, her mind barely keeping up with the insanity unfolding around her.

The third one, the youngest, was the girl from the photo. Unlike the others, her face was a carbon copy of Agatha’s.

Somewhere in Agatha’s mind, something short-circuited.

Someone got into my head again. Where the hell am I? What’s going on?

But unlike the frozen moment in the photo, the girl’s long hair now had streaks of white threaded through the two thick braids draped over her shoulders. The strands stood out, starting closer to the center of her head but still strikingly visible.

“Arya, don’t—make—it—worse,” the first one, Morgan, hissed through clenched teeth, her words barely audible behind a strained smile. A smile that definitely did not reach her eyes.

Arya?

Agatha’s mind reeled, spinning, the weight of recognition crashing into her like a tidal wave. Rio. Their conversation just minutes ago. The voices, the screams that had echoed through the house two months before. And now, this. The impossible reality standing right in front of her.

Too much. Too fast.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU PEOPLE, AND WHERE AM I?!”

The second one stepped forward, unfazed, her deep brown eyes locking onto Agatha’s like she was staring through her.

Morgan’s hands curled into fists, her entire body tensing. “Morrigan, what are you doing…”

But Morrigan ignored her, inching closer, her voice dropping to something slow, steady, almost soothing.

“You’re home,” she murmured, careful and deliberate. “You’re tired. It’s late. You just want to sleep and rest, so you can wake up tomorrow and…”

Agatha’s head swayed, her limbs suddenly heavy, the air around her thickening. A pressure slithered into her thoughts, gentle but insistent, curling at the edges of her mind like a whispering fog.

No. Not again.

“GET OUT OF MY MIND!”

A pulse of violet magic erupted from her hands, crackling through the air like a whip. The force slammed into the walls, shaking the very foundation of the house, and sent Morrigan stumbling back.

"Okay, okay, I was just trying to help!" Morrigan threw her hands up in exasperation, her eyes quickly darting over to Agatha as purple magic crackled through the room, lighting it up like a neon storm. "Purple, I like purple. We love purple, right? So... let’s just talk it out. No big deal."

Agatha stood frozen, watching the chaos unfold around her, the tension in the air so thick it felt like a bomb was ready to go off.

“Oh my god, she’s gonna snap. She’s gonna snap, we really need Rio right now!” Arya said, grabbing Morrigan's arm with a dramatic flair, as if the fate of the world rested on it.

“She probably can’t even come right now,” Morgan screamed, voice high-pitched and frantic.

“She’s an entity, Morgan! She can come anytime,” Morrigan snapped back, her eyes never leaving Agatha’s glowing aura. “And you told me not to scream.”

“She is Death!” Morgan shouted, her hands flailing dramatically in the air.

“And she’s a witch serial killer! The crazy train is already here!” Morrigan added, pointing at Agatha like she was the obvious source of impending doom. “I’m too young and too pretty to die today, thank you very much!”

“Why is Morana taking so long?!” the youngest one suddenly screamed, her voice piercing through the madness like a broken alarm.

Morana.

Agatha blinked, her brain scrambling to catch up with the words, the names, the looks everyone was throwing her way. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for her to react.

This is a dream. No, it’s a trick. Someone is messing with my mind, searching for something, wanting something from me…

“She is totally snapping,” Morrigan said, turning her head slightly, peering at Agatha like she was the most dangerous thing in the room, ready to explode at any second.

“She totally is,” Arya muttered, her voice dropping to a low, ominous tone.

“I think she’s calming down, actually…” Morgan said, flashing a grin that could have been mistaken for insanity. “Hey, hey, we can explain everything. Just—if you let us…”

Agatha’s head spun, her thoughts a blur, her temper barely contained. I need to get out of here. Just find a thread of sanity...

Before Morgan could finish her sentence, Agatha’s power surged, and with a single, furious motion, she flew out of the house like a bolt of lightning.

Morgan blinked, her grin faltering. "She snapped."

Morrigan patted Morgan’s shoulder with mock comfort, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Like I said, we should’ve just tied her up.”

“Fuck off,” Morgan growled, shrugging off Morrigan’s hand with a roll of her eyes. “She can’t even go that far anyway.”

“Thank me for that,” Morrigan said smugly, a proud smirk spreading across her face.

“You should’ve made her sleep more, that’s what,” Arya said, her eyes still darting nervously to the door where Agatha had just vanished.

“Maybe the traditional method works better…” Morrigan said, glancing around with a mischievous glint in her eye. “We could hit her on the head next time. Might knock some sense into her.”

“Are you insane? Rio will kill us,” Morgan shot back, her voice tinged with real fear.

Morrigan just burst out laughing.

“Can’t you take anything seriously?” Morgan grumbled, folding her arms and glaring at Morrigan, who was still giggling.

“I am taking this seriously,” Morrigan said, still chuckling. “In the most fun way possible.”

“I was joking, just trying to lighten the mood a little,” Morrigan said with a shrug, her smile wide and mischievous. “Rio would never kill us. That’d mean dealing with us for eternity, and trust me, she’s already going crazy after only two months.”

The sound of a crash from the garden cut through the air, drawing their attention back to Agatha. Every time the purple light flickered from the house, they could hear a loud thud followed by two screams—one full of pain, the other filled with pure rage.

The three girls exchanged a look, sighing in unison. “Well, we better go before she blows up even more,” Morgan said with a dramatic roll of her eyes, making a motion for the others to follow her.

Outside, Agatha was still pacing the edge of the property. Normally, teleporting short distances was no challenge for her, but every time she tried to break past the garden’s boundary, an invisible force threw her to the ground. She stood up again, brushing the dirt off her hands and clothes, staring at the edge of the house. It was like some unseen wall had been drawn around her.

I’m trapped in my own mind. But I’m awake. How is this even possible?

Determined, she tried again, and again she was thrown back to the ground. Before she could try another time, a voice rang out from the door of the house, echoing over the garden.

“It’s an illusion around the house, you can’t go anywhere. You’ll just keep getting your clothes dirty, and we don’t even have a washing machine,” Morrigan called, her voice mocking, a grin on her face. She had one arm raised as if she were proudly displaying her handiwork—I stopped you. The other girls were trying to rein her in, but it was too late.

Agatha turned around, her eyes narrowing as she spotted Morrigan standing at the door. The smug look on Morrigan's face made Agatha’s patience snap.

“Stop playing around,” Morgan’s voice came from behind, the tone stern and no-nonsense.

“Let me go!” Agatha shouted, frustration boiling over. She turned back to the edge of the garden, eyes scanning for any tiny gap in the magic that could give her a way out.

“Rio shouldn’t be long, just come back inside," Arya said sweetly, as if offering a peace offering. “I can make you some tea. We’ve got all kinds.”

Morrigan burst out laughing, her hands thrown up in mock disbelief. "A tea? We’re all losing it, this is fantastic.” She turned back to Agatha with a grin. “Look, Rio’ll be here soon, okay? Just come back inside, we can explain everything. Also, I’ve been dying to know—why the obsession with names starting with M?"

“Stop messing with her,” Morgan snapped again, a little more forcefully this time.

“I actually like mine,” Arya chimed in, totally unfazed, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.

“Well, at least they changed the first vowel in yours,” Morrigan quipped. “Makes a decent nickname, too.”

“Do you really think this is the time for name analysis?” Morgan shot back, her voice dripping disbelief as she threw her hands up in frustration.

“Sorry, no offense,” Morrigan continued, her tone still light and teasing. “But your name is the weakest of all of ours.”

“What? It’s not! It’s powerful!” Morgan protested, offended.

“Boring. It sounds like a nickname for mine," Morrigan said, waving her hand dismissively. "I couldn’t even say 'Mor' without people wondering if I’m talking about you or Morana.”

“I’m not boring!” Morgan shot back, her eyes narrowing, a deep frown on her face as she glared at Morrigan. “I’ll have you know, my name carries weight.”

“Sure, if ‘weight’ means ‘generic,’” Morrigan teased, a smirk dancing on her lips.

Agatha, still fuming, turned back toward the boundary, the voices behind her fading as they carried on with their absurd chatter. At least I’m not alone in this chaos... She sighed, caught between wanting to scream and wanting to laugh at the madness of it all.

Fuck Rio. This can’t be real! They don’t even exist, and it’s making me lose my mind.

Her frustration bubbled up again, and she snapped, walking halfway across the garden, her steps sharp and aggressive.

“I swear, I don’t know who put me here or what kind of magic this is, but I’m going to kill whoever…”

Her words faltered as something caught her attention. Her gaze flicked past the three women, now arguing over something utterly trivial, to the small figure walking toward them from the kitchen door.

A child, no older than eight, was slowly making her way across the garden toward the stairs. Agatha’s heart nearly stopped. The resemblance to Rio was so striking that for a second, she couldn’t breathe. But then, as the child came into full view, Agatha felt something even more shocking.

The girl's face—it was Rio's. Every little detail: the intense gaze, the curve of her nose, the soft shape of her lips. Agatha could see it all. The girl was dressed in lilac pajamas covered in green flowers, her feet clad in pink socks with little skulls on them. It was an oddly adorable combination of innocence and mischief.

And then there was the hair.

Like the others, it had that dark, nearly black quality, the color of night itself. But unlike any normal dark hair, half of the girl’s head shone with an intense, brilliant white, reflecting the soft glow of the house lights. It wasn’t just a few strands, it was like someone had dipped that half of her hair in pure light.

And in her arms, curled up in a perfect ball of soft, fluffy white comfort, was a sleeping rabbit.

Agatha’s heart skipped. No way... She could barely process it, her mind a whirl of confusion and disbelief. She knew that rabbit. She had known that rabbit for centuries.

Señor Scratchy.

The girl blinked lazily, still shaking off the last bits of sleep. As her eyes focused, she smiled, a soft, affectionate smile that spoke of love and warmth. It was completely genuine, and it hit Agatha in the chest like a punch. She didn’t even know how to react, completely paralyzed by the strange mix of emotions churning inside her.

For a moment, everything stopped. The world was silent, except for the soft sound of the rabbit’s little ears twitching in the girl’s arms.

She couldn’t even feel her legs anymore. The chaos from behind her, the madness of the girls still arguing, seemed to fall away.

The peace between the girl and the rabbit was so pure, so serene, that for a moment, Agatha forgot everything—the magic, the anger, the confusion. She was simply there, standing in a garden she couldn’t escape, looking at a child who could only be a dream or a trick.

The girl’s sleepy smile grew a little more, still clutching the rabbit close, as if offering some kind of unspoken comfort.

And then the girl spoke, with a sweet, gentlest voice imaginable.

“Hi, Mom.”