Mrs. WarpDrive Witch

Agatha x Rio x Reader Series

It Worked Marked

Agatha x Reader Series

Ten Minutes Learning: Valentine's Day

Agatha x Rio x Reader One-Shots

The World Still Burns Even The Sky Couldn't Hold Her Atlas Of Care: Omega Directive Silence

Agatha x Reader One-Shots

Salem smoldered behind you, smoke still curling into the pale morning sky as the sun began to rise. The town you had grown up in had become little more than charred wood and memories. The people who had raised you were gone. The neighbors who had whispered about your magic were gone. Everything familiar had vanished in a single night, leaving behind only silence and ash.

You should have been grieving. You should have been terrified.

Instead, you found yourself sitting beside a lake just beyond the edge of town, watching the sunrise paint gold across the water.

The moment felt strange even then.

For years, your family had treated your magic like a curse. Every spark of power beneath your skin had been met with fear, disappointment, or anger. They wanted you quiet. They wanted you obedient. They wanted you to become the kind of woman who never asked questions and never stepped beyond the life that had been chosen for her. Every dream you carried felt too large for the world they had built around you.

Now there was no one left to tell you who you were supposed to be. The realization should have felt freeing. Instead, it felt lonely.

You remembered pulling your knees to your chest and staring across the lake, trying to imagine what came next. The water reflected the colors of dawn in shades of pink and gold while birds called from the trees overhead. For the first time in your life, there was nothing expected of you.

No home. No family. No future. Only a sunrise.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention. Two women stood several yards away.

One was dressed in dark clothing, her posture confident despite the destruction that lingered behind her. There was power in every movement she made, the kind that seemed to bend the world around her. Even before you knew her name, there was something impossible about her.

The second woman stood slightly behind her. Everything about her felt older than the earth beneath your feet. You would spend centuries trying to explain Rio Vidal to people and never quite succeed. There had always been something cosmic about her, something vast and eternal hidden beneath her smile. Looking back, perhaps part of you recognized what she truly was even then.

Neither woman spoke immediately. They simply watched you. You watched them right back. The silence stretched long enough that it should have become uncomfortable, yet somehow it never did.

Years later, Agatha would claim she approached first because she was worried you might be injured.

Rio would argue that Agatha had simply been staring. Agatha would insist that was not true. Rio would laugh every single time. You never once received the same version of the story twice.

What you did remember was the way the morning light caught in Rio's dark hair. The way Agatha looked at you as though she had discovered something unexpected. The way neither of them treated you with fear. For perhaps the first time in your life, nobody was looking at your magic like it was a problem that needed fixing.

You often wondered if they knew, in that moment, how much they would come to mean to you. If they knew they would become your home. That they would become your family. That decades later, you would still wake up between them, still laughing at Agatha's terrible jokes, still listening to Rio talk to her plants as though they were old friends.

Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn't.

What you knew for certain was that they sat beside you as the sun climbed higher into the sky, and somewhere between the silence and the sunrise, your life changed forever.

It had been like that ever since.

Time passed in the strange, beautiful way they always seemed to when shared with people you loved. You watched empires rise and fall. You witnessed wars, revolutions, and enough questionable fashion choices to fill entire museums. Entire countries changed names. Languages evolved. Music transformed. Humanity stumbled forward, generation after generation. Through all of it, somehow, the three of you remained. Some years were filled with joy. Some years were filled with grief. Some years were spent simply surviving. Yet no matter where history carried you, no matter how much the world changed around you, Agatha and Rio were always there.

Now, you shared a small house not far from a university campus. It was almost laughable how ordinary your life had become. You had spent lifetimes outrunning hunters, surviving wars, and witnessing the rise and fall of nations, yet your greatest concern that morning was locating an article buried somewhere inside a digital archive.

The university library buzzed with activity around you as students filled nearly every table. The low hum of conversation mixed with the sound of turning pages and tapping keyboards while sunlight streamed through the tall windows overlooking campus. Someone was whispering frantically about an exam they clearly should have studied for sooner while a printer somewhere nearby sounded moments away from giving up on life entirely.

You loved places like this. Always had.

There was something magical about knowledge gathered in one location. Thousands of stories waiting to be discovered. Thousands of voices refusing to be forgotten. Every shelf, every archive, every carefully preserved document represented someone’s life, someone’s memory, someone’s attempt to leave a mark behind.

Your family would have hated it. The thought made you smile despite yourself.

They had spent years trying to convince you that curiosity was a flaw. That asking questions made you difficult. That a woman's place was inside the boundaries someone else created for her. Every book you opened had been treated like a challenge to their authority. Every opinion had been an argument. Every dream had been dismissed before it ever had the chance to grow.

If they could see you now. A young Queer woman pursuing another degree simply because you wanted to.

The thought was satisfying.

Several months earlier, you had announced over dinner that you wanted another degree.

Agatha had stared at you over the rim of her wine glass. "You already have seven."

You had shrugged. "I'm bored."

Rio nearly choked on her tea, laughing.

The conversation had somehow turned into a twenty-minute debate about whether seven degrees was already excessive. Agatha argued that it absolutely was. Rio argued that you had earned the right to do whatever you wanted. You had pointed out that neither of them complained when you spent months buried inside archives researching obscure historical events. Agatha had muttered something about that being different. Rio had immediately asked how. Neither of you ever received an answer.

Despite their teasing, neither woman had ever denied you knowledge. They remembered the young woman Salem had tried to silence. They remembered the girl whose family had demanded she make herself smaller to fit inside the life they wanted for her. Every degree, every conference presentation, every article you published felt like a quiet act of defiance against the people who once insisted your voice did not matter.

Which was precisely why you found yourself sitting in the library at eleven-thirty in the morning, fighting with a stubborn digital archive while texting your wives about lunch.

The article loaded slowly enough that you had time to question every life decision that had brought you to this moment.

A progress wheel spun lazily in the center of the screen while your foot bounced beneath the table. When the page finally appeared, your eyes immediately scanned the title, hope rising in your chest for the briefest of moments before disappointment followed close behind. Wrong source. Again.

A groan escaped you as you leaned back in your chair, one hand dragging down your face. Three hours. You had been sitting in this library for three hours chasing a citation that seemed determined not to be found. Somewhere, buried inside thousands of scanned documents, journal articles, and archived records, was the source you needed. Unfortunately, it appeared to be playing an elaborate game of hide-and-seek.

Your fingers drummed against the edge of the table while you clicked back to the search page. The database responded with all the urgency of wet paint drying. As the screen struggled to load, your attention drifted toward the massive windows overlooking campus.

Outside, autumn had settled across the university in earnest. Golden leaves drifted through the air every time the wind picked up, collecting along sidewalks and beneath benches before scattering again moments later. Students crossed the quad in clusters, backpacks slung over shoulders and coffee cups clutched in their hands. A group sat near the fountain, laughing loudly enough that the sound occasionally carried through the glass whenever the library doors opened. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle bell rang before disappearing beneath the hum of campus life. The sight made you smile.

There had been a time when a place like this would have felt impossible. Back then, your family had viewed curiosity as something dangerous. Questions led to trouble. Knowledge led to independence. Independence led to disobedience. They had spent years trying to convince you that wanting more was a flaw.

Now you sat in a university library pursuing another degree simply because you wanted to.

The thought never failed to amuse you.

Around you, the library remained alive with quiet activity. Students moved between shelves carrying armfuls of books. Someone highlighted passages in a textbook nearby with the concentration of a person desperately trying to memorize an entire semester in a single afternoon. The steady rhythm of keyboards filled the air while whispered conversations rose and fell between rows of tables.

It was ordinary. Wonderfully, beautifully ordinary. Not the kind of ordinary people noticed while living it, but the kind you had learned to treasure. A crowded library. A research project. Students worried about exams. The promise of returning home at the end of the day.

The sort of ordinary people fought wars to protect.

Your phone vibrated beside your laptop. The smile appeared before you even looked at the screen.

Aggie: 💜

You opened the message.

Alive?

A laugh escaped immediately. Debatable.

The response came so quickly she had clearly been waiting. Tragic.

The archive hates me, Aggie. It is actively working against me.

Three dots appeared. Maybe it knows you're a historian.

You rolled your eyes. That's discrimination.

It's self-defense.

The laugh that escaped this time earned a glance from a student several tables away. You immediately pressed your lips together, trying—and failing—to contain your amusement. Decades of loving Agatha Harkness. And somehow, she still managed to make you laugh at the most inconvenient times.

Another message appeared. And yet you're losing.

You snorted. Rude.

Accurate. Before you could respond, another text arrived. When are you coming home?

Your eyes drifted across the battlefield occupying your table. Open notebooks. Printed articles. Color-coded sticky notes. Three different pens. A half-empty water bottle. Enough research material to suggest you had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

When I find this article.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. So never?

The laugh that escaped this time was loud enough that you immediately clapped a hand over your mouth. The student nearest you looked up from their textbook with an amused smile. You mouthed a silent apology. They returned to reading. You looked back at your phone.

Aggie. I'm hungry.

You're a witch.

And?

Make food.

Several seconds passed. Then a photograph appeared. You opened it. For a moment you simply stared. The image appeared to contain the remains of a grilled cheese sandwich. At least, you assumed it had once been a grilled cheese sandwich. Now it looked like something recovered from an archaeological excavation. The bread had somehow achieved a shade of black usually associated with volcanic rock.

Your smile was louder than any laugh that you could have made.  How did you even do that?

I got distracted.

By what?

The answer arrived so quickly it felt rehearsed. Thinking about my wife.

Heat bloomed instantly across your cheeks. Gods.

Your smile lingered as another message appeared. Rio says bring coffee. Then another. Rio says you're taking too long. Then a third. Rio says she loves you. A pause followed. I also love you, but the coffee remains a priority.

Your chest ached with affection.

You could picture the scene perfectly. Agatha sprawled dramatically across the couch as though you had abandoned her for decades instead of a few hours. Rio tending to her plants while pretending not to encourage the theatrics. At some point Rio would offer a perfectly reasonable solution. Agatha would ignore it entirely. Somehow the conversation would become your problem. It always became your problem. The thought settled warmly in your chest.

Home. Not the house itself. Not the walls. Not the furniture. Them. It had always been them. After wars, losses, rebuilding, grief, joy, and finding your way back to one another again and again, home had stopped being a location a very long time ago. Home was Agatha stealing your side of the bed. Home was Rio talking to her plants as though they were old friends. Home was knowing that no matter how frustrating your day became, there were two people waiting for you at the end of it.

Your smile softened as you looked down at the messages one last time before setting your phone beside the laptop and turning back toward the archive, completely unaware that within the next few minutes, the ordinary life you had spent lifetimes building was about to shatter.

The archive continued its personal vendetta against you.

Another article loaded. Another dead end. Another source that looked promising until it wasn't. Your fingers moved automatically across the keyboard, opening tabs, scanning abstracts, checking footnotes, and closing windows with the practiced rhythm of someone who had spent far too many years buried inside archives. If anyone had asked, you would have told them you were being productive.

The growing pile of rejected sources suggested otherwise.

With a sigh, you reached for your water bottle and took a long drink. The water had long since lost the chill it possessed that morning, but you welcomed it anyway. Across the room, someone stood to leave, gathering notebooks and charging cords while carefully trying not to disturb the students around them. A librarian pushed a cart between the shelves, reshelving books with the sort of quiet efficiency that only came from years of practice.

The normalcy of it all settled around you like a blanket. No one in this room knew that you had watched empires collapse. No one knew you remembered a world before electricity. No one knew you had stood beside Agatha while entire galaxies unfolded around the two of you, or that Rio had taught you the names of constellations that no longer existed in quite the same way they once had. To everyone around you, you were simply another graduate student losing a fight against a database.

Honestly, you preferred it that way.

The archive loaded another page. Your eyes skimmed the title. Then paused. A small flicker of excitement sparked in your chest. Maybe. The article looked closer than the others. Not perfect, but close enough to justify opening it. You clicked the link and waited for the document to load.

A shadow fell briefly across your table. You assumed it was another student passing by. The library was crowded enough that people were constantly moving through the aisles. You barely looked up.

The article finally opened. You immediately leaned closer to the screen, scanning the opening paragraphs. The author referenced a source you hadn't seen before. Your pulse quickened slightly. That was promising. Very promising. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

Finally.

Then a voice interrupted. "Excuse me."

You looked up.

A man stood beside the empty chair across from you. At first glance there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him. He looked like any number of professors you had encountered over the years. Older. Well dressed. Neatly groomed. The sort of person who blended easily into a university setting.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked politely.

Your gaze drifted around the room. Every table nearby was occupied. Students had begun claiming spots along the windows and against the walls, some balancing laptops on their knees while others sat cross-legged on the floor beside outlets. Midterms were approaching. The library had become a battlefield.

"Go ahead."

"Thank you."

The man offered a small nod before lowering himself into the chair. His movements were measured and deliberate, neither rushed nor hesitant. For a moment, you thought nothing of it. Why would you? It was a crowded university library in the middle of the day. People shared tables all the time.

Your attention returned to the article glowing on your screen.

The source was finally looking promising. The author referenced several collections you hadn't encountered before, and you quickly opened three new tabs before you could lose the trail. Your pen scratched across a yellow legal pad as you jotted notes in the margins. Half-finished thoughts. Page numbers. Citation reminders. Questions to chase later. The sort of notes that looked completely incomprehensible to anyone except the person who wrote them.

Several minutes passed.

The library continued around you. A student nearby quietly cursed after dropping a highlighter. Somewhere deeper in the building, a cart rattled across the floor as books were reshelved. The heating system kicked on overhead with a soft hum, pushing warm air through the room. Someone laughed near the circulation desk before immediately lowering their voice when a librarian looked in their direction.

Normal. Everything felt normal. You reached for your water bottle without looking away from the article. Your fingers missed. The bottle rolled off the edge of the table. Before it could hit the floor, the man leaned forward and caught it.

The movement was fast. Not impossibly fast. Just fast enough that it caught your attention. For a moment, you stared. Then a small laugh escaped you. “I’m so sorry.” The man smiled faintly as he handed it back. "Good reflexes."

Something flickered across his face. "Occupational habit."

The answer was simple enough that most people would have let it pass without a second thought. You certainly tried to.

"Thank you."

"Don’t mention it."

You unscrewed the cap and took a drink before returning your attention to the article. Yet something lingered. Not the interaction itself. The feeling.

A small thread of awareness tugged somewhere in the back of your mind. You couldn't explain it. The exchange had been perfectly normal. Polite. Forgettable. Still, as you lowered the bottle back onto the table, you found yourself glancing up again.

The man sat quietly across from you. No laptop. No notebook. No textbook. No phone. Nothing. The realization lingered for a moment before you dismissed it. Plenty of people came to libraries for reasons other than studying. Maybe he was waiting for someone. Maybe he had finished working and was simply taking a break.

You returned to your article. Another minute passed. Then another. The feeling remained. Concern settled into your chest first. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make you notice.

Outside the windows, students crossed the quad beneath a brilliant autumn sky. Golden leaves danced through the air whenever the wind picked up, scattering across brick walkways before gathering against benches and tree roots. A group of students hurried toward class carrying coffee cups and backpacks while another sat beneath a tree arguing passionately about something that probably felt world-changing.

Life carried on.

The concern lingered. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it became unease. You had lived long enough to know the difference between anxiety and instinct. Anxiety spiraled. Instinct whispered.

This felt like a whisper.

You found yourself paying attention without meaning to. Watching the reflection in your laptop screen. Tracking movement from the corner of your eye. Listening for things you couldn't quite name. The man wasn't reading. Wasn't typing. Wasn't checking his phone. He was simply sitting there. Looking around as if looking for someone. Waiting.

The realization settled heavily in your stomach. Not enough for fear. Not yet. Enough for worry. Enough that old memories began stirring. You had spent lifetimes outrunning people like him. Not this man specifically. The people behind him. The cause. The obsession.

For as long as there had been magic, there had been hunters. They called themselves different things depending on the era. Religious orders. Secret societies. Protectors. Purifiers. Guardians. The names changed. The symbols changed. The methods changed.

The mission never did. They wanted witches gone. Some wanted power. Some wanted answers. Some convinced themselves they were saving humanity.

Entire families dedicated themselves to the cause. Journals filled with names and observations were passed from one generation to the next. Children inherited grudges against people they had never met. Parents taught their sons and daughters that hunting witches was a sacred duty. One generation failed. The next picked up where they left off. Again. And again. And again. The hunt never truly ended. It simply learned patience.

Your fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. The article in front of you blurred. The concern became worry. The worry became recognition. Not of the man. Of the feeling.

The same feeling that had warned you before traps. Before betrayals. Before moments where survival depended entirely upon noticing danger before it revealed itself.

Quietly, you clicked save on your notes. Then saved them again. Just in case. The action felt ridiculous. Paranoid. You almost laughed at yourself. Maybe Agatha was rubbing off on you. You could already hear her voice. "See? This is why I don't trust people." The thought almost made you smile.

Almost.

Instead, you found yourself reaching for your phone. A quick text. Maybe you would head home early. The article could wait. Agatha would be insufferably pleased. Rio would pretend she hadn't expected exactly this outcome. Life would continue. You just needed to leave.

The moment you closed your laptop, the man's expression changed. Only slightly. But enough.. Not dramatically. Just enough. Like someone realizing the game was about to end. Enough that your pulse immediately quickened

You slid the computer into your bag. Reached for your phone. Prepared to stand. Then the man spoke. "I've been looking for you for a very long time."

You blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

The man's smile didn't falter. His gaze swept over you slowly. "You reek of them."

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

"The women you've been hiding with." His smile sharpened. "Their magic is all over you." His eyes never left yours.

"I've been tracking that scent for years. And you… You reek."

Every sound in the library seemed to disappear. The voices. The keyboards. The turning pages. All of it vanished beneath the sudden roar of blood in your ears.  Slowly, you looked up. The smile waiting for you wasn't friendly. It wasn't warm. It wasn't the smile of a stranger making conversation. It was recognition.

And for the first time in a long time, genuine fear unfurled inside your chest. Because nobody should know who you were. Not really. Not after changing names. Not after entire lifetimes spent disappearing before anyone could notice you never seemed to age. Nobody should have been able to find you.

Yet somehow, this man had. And the certainty settling into your bones told you something far worse. He hadn't just found you. He had been hunting you.

The realization hit like ice water down your spine. For a moment neither of you moved. The library continued around you, completely oblivious to the danger sitting quietly between rows of books and half-finished essays. Students typed away at laptops. Someone laughed near the circulation desk. A printer somewhere in the building emitted a noise that suggested it was losing a battle with modern technology.

No one noticed. No one knew. You forced yourself to breathe. One slow inhale. One slow exhale. Maybe there was still time. You had escaped hunters before. You had survived worse than this. Slowly, carefully, you slid your phone into your pocket.

Agatha. Rio.

The thought of them steadied you. You only had to get outside. Only had to put distance between yourself and whatever this was. One call. One text. One warning. They could handle whatever it was. The three of you together. Not alone.

The man watched every movement. Still smiling. Still patient. As though he already knew how this would end.

“Dude. I have no idea what your issue is. But I’d go talk to a doctor if you could smell women on me.” You pushed your chair back. The legs scraped softly against the floor. Ready to leave. Ready to run. Ready to get as far away from him as possible.

You adjusted the strap of your bag. Prepared to stand. Prepared to walk away. Prepared to run if necessary. Then the man spoke.  

"I wondered if you’d recognize me."

Something cold settled in your stomach. Not because you recognized him. You didn't. That was the problem. The certainty in his voice implied history. Familiarity. It implied that somehow, impossibly, this wasn't the first time your paths had crossed. Every instinct you possessed immediately began searching through centuries of memories, faces, names, and places.

You found nothing. The room lurched. At first, you thought it was panic. Then the floor seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your breath caught sharply in your throat as dizziness slammed into you without warning. One hand shot toward the table, fingers gripping the edge hard enough that your knuckles turned white. The polished wood dug painfully into your palm, but you barely felt it.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The realization arrived with startling clarity. This wasn't fear. This wasn't anxiety. Someone had done something.

The room tilted again.

Students blurred at the edges of your vision as though the world had suddenly lost its focus. Sunlight fractured across the library windows, turning into smears of gold and white. The steady sounds of keyboards and turning pages seemed strangely distant.

Your magic surged instinctively. A reflex. A lifetime of survival condensed into a single moment. You reached for it the same way someone might reach for a lifeline. For protection. For escape. For anything. The familiar pulse of power answered beneath your skin.

Then immediately slipped away. Your stomach dropped. No.

You reached again. Harder this time. Desperately. A protection spell. A ward. A rune. Anything that would buy you time.

Your fingers twitched against the tabletop as you attempted to trace a symbol into the wood. The motion was so practiced you didn't even have to think about it. You had cast spells in forests, battlefields, hidden covens, city streets, and burning buildings.

The symbol never formed. The magic dissolved before it could take shape. Like smoke scattered by the wind. A sharp spike of panic shot through your chest.

Power gathered beneath your skin. Then vanished. Again. And again. And again.

Every attempt slipping through your fingers before it could become anything useful. The sensation was horrifying. Not because your magic was gone. Because it wasn't. You could still feel it. Somewhere beneath your skin. Somewhere inside your soul. But something was pulling at it. Draining it. Drawing it away from you thread by thread. Like watching someone siphon blood from your veins while remaining powerless to stop them. The man remained seated. Watching. Patient. Interested. As though he were observing the final stages of an experiment.

Your pulse hammered in your ears.

Agatha.

The thought came instantly. Instinctively. You reached for the bond connecting your souls. For the familiar warmth that always lingered somewhere inside you. The steady presence of Agatha's magic had been a constant in your life for longer than most civilizations had existed. Even when continents separated you. Even when decades passed. Even when circumstances forced distance between you. She was always there.

You reached for her. Nothing. Your breath hitched. Not broken. Not gone. Just quiet.

The absence struck harder than the failing magic. For as long as you had been theirs the bond had been a living thing between the three of you. A comforting awareness resting somewhere beneath every waking moment. You never had to search for it because it was simply there.Now it felt distant. Like hearing a voice from the far end of a tunnel.  Panic clawed its way up your throat.

Rio. You reached again. For her.

For the impossible gravity of her existence that had anchored you through centuries of war, loss, and endless change. For the familiar pull of her soul against yours, constant and unwavering no matter how far apart you were. For the quiet certainty that came from knowing Death herself loved you with a devotion that transcended time, fate, and reason. You reached for the warmth hidden beneath her darkness. For the comfort of her presence wrapping around you like a protective embrace. For the promise she had always represented—that no matter where you wandered, no matter what dangers found you, you would never truly be alone.

For home. For Rio. For the certainty that if you called, she would answer as she promised you she always would. Nothing answered.

Not Agatha. Not Rio. Only silence.

The realization shattered through you. Whatever was happening wasn't merely suppressing your magic. It was isolating you. Cutting you away from the two people who had been at your side for lifetimes.

The room spun violently. Your vision darkened around the edges. Students became indistinct shapes.

The library dissolved into blurs of movement and sunlight. You tried to stand. Tried to force your body to move. Tried one final desperate time to reach for your magic. For Agatha. For Rio. For home. The silence that answered felt endless.

The last thing you saw was the man rising slowly from his chair, picking up your water bottle. Calm. Certain. As though he had known from the moment he sat down exactly how this would end.

Then darkness swallowed everything.

**************

Back at home, Agatha and Rio knew exactly where you were.

The library. Or, more specifically, buried somewhere beneath a mountain of articles, footnotes, and half-finished notes while attempting to track down a source that had probably been hiding from historians since the invention of the printing press.

They had received approximately seventeen texts about a stubborn archive, three complaints about missing citations, and one dramatically worded message accusing a database of personally conspiring against historians.

Neither woman was surprised. This was normal. The two of them had lived long enough to recognize the signs. Once a topic captured your attention, the rest of the world had a tendency to disappear. Hours became minutes. Meals were forgotten. Entire afternoons vanished beneath stacks of books, highlighted passages, and increasingly specific research questions that somehow always led to three more.

Agatha claimed it was one of your most frustrating qualities.

She also secretly adored it.

The small house sat comfortably beneath the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Light spilled through the windows and stretched across hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of living. Books occupied nearly every available surface. Some were stacked neatly on shelves while others had found homes on end tables, windowsills, and chairs because somebody—which Agatha insisted was you and Rio insisted was Agatha—refused to put them away.

A half-finished mug of tea rested on the coffee table. Somewhere in the kitchen, the remains of Agatha's attempted lunch still occupied the stove after she had declared the entire experience "a personal attack."

Rio had laughed so hard she nearly dropped her watering can.

Now she stood near the large windows overlooking the backyard, tending to the collection of plants that had steadily overtaken the house over the years. Vines curled around bookshelves. Flowers bloomed in places flowers had absolutely no business blooming. Small pots occupied every patch of sunlight they could find.

Rio considered this perfectly reasonable.

Agatha disagreed.

Frequently.

Usually while discovering a new plant where a plant had definitely not been the day before.

At the moment, Agatha lounged across the couch with all the dramatic elegance of a woman convinced she was suffering immensely. A book rested open in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in nearly twenty minutes. Every few moments, her gaze drifted toward the front door before returning to the same paragraph she clearly wasn't reading.

"You know," she said eventually, breaking the comfortable silence, "she's been at the library for hours."

Rio didn't look up from the fern she was trimming. "She's researching."

"She's been researching for three days."

The corner of Rio's mouth twitched. "Mm."

Agatha sighed dramatically. "I miss our wife."

That finally earned her a glance. Rio's expression softened immediately. "We'll see her in a few. She’ll come home."

Agatha huffed. "I know she'll come home. I still miss her."

The response drew a quiet laugh from Rio before she returned her attention to the plant in her hands.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees surrounding the property. Leaves rustled softly against one another while sunlight filtered through the branches in shifting patterns of gold and green. Somewhere beyond the forest, a bird called out. The house responded with the familiar creaks and groans of a place that had been lived in, loved, and filled with memories.

Everything felt normal. Comfortable. Safe. The sort of afternoon the three of you had spent countless times together.

Then the bond went dark.

The watering can slipped from Rio's fingers before she even realized she had let go of it. Water splashed across the hardwood floor, soaking into the rug beneath her feet. Agatha was already standing before it hit. The book tumbled from her lap and landed forgotten among the couch cushions as every instinct she possessed immediately snapped toward the sudden absence where your presence should have been.

For a moment, neither woman moved.

The silence that followed felt wrong in a way Agatha couldn't immediately explain. The bond hadn't broken. If it had broken, they would have known. They would have felt it. This was something else entirely.

The connection was still there. Somewhere. They could feel the outline of it lingering at the edge of their awareness. It was like standing outside a familiar house and knowing someone was inside while being unable to see through the windows. Like hearing the faintest echo of a voice and realizing you couldn't make out the words.

The bond wasn't gone. It had been smothered. Buried beneath something unnatural. Agatha felt her stomach drop. The certainty arrived immediately, settling into her chest with terrifying clarity. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Rio."

She barely recognized her own voice. Across the room, Rio slowly lifted her head. Every trace of color had vanished from her face. The sight sent a fresh wave of dread crashing through Agatha because she realized instantly that Rio had felt it too.

The impossible thing. The thing that should not have been possible. For a heartbeat neither woman spoke. Agatha could practically see the thoughts racing behind Rio's eyes as she reached for the bond. Searching. Listening. Looking for any sign of you.

Finding only silence. Not absence. Not death. Silence. And somehow that was worse. You should have been there. A familiar warmth resting quietly at the edge of her awareness. The steady presence she had carried for so long she could no longer remember what it felt like not to have it.

Instead, there was only distance. Distance and a terrifying quiet that seemed to grow heavier with every passing second. Something shifted in Rio's expression. Agatha felt her heart sink. Because she knew that look. She had seen it before.

The look that appeared whenever Rio stopped being merely Rio and became something far older. Something that existed beyond names and faces and centuries. The air in the room seemed to change around her. Leaves trembled on nearby plants despite the absence of wind. A flowering vine slowly curled tighter around the bookshelf beside her as though reacting to something the rest of the world could not feel.

Death had noticed the silence too. Agatha's pulse hammered against her ribs. "Something's wrong." The words left her mouth in a whisper. Neither of them questioned it. Neither hesitated. After everything they had survived together, there was only one explanation for a silence like this. And neither woman wanted to say it aloud.

Rio moved first. Her eyes closed. Agatha watched as her wife reached outward with senses no mortal being possessed. The room seemed to grow impossibly still around her. The leaves stopped moving. The house itself felt as though it were holding its breath.

Rio listened. Not with her ears. With something older. Something woven into the fabric of existence itself. Agatha had watched her do it countless times over the centuries. Watched her locate souls across impossible distances. Watched her sense the final breaths of kings and beggars alike. Watched her know things no living creature should ever know.

For one terrible second, hope sparked inside Agatha's chest. Rio would find you. Of course she would. She was Rio. She was the Original Green Witch. Death. If anyone could find you, it would be her.

Then Rio's eyes opened. The hope died immediately. Because she had never seen that expression on Rio's face before. Confusion. Not uncertainty. Not fear. Confusion. As though she had reached into a place where an answer should have existed and found nothing waiting for her.

"I can't… feel her." The words barely rose above a whisper.

Agatha stared. "What?"

Rio swallowed. The motion looked strangely human. Vulnerable. "I can't feel her Agatha."

The room seemed to tilt beneath Agatha's feet. That wasn't possible. Rio could feel every soul. Every life. Every death.

Every heartbeat moving through the world. She had once located Agatha on another continent without so much as a map. She had found her through wars.Through oceans. Through centuries. And now she couldn't find you?

"No." The denial escaped before Agatha could stop it. Rio's jaw tightened. Agatha reached for the bond again. Harder this time. Desperately. You.

Come on, my love. Answer. Nothing. Only silence. The quiet was becoming unbearable. Agatha suddenly found herself reaching for her phone. Her fingers shook as she opened your messages.

The last text stared back at her. The last ordinary conversation. The last joke. The last piece of normalcy. Her thumb immediately pressed your contact. The call connected. Once. Twice. Three times.

Straight to voicemail. Something cold wrapped around her spine. Not fear. Not yet. Something worse. Because fear required uncertainty. And every instinct Agatha possessed was rapidly becoming certain of one thing.

You were gone.

***********

Consciousness didn’t return all at once.

It came in fragments, slow and disjointed, like something dragging you back piece by piece instead of allowing you to wake naturally. The first thing you became aware of was the cold. It pressed into your back, into your shoulders, into every part of you that touched the surface beneath you. It wasn’t the kind of cold that came from weather. It felt deliberate. Deep. Like the stone itself had been waiting for you.

Then came the sound.

A steady, uneven drip somewhere in the distance. Water striking stone in a slow, echoing rhythm that filled the silence in a way that made it feel heavier. Beneath it, there were voices. Low. Blurred. Too far away to understand, but close enough that you knew they were speaking about something—someone—with intent.

You didn’t open your eyes yet. You listened. You tried to gather yourself. Your body didn’t feel right. It felt… distant. Heavy. As though you had been laid out and forgotten for hours, your limbs no longer entirely under your control. Your breath came shallow at first, catching in your throat before settling into something uneven and strained.

Then you felt it. Pressure around your wrists. That was what forced your eyes open. The ceiling above you came into view slowly, your vision struggling to focus as the world swam in and out of clarity. Rough stone stretched overhead, uneven and cracked with age. Shadows moved across it, cast by a flickering light source somewhere just out of view. The dimness of the space made it difficult to tell how large the room was, but the echoes told you enough.

Enclosed. Maybe underground. Maybe not.

Your gaze shifted. The movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing through you, but you forced yourself to look. Iron. Bands of it. Your wrists were secured above you, stretched just far enough to make any attempt to pull away painful. The metal wrapped tightly around your skin, thick and unyielding, etched faintly with markings that pulsed just beneath the surface. More restraints circled your arms, your torso, your legs. Each one placed with intention. Each one layered.

Not just to hold you. To contain you. Enchanted iron. The realization hit with terrifying clarity. You could feel it. Not just the weight of it, but the magic threaded through it. Crude compared to your own, lacking the nuance and depth you had spent centuries mastering, but effective. Brutal in its simplicity. It pressed against your skin like a constant pressure, like something pushing back against you. Like something that knew what you were.

Your magic stirred instinctively. It rose beneath your skin the way it always had, answering fear with power, reaching outward for something to hold onto— And then it faltered. The sensation made your breath hitch sharply. You tried again. Harder this time. Desperately. A spark. A thread. Anything. The response came in the form of pain.

It tore through you, sharp and immediate, forcing a broken sound from your throat as the magic collapsed before it could take shape. It didn’t disappear. You could still feel it there, coiled somewhere deep inside you, but every attempt to reach it felt like pushing against something that refused to let it through.

Like something was taking it. Draining it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Careful.”

The voice cut through your thoughts. You turned your head toward it, your vision still struggling to steady as figures came into focus. At first, they were little more than shadows moving at the edge of the room, but as your eyes adjusted, shapes became people.

More than one. Several. They stood at varying distances, some closer, some further back, but all of them watching you with the same unsettling focus. Papers were spread across a nearby table. Books. Notes. Objects you couldn’t fully make out from where you were.

This wasn’t random. This was prepared. One of them stepped forward. They moved slowly, deliberately, crouching just enough to bring themselves into your line of sight. You didn’t recognize their face, but something about the way they looked at you made your stomach turn.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even hatred. It was curiosity. Measured. Interested. Like they were looking at something they had spent years trying to find.

“Awake,” someone else said behind them. There was the faint scratch of a pen moving across paper. Recording. Documenting. Your pulse began to pound harder. They hadn’t killed you. That realization settled heavily in your chest as everything else began to fall into place. They hadn’t meant to. They had taken you alive. The horror of that realization was worse than anything else.

Death would have been simple. This was not.

“Let’s begin.”

The words settled into the room with quiet authority, as though this moment had been prepared long before you ever opened your eyes. There was no urgency in them, no uncertainty. Only expectation.

The first question came immediately.

“How old are you?”

You said nothing. Your mind was still catching up, still trying to understand how they had done this, how they had found you, how they had managed to break through protections that had held for lifetimes. Silence felt like the only thing you had left that belonged to you, the only control you could still claim in a situation that had stripped everything else away.

For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the iron tightened. The sensation did not begin as pain. It began as pressure, something deep and invasive that moved through your body rather than against it. The bands around your wrists pulsed faintly, and suddenly it felt as though something inside you had been seized and pulled downward. Your breath caught sharply in your throat as your muscles tensed instinctively against the restraints, your body reacting before your mind could understand what was happening.

Pain followed. Not sharp. Not clean.

It was wrong.

It felt like something reaching into you and pulling at threads that were never meant to be touched, something interfering with the very foundation of what you were. A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, your fingers twitching uselessly against the iron as the sensation spread through your chest and down your spine.

“Answer,” one of them said calmly.

Your jaw tightened as you forced yourself still, forcing yourself to remain silent despite the way your body trembled beneath the strain. You would not give them anything. You would not let them take that from you too.

Another voice spoke, quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “They always try that first.”

The pressure returned, stronger now, more deliberate. It coiled through your chest and into your core, dragging against your magic in a way that made your vision blur at the edges. You could feel it then, unmistakably—something pulling at your power, not violently, but with precision. Testing. Measuring. Learning.

You bit down hard enough to taste blood.

Still, you did not answer. “Who is in your coven?”

The question landed heavier than the first. Your silence was immediate. The response came just as quickly. The iron flared again, and this time the pain spread outward, radiating through your limbs in a slow, grinding wave that made it difficult to breathe. It wasn’t just pain. It was depletion. You could feel something being taken alongside it, drawn from you in careful increments, as though they were deliberately avoiding taking too much at once.

Your breath came uneven as you tried to steady yourself, your thoughts scrambling for something to hold onto.

Agatha. Rio. Home.

The names rose instinctively, but the comfort that should have followed did not come. That silence pressed harder now, more suffocating than the restraints themselves.

“Who else do you know?”

The voice came from closer this time, the speaker stepping just within the edge of your vision. You forced your gaze toward them, your sight still struggling to focus as their features came into view. There was no anger in their expression. No cruelty. Only interest.

That was worse. You remained silent. A pause followed, but it was not hesitation. It was assessment.

“Record that,” someone said behind them. “Subject resists initial questioning.”

The word hit harder than the pain had. Subject. Not person. Not witch. Subject.

The iron pulsed again, and this time the sensation drove straight through your core, tearing through the place your magic should have been strongest. You felt it then in full—something siphoning it away, drawing it out in thin, controlled threads. Not enough to destroy you. Just enough to weaken you.

Your body arched instinctively against the restraints, a strained sound escaping your throat as the pressure intensified. Somewhere in the room, someone murmured in quiet approval.

“Responsive,” a voice noted.

“Expected,” another replied.

The questions did not stop. They came faster now, layered over one another with increasing precision. Names you had used. Places you had lived. Moments in history you had witnessed. Some spoken outright, others referenced indirectly, as though they were watching for reactions more than answers.

They were not searching. They were confirming.

“Salem.” The word cut cleanly through everything. Your breath stilled. “You were there.”

It was not a question. It did not need to be. Cold dread spread through your chest as you forced yourself not to react, not to give them even the smallest confirmation. But they were watching too closely. You could feel it in the way their attention sharpened, in the subtle shift of their posture.

“Mark that,” someone said quietly.

“Physiological response noted.”

Your stomach dropped. They were not just listening to what you said. They were reading everything else. The iron tightened again, and the pain followed, deeper now, more invasive. It dragged through you like something searching, probing the limits of what your body could endure. Your magic responded reflexively, trying to rise, trying to defend—

And once again, it was pulled away. Drained. Thread by thread.

“Fascinating,” someone murmured.

You forced your eyes open fully, locking onto the nearest figure you could focus on. You needed to see them clearly. Needed to understand what you were facing. What you saw only made the dread deepen.

There was no chaos here. No frenzy. Everything was organized. Intentional.

Crosses had been carved into the stone behind them, faint but unmistakable. Old designs, altered over time, stripped of their original purpose and reshaped into something functional. Tools were laid out nearby, not scattered but placed with care, each one positioned as though it had a specific role to play.

This had not been improvised. This had been built. Refined. Passed down. They had not simply found you. They had been preparing for you. Or someone like you.  The room quieted again, just slightly, just enough that the next question settled into the space with unsettling clarity.

“How do you keep surviving?”

The voice was softer now, almost contemplative. Your heart stuttered.

“What makes you so special?”

The words lingered, heavier than the rest, because they were not asked out of ignorance. They were asked because they believed there was an answer. And as the iron held you in place, as your magic slipped further from your grasp, as your connection to Agatha and Rio remained silent in a way that should not have been possible, one terrible truth settled deep into your bones.

They didn’t need you to speak. They had time. And they were willing to take everything from you until you did.

*******

The house no longer felt like home.

It felt like a place waiting for something to break.

Every room held a quiet that had long since stopped being peaceful. The usual sounds—the soft settling of wood, the distant rustle of leaves outside, the faint creak of old floorboards—seemed sharper now, louder in the absence of your presence. Even the light filtering through the windows felt wrong, too still, too unmoving, as though the day itself had begun to hesitate.

Hours went by.

Neither of them stopped. Neither of them rested. Neither of them even remembered what it felt like to breathe without effort.

Agatha had lost track of how many times she had tried to reach you. The calls blurred together in her mind—your name lighting up her screen, the sound of it ringing into nothing, the inevitable drop into silence. At first she had left messages, her voice steady out of habit, out of denial, as though you would hear them later and laugh about how dramatic she had sounded. By the fourth, her voice had cracked halfway through your name. By the fifth, she had said nothing at all.

Now her phone sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, the screen dark, the last message still open as though it might somehow change if she looked at it again.

She had turned to magic instead. Not the careful, practiced kind she preferred. Not the kind that required thought or structure. This was something older. Sharper. Pulled from instinct rather than intention. She had searched the house first, every room, every corner, every place you might have returned to without them noticing, even though she knew—knew—that you were not there. After that, the spells had become less precise. More desperate. None of them had worked.

Rio had stopped pretending to be human somewhere around the second hour. It wasn’t a decision she made consciously. It simply… slipped. The careful balance she maintained, the quiet restraint that allowed her to exist in the world without overwhelming it, began to unravel piece by piece as the silence where you should have been stretched longer and longer.

The air around her changed first.

It grew colder, not sharply, but steadily, until Agatha became aware of it in the way one notices a storm approaching before the sky fully darkens. The warmth that had filled the house only hours before began to drain away, replaced by something heavier, something that pressed against the skin and settled into the bones.

Then the plants began to react. Leaves turned slowly toward her, as though drawn by something unseen. Vines tightened around their supports, curling inward instead of reaching outward. A flower that had been in full bloom that morning began to wilt, its petals softening and folding in on themselves as though the force sustaining it had weakened.

Agatha noticed. Of course she did. She had seen this before. She had seen what happened when Rio lost control. But never like this. Not with you missing. Not with the bond still there and yet impossibly silent, as though something had wrapped around it and smothered it without breaking it completely.

Rio stood in the center of the room, utterly still, her eyes unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with distraction. She was reaching outward in ways no human mind could comprehend, stretching her awareness across distances that bent the very edges of reality. Agatha could feel it happening without even trying, the subtle shift in the world around them, the quiet imbalance creeping into things that had always existed in harmony.

The line between life and death was not meant to be disturbed. And Rio was disturbing it. Not out of recklessness. Not out of anger. But because she was searching. Because she could not find you. And that was something the world itself did not know how to withstand. Agatha paced. Relentlessly.

Back and forth across the length of the house, her movements sharp and uneven, her thoughts racing faster than she could keep up with them. Every possibility surfaced at once, colliding into one another until she could no longer separate them. Hunters. Old enemies. Forgotten grudges. Spells cast centuries ago that might have left something lingering. Mistakes she had made. Things she had overlooked. Protections she should have strengthened.

Her hands shook. She hated that. Hated the loss of control. Hated the way fear was beginning to seep into places she had spent lifetimes fortifying against it. “We’ll find her.”

Rio’s voice cut through the room. Calm. Too calm. Agatha turned toward her immediately, the movement sharp enough to betray everything she was trying to hold in place.

“Rio—”

“We’ll find our wife.”

The words were steady.

Certain.

And that certainty was what made them terrifying. Because Rio wasn’t calm. Agatha knew her better than anyone. That voice was not calm. It was contained. There was something vast beneath it, something ancient and immeasurable pressing against the edges of her control. Terror, grief, and something far more dangerous were being held in place by nothing but willpower, compressed into a single line of certainty that threatened to fracture at any moment.

“It’s been hours,” Agatha said, and she hated how her voice sounded. Thin. Strained. Not quite breaking, but close enough that she could feel it.

“I know.” Rio did not look at her when she answered. She did not need to. She knew. Of course she knew. She felt time differently than Agatha did. She felt the presence of life and the absence of it in ways no one else could. She understood what it meant for you to be missing in a way that went beyond distance.

And still—

She couldn’t feel you. The house creaked softly as something shifted in the distance, a quiet reminder that the world had not stopped, even if it felt like it had. Neither of them moved. Neither of them stopped.

It was somewhere around the sixth hour that everything changed.

Agatha had been moving again, her pacing carrying her into the far end of the house where older wards still lingered beneath the surface of the walls. This part of the house held history in a way the rest of it did not. Layers of magic had been built here over decades, reinforced and reshaped with each life the three of you had lived within its walls. Some spells had been cast in protection, others in desperation, and a few in quiet moments of fear that none of you had ever spoken about afterward.

The air here always felt different. Heavier. Aware. It was the kind of place where magic did not simply exist—it remembered. That was where she felt it.

At first, it was nothing more than a flicker at the edge of her awareness, so faint she might have dismissed it under any other circumstance. But there was nothing normal about this moment, and Agatha had lived too long to ignore something that felt even slightly out of place.

She stilled instantly. Every muscle in her body went rigid as her senses sharpened, her awareness stretching outward as she reached for the disturbance again. It was subtle, buried beneath layers of interference that made it difficult to grasp fully, but once she found it, once she let herself feel it—

Recognition struck like a blade. Familiar. Wrong. Her breath caught in her throat.

No.

That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Her mind reached for it anyway, dragging the sensation forward whether she wanted it or not. The shape of it settled into place first, not visually but instinctively, like something her magic had learned to recognize long before her mind could name it. Then came the intention behind it, the way it pressed against the edges of her awareness with something deliberate, something crafted, something meant to bind and suppress.

And then came the memory. Not one. Many. Layered. Repeated. Recognition didn’t come from a single moment. It came from a pattern. From the slow, horrifying realization that this was not new. That this feeling—this mark, this presence—had existed before.

They had hunted you all before.

Not once. Not by chance. But with purpose. In another life. Another century. Agatha staggered back a step, her hand catching against the wall as the memory fully took hold. It wasn’t just the knowledge of it. It was everything that came with it, every piece she had buried, every moment she had refused to revisit because it had come too close to ending everything.

She remembered the chase. The fear that had settled into her bones when she realized someone was tracking you—not randomly, not blindly, but with intent. She remembered the way you had tried to brush it off at first, how you had insisted it was nothing, how you had smiled through it even as the danger grew closer.

She remembered how late they had been. How they hadn’t understood what was happening until it was already too close, too real, too dangerous to ignore.

She remembered the moment they almost found you. How close they had come. How easily it could have gone differently. How easily they could have lost you before they ever had the chance to build the life they now took for granted.

And now—

Now all she could see was that moment repeating, not as a distant memory but as something unfolding again in real time, something she could not stop no matter how hard she tried. Only this time, she wasn’t there. This time, she hadn’t arrived yet. This time, you were already gone, and there was nothing between you and whatever had taken you.

A sharp, uneven breath tore from her chest, the sound breaking free before she could contain it. Her grip tightened against the wall, fingers digging into the surface as though she could anchor herself against the weight of the realization settling into place. It was crushing in its certainty, undeniable in a way that left no room for hope to exist untouched.

“I can’t do this again.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

They weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. Rio went completely still. The shift was immediate and absolute, the kind of stillness that did not belong to anything human. The air in the room seemed to tighten around her, as though something vast had suddenly drawn inward, collapsing into a single point of focus centered entirely on Agatha. Even the house seemed to react, the faint creak of wood and rustle of leaves outside falling into an unnatural quiet, as though the world itself had paused in recognition.

Because Agatha did not say things like that. Not after everything they had survived. Not after centuries of standing unshaken in the face of things that should have broken her. Agatha Harkness did not admit fear.

Not like this. Not ever. But this wasn’t just fear. This was memory pressing too close to the surface. This was loss that had never truly left them. This was the echo of something that had already nearly destroyed all three of you once before.

Rio turned slowly.

For the first time since the bond had gone quiet, her attention shifted fully back to Agatha. The searching stopped. The reaching stopped. Everything that had been stretching outward across impossible distances collapsed inward in an instant, focusing entirely on her.

There was no need for explanation. No need for clarification. She knew.

She knew exactly what Agatha had felt the moment that sigil brushed against her awareness. She knew exactly what memory had surfaced, what fear had followed, what conclusion Agatha had already reached before she spoke the words aloud.

Nicky.

Not just the absence of him. Not just the grief that had followed. But the life you had all shared together before everything broke. His absence. The aftermath that had followed. The way it had hollowed something out inside all of you, leaving behind a grief that had never fully faded, only settled into something quieter over time but never truly gone.

The way the house had felt too large, too empty, every room holding echoes of something that was no longer there, every silence heavier because it used to be filled with him. She remembered Agatha in those first days, the way she had moved through the world like something hollowed out, her sharp edges dulled by a grief so profound it stripped everything else away and left something fragile in its place.

She remembered you, too.

The way you had held on even as you were breaking, the way your hands had still reached for them without hesitation, grounding them in something that refused to disappear. The way you had refused to let either of them vanish completely into that loss, even when it would have been easier to fall with them. The way you had stayed, had endured, had kept loving them through something that should have ended all of you. The three of you had not walked away from that loss unchanged. You had survived it together.

Barely.

And now—

Now that absence was pressing in again, creeping into the edges of everything they had rebuilt. Not the same. But close enough that it made something deep and instinctive recoil in recognition. Too close.

Agatha met her gaze, and for once there was no deflection, no sharp wit to soften what she was feeling, no distance placed between herself and the truth of it.

“I cannot lose her.”

Her voice was steady. But the fear beneath it was unmistakable, raw in a way Agatha never allowed herself to be. It wasn’t the kind of fear that panicked or scattered. It was the kind that settled deep, rooted in knowledge, in memory, in the understanding of exactly what it would mean if they failed.

For a moment, Rio said nothing. The stillness stretched between them, heavy with everything that did not need to be spoken aloud, every memory shared, every loss carried, every piece of you that existed in both of them.

Then something shifted. Subtle, but undeniable. The control she had been holding fractured, just enough for the truth beneath it to surface. Not outwardly, not in a way that would shake the world yet, but internally, where the weight of what she was containing had nowhere left to go. For the first time since the bond had gone silent, the depth of her own fear became visible. It was quieter than Agatha’s. Contained in a way that made it no less devastating. But it was there. Clear. Unavoidable.

“We won’t.”

The words were not whispered. They were not uncertain. They were not something she was trying to convince herself of. They were a promise. And this time, the certainty did not feel contained.

It felt inevitable.

*****

They thought they were prepared.

That belief had been built carefully over years, over generations, passed down like doctrine alongside prayer and scripture. The building itself reflected that kind of thinking. It stood half-forgotten on the far edge of old church property, its stone walls weathered by time and neglect, its windows clouded with dust and age. The air inside was thick with the smell of damp wood, old incense, and something metallic that lingered too long to be anything but blood.

It was the kind of place no one questioned.

The kind of place no one came looking.

Inside, everything had been arranged with intention. Symbols carved into the floors and walls layered over one another in careful, obsessive patterns, twisting older magic into something rigid and cruelly efficient. Iron had been shaped and reshaped, etched with runes stolen, altered, and forced into purpose, each band designed to suppress, to drain, to break. Candles burned low in uneven rows, their flames flickering weakly as though even light struggled to survive in a place like this.

They had built this place to hold something powerful. To contain it. To study it. And at the center of it—

You.

Bound. Bruised. Barely holding on.

Your body felt foreign, like something you were trapped inside rather than something you controlled. Dark bruises had bloomed across your ribs and arms where the restraints held you too tightly, where they had tightened them again and again when you refused to answer. Your wrists were raw, the skin split in places where iron had rubbed and bitten too deeply, dried blood flaking where it had been left too long.

There were cuts you didn’t remember receiving. Thin ones. Deep ones. Some fresh, others already healing unevenly, your magic trying and failing to keep up with the damage being done. Every breath scraped painfully through your lungs, your chest tight and aching, your body trembling beneath the strain of exhaustion and whatever they had been doing to pull your magic from you.

It never stopped. That feeling. That pulling. That slow, relentless draining that left you weaker each time it flared. Tears slipped down your face despite your efforts to stop them, trailing through dirt and dried blood, your vision blurring as another voice cut through the haze.

“Answer me.” It was sharper now. Less patient. “How long have you lived like this?”

You said nothing. Your silence had long since stopped being tolerated. The iron responded immediately, tightening with a violent pulse that sent a wave of pain tearing through your body. Your breath broke into a gasp, your back arching instinctively against the restraints as the force reached inside you again, pulling at your magic, dragging it downward like something trying to strip you from the inside out.

Still—

You didn’t answer.

“Who taught you?” another voice demanded, closer this time. “Who gave you this power?”

Your head dipped forward, your strength faltering as you tried to stay present, tried to hold onto something that wasn’t this room, these voices, this pain. Agatha. Rio. Home. The names felt distant now, like something just out of reach, something you could almost grasp if you just—

“Look at me.” A hand caught your jaw, fingers digging in as your head was forced upward. Pain flared along your neck, your vision swimming as you tried to focus on the face in front of you. “Who else is with you?” they pressed. “How many are there?”

Your lips parted. No sound came. You shook your head weakly, not in answer, but because it was the only movement left to you. A mistake. The iron flared again. This time it tore through you so sharply your body jerked hard against the restraints, a broken cry slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Your fingers curled uselessly as your magic tried to rise in response, tried to defend—

And was dragged back down. Stolen. Thread by thread.

“Stupid girl.” The words were muttered, dismissive, edged with frustration rather than rage. “You think silence protects you?”

Another voice, colder. “You think we haven’t already learned enough?”

A hand released your face abruptly, letting your head fall forward again as your breath came in uneven, shaking pulls. Your body felt too heavy to hold upright, every muscle straining just to keep you conscious.

“We know what you are,” someone continued, pacing just out of view. “We know what you’ve done. The lives you’ve lived. The places you’ve been.” A pause. “We know you were there.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Salem. New York. Chicago. Philly. Spain. France.”  The word cut through everything. Your breath stilled, your body going rigid despite the exhaustion weighing you down. They noticed. Of course they did.

“See?” one of them said quietly. “She hears it.”

“She knows we’re not lying.”

The scratch of a pen followed, calm and methodical. Your chest tightened painfully. They weren’t guessing. They weren’t searching. They were confirming.

“How do you keep trying to heal?” another demanded. “Why do you persist when others don’t?”

Your silence stretched. The iron tightened again. Pain followed. Deeper now. More invasive. It dragged through your very soul, through the place your magic should have been strongest, pulling harder this time, more deliberately, as though they were growing impatient with how little you were giving them. Your body trembled violently against the restraints, your breath breaking, your vision darkening at the edges.

“Answer,” they snapped.

You couldn’t. Even if you wanted to. Your voice felt gone. Your strength was gone. All that remained was the refusal.

“Useless,” someone muttered.

“No,” another corrected quietly. “Not useless.” A pause. “Not yet.”

You were so tired. Your head fell forward again, your body sagging against the restraints as the room blurred further, the voices around you fading into something distant and indistinct. Your heart stuttered unevenly in your chest, your breathing shallow, your magic barely more than a faint, flickering presence beneath your skin.

You had promised them you would be careful. The thought came dimly. You had promised. Another tear slipped free, tracing slowly down your temple, catching briefly at your ear before disappearing into your hair.

You tried, one last time, to reach for them. For Agatha. For Rio. For the bond that had never failed you before.

Silence answered. It wasn’t just absence. It was suffocating.

It pressed in around you, heavy and unrelenting, settling into your chest in a way that made it harder to breathe. For the first time in longer than you could remember, the bond did not answer. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. Nothing but a vast, endless quiet where something warm and constant had always been.

Your chest tightened painfully. So, this was how it ended. Not in fire. Not in some final, desperate stand. But here. Alone.

A weak breath slipped from your lips, your body sagging further against the restraints as the last of your strength bled out of you. The room blurred at the edges, the voices around you fading into something distant and indistinct. You barely registered the movement anymore, the presence of them, the way they circled and watched and waited.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing did.

Your head dipped lower, your vision slipping further into darkness as your heartbeat stuttered unevenly in your chest. Your magic flickered faintly beneath your skin, no longer something you could reach, only something you could feel being taken.

A slow, quiet ending. You almost welcomed it.

Then—

Something broke. It wasn’t loud at first. Not the way you expected. It wasn’t an explosion or a crash or anything that made immediate sense.

It was wrong.

A deep, splitting force that moved through the building like a fracture racing through bone. The walls trembled faintly, dust loosening from the ceiling in a soft, drifting fall that caught in the candlelight. The voices around you faltered, confusion rippling through the room as heads turned toward the source of the sound.

You didn’t lift your head. You couldn’t. Your body didn’t respond the way it should anymore. Another impact followed.

Closer. Stronger. The structure groaned under it, the sound of stone protesting as something struck again with enough force to carry through every surface, every wall, every layer of protection they had built into this place.

Your breath caught. Not from the pain. From something else. Something instinctive. Something that reached deeper than exhaustion. Magic. Not theirs. Not the crude, stolen thing they had twisted into control.

This was something else entirely. Something familiar. The air shifted. Even from where you hung, barely conscious, you felt it. A change in pressure. A change in presence. The kind of shift that didn’t belong to the physical world so much as something layered just beneath it.

Hope hurt.

It tore through your chest so sharply it almost felt like pain, your body reacting before your mind could follow. Your fingers twitched weakly against the restraints, your head lifting just slightly as your breath hitched in something dangerously close to disbelief.

No. No, that wasn’t—

Another strike. This one shattered something. You heard it. Felt it. The crack of something breaking apart under force it had not been built to withstand, followed by a surge of energy that rippled through the structure of the building itself.

And then—

Magic answered. It didn’t slip into the room. It tore into it. Purple light burst through the outer space, violent and undeniable, crashing against the wards with a force that made them flare in resistance before splintering apart. The symbols carved into the walls flickered erratically, their structure failing under the pressure as something far stronger pressed through them without hesitation.

Your name followed it. You didn’t know if you heard it or imagined it. It cut through everything. Sharp. Breaking. A sound that did not belong to the composed, controlled woman you knew.

Agatha.

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as something inside you surged in response, weak but desperate and alive. She was here. She found you. The room erupted into motion around you. Voices rose in sharp, overlapping commands, the careful control they had maintained fracturing into something urgent, something unsteady.

“She’s breached the outer—”

“How did she—”

The next impact silenced them. It wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t measured. It was fury.

The doorway to the outer room gave way under the force of it, splintering inward as wood and stone broke apart in a violent collapse. Purple magic followed, crashing through the space like a storm finally unleashed, tearing through the protections they had built as though they had never existed at all.

Agatha stepped through it. Not careful. Not restrained. Her power moved with her, not something she wielded but something that surged outward, striking anything that stood between her and the space beyond. The air itself seemed to burn with it, thick and charged and impossible to ignore.

Her eyes scanned the room. Searching. Feral.

“Where is she?” Her voice cut through everything, sharp and breaking in a way that sent something twisting painfully through your chest.

You tried to answer. Tried to make a sound. Nothing came. Your body failed you again, your head dropping as your strength slipped further away.

But she was closer now. You could feel it. Her magic pressed against the edges of the room, overwhelming, tearing through what remained of their defenses as she pushed forward without hesitation.

They had prepared for her. They had expected her. They thought they understood what she was. They were wrong. Because Agatha was not the thing they should have feared most.

The shift when Rio entered was not loud. It was not violent. It was quiet. Terribly, horribly quiet. Every candle in the room went out at once. Not flickering. Not dimming.

Gone.

Darkness swallowed the space for a fraction of a second before the dim, fractured light from the outer room spilled inward again, but it felt different now. Heavier. Thicker. As though the absence of light had weight to it.

The enchanted symbols carved into the walls shuddered visibly, the magic within them collapsing inward like something suffocating. The iron around your wrists pulsed once, sharply, before going still, its force faltering as something far greater pressed into the space.

The air changed. Cold. Not the kind that came from temperature. The kind that came from absence. From something being removed. Every person in the room felt it. They didn’t understand it. But their bodies did.

Their breathing faltered. Their movements slowed. Something deep and instinctive recoiled all at once, a recognition older than thought, older than belief. One of them turned. Slowly. And saw her.

Rio did not need to move. She didn’t need to raise her voice. She didn’t need to do anything at all. Her presence alone bent the space around her, reality thinning slightly in acknowledgment of something that had existed long before anything in that room had been built. The balance they had tried to control, to manipulate, to cage—it shifted the moment she stepped inside.

“What are you?” one of them whispered.

The question trembled. Not with curiosity. With fear. Rio looked at him. And when she spoke, her voice did not rise.

“The reason your heartbeat has an ending.” The words settled into the room like something final. And then—

Everything gave way.

Power surged outward from her, not cast, not shaped, but released. It moved through the space like something ancient and inevitable, something that did not need permission to exist. The foundation of the building shuddered violently, cracks racing through stone as the air itself seemed to buckle beneath the weight of it.

The guards dropped.

Some collapsed instantly, their bodies hitting the ground with a dull, final weight that echoed too loudly in the ruined quiet, as though whatever force had been holding them upright had simply… let go. Limbs slackened mid-motion, weapons slipping uselessly from their hands, their chests no longer rising as they struck the stone floor without resistance.

But others remained.

Frozen. Rooted where they stood as if something deeper than instinct had seized control of their bodies and refused to release it.

Their weapons hung loose in their hands, fingers no longer tight enough to grip, their knuckles pale and trembling. Their breaths came shallow and uneven, each inhale catching like it might be their last, each exhale stuttering as though their bodies were already beginning to understand something their minds could not yet grasp.

They stared. Not at Agatha. Not at the destruction she had carved through their defenses.

At Rio.

Watching. Unable to move. Unable to look away. Unable to understand what they were seeing—but understanding, somehow, that they should not have been seeing it at all.

Fear rooted them in place. Not fear of death. Something deeper. Something older. The kind of fear that bypassed thought entirely, that lived in bone and blood and memory, something passed down long before language had ever given it a name.

Because they could feel it now. The shift. The imbalance. The wrongness of the air pressing in around them, thick and suffocating, as though the room itself had begun to collapse inward under the weight of something it was never meant to hold.

They had not captured something powerful. They had taken something that belonged to something older than power. And it had come to take you back. For one suspended moment, no one moved.

The outer room trembled in the aftermath of shattered wards and broken magic, the remnants of their careful preparations flickering weakly along the walls before dying out completely. The smell of burned sigils and cracked iron filled the air, sharp and acrid, mixing with the damp rot of the building and the faint metallic tang of blood.

Dust drifted slowly downward from the fractured ceiling, catching in the dim light that struggled to hold against the growing darkness. The silence that followed was not empty.

It was waiting.

Then—

Agatha heard you. It was barely a sound. A broken thing. A soft, uneven gasp that scraped out of your chest like it hurt to exist at all, like every breath was something your body no longer remembered how to do. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t clear. It shouldn’t have carried this far.

But it did. And it cut through everything. Through the silence. Through the fear. Through the magic still thrumming violently in the air. It cut through her with a precision no spell could ever match. Her head snapped toward the source instantly.

Not here. Not in this room. Beyond. Through the reinforced door at the back—the one layered in thicker wards, deeper carvings, heavier iron. The one they had guarded more carefully than anything else. The one they had hidden you behind.

You. Another sound followed.

A weak, fractured groan, your breath catching again as your body struggled to remember how to function. Every inhale seemed to fight against something inside you, your chest rising unevenly, your shoulders trembling under the strain of simply staying alive.

Even from this distance. Even through stone and failing magic. She could hear it. And it was wrong. So wrong it made something violent twist in her chest. You didn’t know where you were. You didn’t know what was real.

Somewhere in the haze of pain and exhaustion, drifting at the edge of consciousness, you thought—maybe—you heard them. Maybe your mind was trying to comfort you. Maybe this was the last kindness your body would give you before everything stopped. Maybe you were already gone.

Another gasp tore from your lungs, sharper this time, your body jerking faintly against the restraints as the cold and the pain and the exhaustion all collided at once. Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest, uneven and wrong, the rhythm faltering in a way that should not have been possible.

Rio’s head snapped up. Agatha was already moving. Nothing else mattered.

Not the hunters. Not the men still standing, still watching, still frozen in place as their understanding of the world unraveled around them. Not the building shaking under the strain of broken wards and unleashed power. Not the magic, wild and furious and barely contained.

Just you.

She didn’t even feel the distance as she crossed it, her body moving faster than thought, faster than breath, her magic surging ahead of her in a violent, uncontrolled wave. It struck the reinforced door before her hand ever reached it, slamming into the symbols carved into its surface with enough force to make them flare in desperate resistance.

The carvings burned. The magic within them screamed. Ancient patterns twisted and strained, trying to hold, trying to obey the purpose they had been given. They failed.

Purple cracked through them like lightning splitting open a storm, fracturing the symbols, shattering the magic beneath them as though it had never existed at all. The iron embedded in the structure bent under the force, a sharp, metallic scream tearing through the room as the entire doorway buckled inward.

Another broken sound came from inside. Weaker. Closer. Agatha didn’t hesitate. The door exploded inward. Wood splintered. Iron tore free. Stone cracked and gave way as her magic ripped the entire structure apart, sending debris scattering across the floor in a violent collapse. Dust filled the air, thick and choking, as the barrier between you and her ceased to exist.

She stepped through it without slowing. Without thinking. Her focus locked onto the center of the room— And everything stopped. Because there you were. Bound. Bruised. Bleeding.

Your body sagged against the restraints, your head barely lifted, your skin pale beneath streaks of blood and shadowed with deepening bruises. Cuts marked your arms, your shoulders, your ribs—some shallow, some not—each one a testament to what had been done to you while she hadn’t been there. Your chest rose unevenly, each breath a struggle, each inhale fragile in a way that made something inside her fracture completely.

Agatha moved before the dust had even settled.

She was at your side in an instant, her hands already reaching for you, already shaking before they even touched you. For a split second, they hovered, just above your skin, like she was afraid—

Afraid you might not be real. Afraid you might disappear if she moved too fast. Then Rio stepped fully into the room. The shift followed her. It didn’t surge.

It collapsed.

The magic holding you snapped under the pressure of her presence alone, the iron restraints cracking with a sharp, splintering sound before tearing free from your wrists and falling uselessly to the floor. The runes carved into them burned out in an instant, whatever power they held extinguished like a candle in a storm.

You dropped. Agatha caught you. Her arms wrapped around you immediately, pulling you against her chest with a force that bordered on desperation, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other bracing your body as though she could hold you together just by refusing to let go.

“My love. We’re here.” Her voice broke. She didn’t try to hide it.

Her hands moved over you, frantic and searching, brushing your hair back from your face, fingers trembling as they traced the line of your jaw, the bruising already blooming there, the dried blood at your temple. She checked your wrists next, her breath catching sharply at the sight of them—raw, split, marked with deep impressions where the iron had bitten into your skin.

Too tight. Too long.

Her fingers pressed lightly over your ribs, your shoulders, your sides, trying to map the damage, trying to understand how much of you was still holding. Your breathing. She needed to feel you breathing. You gasped again. It wasn’t a full breath. It scraped. Caught. Your chest barely rose under the effort, your body trembling weakly against hers as though even that small act was too much.

Rio was beside you now. Too still. Too focused. But her hands—

They shook. Barely. But enough. Enough that Agatha felt it without looking. Your heart skipped. Just once. But it was wrong. Rio felt it instantly.

“You… you found me…” you rasped, the words barely forming, your voice splintering apart as it struggled through your throat. Your lips trembled with the effort, your breath hitching painfully between each broken syllable as though even speaking cost more than your body had left to give. Your fingers twitched weakly against Agatha’s sleeve, a faint, instinctive attempt to hold onto her, to anchor yourself to something real before everything slipped away.

Agatha felt it. That small, fragile movement. It nearly undid her.

“Yeah, babe… we’re here… my brave girl.”

Her voice softened around the words, but there was nothing steady beneath them. Her hands tightened around you as she pulled you closer, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other cradling your head against her shoulder like she could physically keep you here, like she could hold your soul in place if she refused to let go.

She pressed you closer than she should have. Closer than your injuries allowed. She didn’t care. Her eyes moved over you again, slower this time, more deliberate, as if she could force herself to understand what she was seeing if she just looked hard enough.

And this time—

She saw it. Not just the bruises. Not just the blood. She saw you. How far gone you were. Your skin had gone pale beneath the mottled bruising, a sickly contrast that made every mark stand out more violently. The cuts along your arms and collarbone looked darker now, your blood no longer bright but dulled where it had begun to dry, where it had soaked into fabric and skin alike. Your breathing didn’t flow—it stuttered, uneven and shallow, your chest barely rising beneath her hand. Your body wasn’t holding itself up. It was leaning into her because it had nothing left. Because you couldn’t. Her stomach dropped. Her hands stilled for half a second.

Her eyes widened. Panic didn’t creep in. It hit. Hard. Fast. Complete. She pulled back just enough to look at you again, her gaze darting across your face, your throat, your chest, searching for something—anything—that told her you were still here in a way she could fix.

Her mind moved too fast. Spells. Bindings. Healing. Blood magic. Anything. Everything. There had to be something. There had to be—

“Aggie…” Your voice dragged her back. It was weaker now. Fainter. Like it had to travel too far to reach her.

Her gaze snapped back to you instantly, her hands tightening again, her entire body curling instinctively around yours as if she could shield you from everything—pain, death, the world itself.

“I’m here, I’m right here—don’t—don’t go anywhere, stay with me—” Her words tripped over each other, no longer careful, no longer controlled.

You turned your head. Just barely. Your vision swam, unfocused, your eyes struggling to land on anything clearly as they drifted past Agatha and found Rio. She was already looking at you. She hadn’t looked away. Her brown eyes were wide, too wide, something breaking behind them in a way that didn’t belong to someone who had existed as long as she had.

“Rriioo…” you tried again. But the word didn’t come out right. It broke. Your breath caught halfway through, your chest stuttering as your body tried to pull in air and failed. The sound that followed wasn’t breath—it was wet, fractured, a faint, choking gurgle as blood slipped where it shouldn’t, as your lungs struggled to do something they no longer knew how to do.

Agatha felt it before she fully understood it. The wrongness. The shift. Her breath hitched violently. “No—no, no—no—”

Rio broke.

“Don’t make me do my job,” she sobbed, the words tearing out of her, raw and shattered and human in a way that felt impossible for something like her. Her hands hovered helplessly for a moment before finally reaching for you, afraid and desperate all at once. “Please… don’t make me do my job—please—”

Agatha’s head snapped toward her. Panic sharpened into something desperate. Something feral.

“RIO, IF YOU TAKE HER, I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU,” she gasped, her voice cracking completely now, every ounce of control gone as her grip tightened around you like she could anchor you through sheer will alone. “Don’t do this to me again—don’t you fucking dare—fix it—fix it now—please, my love, please—”

Her forehead pressed hard against yours, her breath uneven and shaking as her hands trembled against your body, trying to keep you here, trying to force your body to respond, to breathe, to stay.

You tried. You really did. But everything was slipping. The room blurred, the edges of it softening, fading into something indistinct and unreachable. Their voices stretched and warped, like they were being pulled further and further away from you with every passing second.

Your body felt too heavy. Too distant. Like it no longer belonged to you. The last thing you felt was them. Agatha’s arms around you. Rio’s hand against yours. Their warmth. Their fear.

And then—

Everything went black.

*****

At first, there was nothing.

No pain. No weight pressing down on your chest. No cold biting into your bones. The ache that had been consuming you was simply… gone, replaced by a quiet that felt impossibly gentle. It wrapped around you without pressure, without expectation, like something that has been waiting patiently for you to arrive.

The world returned slowly, unfolding around you in soft, golden layers. The scent of wildflowers drifted through the air, warm and sweet, carried on a gentle breeze that brushed against your skin like a memory you didn’t have to fight to hold onto. The sky stretched endlessly above you, impossibly blue, the sunlight spilling across the field in soft waves of warmth that settled deep into your bones.

You knew this place.

Not as it ended.

But as it once was.

The lake shimmered nearby, light dancing across its surface in quiet, shifting patterns. The sound of water against the shore is steady and grounding, a rhythm that feels older than everything that came after. You could hear the tall grass moving in the breeze, the soft rustle anchoring you in something real. Something peaceful.

Warmth spread through your body, slow and steady, filling the hollow spaces left behind by pain. It settled into your chest, your arms, your hands, until you realized you are no longer shaking.

You were no longer hurting.

You we’re

At peace.

Then you heard it.

A laugh.

Soft at first, like something carried on the edge of memory, but unmistakable in the way it reached into you and pulled. It grew clearer with each passing second, bright and unrestrained, and your chest tightened before you even understood why.

A boy’s laugh.

The sound settled into you like something sacred, something you had held onto for so long it became part of you. Hearing it again felt like remembering how to breathe after forgetting.

And then you saw him.

Running toward you.

Small, bright, alive in a way that made your breath catch painfully in your chest.

Nicky.

His laughter carried across the field as he ran, his arms already reaching for you, his feet kicking up soft grass beneath him. The sunlight caught in his hair, turning it gold at the edges, wrapping around him in something warm and glowing.

You didn’t think. You didn’t question. Your arms were already open, reaching for him before your mind could catch up, your body moving on instinct alone as he closed the distance between you.

He collided with you in a burst of laughter, the impact small but real, and you wrapped your arms around him instantly, pulling him close, holding him tighter than you ever dared to before.

He was warm. So warm. Your hands pressed against his back, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he might slip away if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

“Mama!”

The word broke something open inside you.

You laughed and sobbed at the same time, the sound catching in your throat as you buried your face in his hair, breathing him in. He smelled like everything you remember—sun-warmed air, soft earth, something clean and bright that is entirely him.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you pulled back just enough to see his face. Your hands came up to cup his cheeks, your thumbs brushed softly over skin you thought you would never touch again. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”

He smiled at you as if nothing had changed. Like you were never apart. And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself believe it.

Your breath caught again, sharper this time, not from fear but from the overwhelming need to look. Really look. Your eyes traced every part of him, memorizing, drinking him in like you were afraid the world might take him again if you didn’t hold onto every detail.

Your thumb brushed just beneath his eye, your touch reverent, like you were confirming it again and again—like if you traced the shape of him enough times, you could make this real in a way that wouldn’t disappear.

He wasn’t pale.

He wasn’t fading.

There were no shadows beneath his eyes, no fragile stillness in the way he held himself. His cheeks were full of life, warmed by the sun, his skin glowing in a way you had only ever imagined in quiet, desperate moments you never let yourself linger on for too long.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sick.

The realization settled slowly, gently at first—and then all at once, overwhelming in its weight. You felt it in your chest, in your throat, in the way your hands tightened just slightly against his face, as if acknowledging it too fully might break whatever fragile miracle this is.

He looked—

Healthy. Whole. Alive in a way you never got to keep. Your gaze flickered over him again, softer now, deeper, taking in the small details you never realized you had memorized. The shape of his eyes, the way they held steady when he looked at you, something grounded and quietly knowing that felt achingly familiar.

Agatha.

You saw her in him so clearly that it almost stole the breath from your lungs. The depth of it. The quiet intensity beneath the surface. The way something bright lived just behind his smile.

And Rio.

In the warmth of his skin, sun-touched and glowing. In the curve of his smile, in the steadiness of his gaze. In the way something ancient and gentle seemed to exist within him, even now.

He is both of them. He is all of you. Perfectly, impossibly yours.

Your chest tightened, something tender and painful blooming there as you held his face just a little closer, your fingers trembled against his skin as you tried to take in everything at once, as if you could carry it back with you.

As if you could keep him.

Your thumb brushed just beneath his eye again, your touch soft, reverent. “My little love,” you whispered, your voice quiet and breaking all at once. “You look…” Your breath stutters. “So much like your Màmi and Mommy.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. And you didn’t take them back. Nicky’s smile didn’t falter when you said it.

If anything, it softened.

Something in his eyes shifted—not confusion, not surprise, but something deeper, something that felt like understanding far beyond what he should’ve been capable of. He leaned into your touch just slightly, as if grounding himself there, as if he wanted you to feel him, to know that he is real in this moment.

“I know,” he said gently.

The words were simple, but they settled into your chest with a weight that felt intentional.

Your breath caught again, and for a moment, you just looked at him. Really lookedd at him. Your hands still cradled his face, your thumbs brushing faint, absent circles against his skin like you were afraid to stop, afraid the moment you do, this will end.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t need to.

Your hands remained where they were, cradling his face, your thumbs brushing slow, absent circles against his skin as if the motion itself could keep time from moving forward. You let yourself feel him—really feel him—the warmth of him beneath your palms, the softness of his cheeks, the steady, easy way he breathed.

Real. So real. For a moment, the world narrowed to just this. Just you and him.

The breeze moved gently through the field, lifting the edges of his hair where it brushed your fingers. The scent of wildflowers lingered in the air, warm and familiar, wrapping around you both as the sunlight settled across your shoulders. It soaked into your skin, soft and golden, warming your face, your hands, the space between you.d

You exhaled slowly.

Not from exhaustion. From something deeper.

Relief.

Your hands slide from his face, not letting go, just moving—one settled at the back of his neck, the other pulled him closer as you drew him into you again. He came easily, like he always had, fitting against your chest as though he belonged nowhere else.

Because he didn’t.

Your arms wrapped around him fully now, holding him close, your chin resting lightly against the top of his head. You felt the weight of him there—small, solid, steady in a way that your body recognized immediately, something it had always known how to hold.

The sun pressed warm against your back.

The grass shifted softly beneath you.

And for a moment—

Everything was still.

You breathed him in again, slower this time, letting it settle into your lungs, into your chest, into something deeper than memory. His arms came around you in return, easy and certain, no hesitation, no fear—just presence.

Just him.

Your fingers pressed gently into his back, grounding yourself in the shape of him, the way he fit beneath your hands. You let your eyes fall closed, your cheek resting lightly against his hair as the quiet stretched, unbroken, and full.

You didn’t rush it. You didn’t reach for anything else. You just… held him.

Feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against you, the peace of it settled into your bones.

And for the first time in so long—

You let yourself have this.

Completely.

The moment stretched. Not fragile. Not fleeting. Just full.

You stayed there, holding him, your breath slow and even, your body no longer fighting, no longer bracing for what came next. The warmth of the sun settled deeper into your skin, the breeze soft against your arms, the quiet wrapping around you like something that didsn’t need to be questioned.

Nicky shifted slightly in your arms. Not pulling away. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak. You feel it before you hear it—the subtle change in him, the way his weight adjusts, the way his head tilts just enough beneath your chin.

“Tell Mommy and Màmi I love them,” he said softly.

The words were simple. But they settled deep.

You didn’t pull away right away. You didn’t rush to answer. You just held him for a second longer, letting the words exist between you, letting them take root somewhere inside your chest where you knew they would stay.

You nodded, your hand lifted just slightly to brush through his hair, smoothing it back the way you’d done a thousand times before.

“I will,” you whispered.

And you meant it. Every part of you did.

He shifted again, just enough eto look up at you. You followed the movement naturally, your hands easing back to his face, your thumbs brushing faintly along his cheeks as your gaze found his again. There was no fear there. No hesitation. Just that same steady, quiet certainty.

“It’s not your time yet, Mama.” The words landed differently than you expected. Not sharp. Not breaking.

They didn’t tear through the moment or shatter it—they settled into it, as natural as everything else had been. Like something you already knew, something you just hadn’t said out loud yet.

Your breath left you slowly. Not in resistance. Not in panic. Just understanding. Your forehead rested gently against his, your eyes slipping closed for a brief moment as you let it settle fully into you. The truth of it. The shape of it. The way it didn’t feel like something being taken, but something being given back.

“I know,” you murmured softly.

And this time—

You did.

Your hands lingered on his face just a moment longer, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes in one last, quiet motion. You took him in again—not because you were afraid to lose him, but because you could. Because you were allowed to have this moment exactly as it was.

You felt the weight of him settled against you again—solid, warm, real in a way that made your chest ache with it.

You pressed your cheek into his hair, slower this time, letting yourself linger there. Breathing him in. Not just once. Again. And again. Like you were trying to carry it with you. The scent of him—sun-warmed air, soft earth, something bright and alive—sank deeper into your lungs, into your chest, into something that felt like it would stay long after everything else faded.

Your hand moved gently against his back, slow, absent, familiar. The kind of touch that didn’t need to think. The kind that had existed in you for as long as he had.

You felt his breath against you. Steady. Easy. Alive. There was no wheeze. No crackle in his chest. Just clear, strong, steady breath.

And for a moment—

You let your eyes close. Not to hold on.

But to feel it fully. Every part of it. The warmth of the sun across your shoulders. The softness of the breeze moving around you. The quiet. The peace. Your son in your arms.

“I love you,” you whispered.

The words didn’t break. They didn’t rush. They settled into him, into you, into the space between you like something that had always been true and always would be. You felt him shift slightly against you, just enough to tilt his head, his voice soft and close where it brushed your shoulder.

“I love you too, Mama.”

Your breath caught. Your fingers tightened faintly against him, not enough to hold him back—just enough to feel him there. To know.The moment didn’t shatter.It didn’t slip. It held.Like the world itself paused around you, giving you this—fully, completely, without taking it away too quickly.

You stayed there. Just a second longer. Letting it settle. Letting it become something you would carry. “Be strong, Mama.”

And then—

Something shifted. Not abruptly. Not cruelly. Just gently. Like the tide beginning to turn. The warmth began to change. Your arms loosened—not because you had to, but because you understood.

Because you knew.

The field softened at the edges, the light dimming just slightly, the scent of wildflowers faded, the breeze stopped as the world gently began to let you go.

And this time—

You didn’t reach for him. You didn’t need to. Because you know he wasn’t leaving you. Not really. He was never gone.

****

Something broke.

Not the world you just left.

You.

Pain hit first.

Not slowly.

Not gently.

It crashed into you all at once, violent and consuming, tearing through every inch of your body like your nerves had been lit on fire. Your chest seized, ribs locked tight as if they’ve forgotten how to expand, your lungs refused air for one terrible, suspended second—

And then—

You gasped.

It ripped out of you.

Raw.

Broken.

Air clawed its way into your lungs like something foreign, burning as it forced its way down, catching halfway before your body jerked, trying to pull more, trying to survive. The movement sent pain lancing through your ribs, your shoulders, your wrists—every place they touched you, every place they broke you.

Too much. It was too much. Your throat tightened, something wet catching there—blood—and your next breath stuttered, uneven, breaking into a sharp, choking sound that tore through your chest instead of filling it.

And then—

Warmth. Not sunlight. Hands. You felt them before you understood them.

Agatha.

Her arms were wrapped around you, pulling you tight against her chest, one hand braced at your back, the other cradling your head against her shoulder like she was afraid you might slip away if she loosened her grip even slightly. She was holding you too close, too tightly—but you didn’t have the strength to move, to protest, to do anything but feel her.

She was shaking. You felt it in the way her body trembled around yours, in the uneven rise and fall of her chest, in the way her breath stuttered where it brushed your temple.

Something warm hit your cheek. Then again.

Tears. Her tears. They slipped down from her face onto yours, warm against your skin, trailing along your temple, catching against your jaw. You felt them without opening your eyes, the way they fell unchecked, the way she didn’t try to hide them.

“—No, no, no, stay with me—stay with me—” Her voice is shattered. You’ve never heard it like that before. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you—please, don’t you leave me, do you hear me—”

Her hand shifted, gripping at your sleeve, your arm—no, your hand. You felt it then, your own fingers barely curled, weak and unresponsive, tangled in the fabric of her clothing. You held her without even realizing it.

And she felt it. Her breath caught violently. “There—there you are—baby, come on—come back to me, my love—”

Another presence grounded you. Rio. Her hands were at your chest—firm, steady, one pressed just beneath your collarbone, the other lower, anchoring you in place. You felt the difference in her touch immediately. Not frantic. Not searching. Focused. Controlled. But trembling beneath it.

And then—

Magic. It moved through you. Not around you. Through you. It flooded your veins like warmth and pressure all at once, threading into your chest, your ribs, your lungs, forcing something inside you to remember. It didn’t hurt—not like everything else—but it’s overwhelming, filling every hollow space left behind.

You felt her. Ancient. Steady. Terrified.

“Breathe,” she said, her voice low, strained beneath the control she was forcing into it. “Come back. Stay with us—stay—you’re okay. Everything will be okay.”

Your body didn’t want to listen. It hurt too much. Every breath was wrong; every movement splintered with pain. But something responded. A weak inhale dragged into your lungs again, uneven, stuttering—but there. Alive. Your chest spasmed with it, your ribs protested, your body shaking as it tried to catch up, to follow, to survive.

And beneath it—

Another thread. Faint. Soft. Familiar yet new. It brushed against your chest, your heartbeat, your breath.

Nicky.

Not fully there. Not like before. But felt. Like warmth lingering after a touch. Like something left behind just long enough to guide you back.

Your heart stuttered—

Then catches. Then beats. Stronger. Agatha let out a broken sound, something between a sob and a gasp as she felt it, her grip tightened instinctively as she pressed her forehead against yours, her breath shaking where it brushed your skin.

“There you are—there you are—good girl, stay with me, baby, please—”

Her voice broke completely on the last word, the sound of it raw and unguarded in a way you had never heard before. It trembled through her chest and into yours, where you’re pressed against her, where she refused to let you go.

Rio’s hand pressed firmer against your chest. Her magic surged again—steadier now, deeper—threading through you with purpose, anchoring, holding, forcing your body to stay where it belonged.

“Again, sweetheart,” she said, low and steady despite the strain beneath it. “Breathe again. I know it hurts—fight through it.”

You did. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t easy. It felt like dragging yourself through broken glass just to take in air—but it came.

Another breath. Then another. Each one stuttering, uneven, catching halfway before forcing deeper, dragging pain with it—but filling your lungs all the same.

Your fingers twitched. Stronger this time. Still weak. But yours.

They tightened just slightly against Agatha’s sleeve, grasping without thought, holding on like your body knows exactly where it needs to be- even if your mind hadn’t caught up yet.

 Agatha saw it. Felt it. Her breath caught again, her hand immediately closed over yours, pressing it tighter into her chest like she needed to feel the proof of you there.

“That’s it—good—don’t let go—”

Your eyelids fluttered. Heavy. Pain dragged through your body again as your chest rose, your ribs protesting, your lungs still learning how to work.

Tears slip from your eyes this time. Not from grief. From pain. From breath. From being alive.

Your eyes opened. Just barely.

The world bleeds in slowly—blurred shapes, dim light, shadows flickering against walls lined with something ancient, something familiar. Candles burn low, their flames steady but soft, casting gold across wards carved deep into the wood and stone. The air hums with layered magic, thick and protective, wrapping around you like something that refuses to let harm reach any further.

And you know it.

Not just the magic.

The place.

A memory settled into you as your vision struggled to focus—old wood, incense, the quiet weight of protection woven into every inch of the space.

A house.

One from decades ago.

One tucked far from everything.

Close to Lilia.

To Jen.

To Alice.

Safe.

They brought you somewhere safe.

The realization settled slowly, heavily, as your breath stuttered again, your chest rising unevenly against Agatha as your body continued to fight its way back.

Your lips parted.

It took effort. More than it should’ve.

“Aggie…” you rasped, the word breaking apart as it left you, your voice raw and barely there.

Her name. It was enough.

Agatha made a sound—half sob, half laugh—her forehead pressed harder against yours as her hand moved to cradle your face more firmly, her thumb brushed against your cheek like she was afraid to lose the feeling of you.

“I’m here—I’m here, Sunshine. I’ve got you—”

Your gaze shifted. Slow. Heavy.

“Rio…” it came softer, thinner, but still yours.

Rio exhales sharply, something in her posture breaking just slightly, her hand still steady against your chest, still holding you there.

“I’m here,” she said, quieter now. “You’re safe, Sweetheart. Stay with us.”

Your throat tightened. Not from pain this time. From something else. “I’m… I’m sorry…” You managed the words catching, fragile, and uneven. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

Rio’s hand shifted immediately, her other hand rose to your face, steady, grounding. “No,” she said, firm but soft, cutting the words off before they could fully form. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

There was no hesitation in it. No doubt. Only certainty. “You hear me?” she added, quieter now, her thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “Nothing.”

Agatha nodded against you, her grip tightening again, her voice still shaking but resolute. “Not a single thing.”

Your breath stuttered again, your chest tightening as emotion rose too quickly for your body to keep up with. Tears slipped more freely now, trailing down your temples, into your hair, across Agatha’s hands where she’s holding you.

You’re here.

You’re alive.

You’re in their arms.

But it—

It hurts.

The realization hit all at once, your body catching up fully now, every bruise, every cut, every place they touched you flaring awake like it had been waiting. Your ribs ached with every breath, your wrists burned, and your throat tightened as the taste of iron flooded your mouth.

Blood.

You swallowed instinctively.

A broken sound slipped from you before you could stop it, your fingers tightening weakly against Agatha’s sleeve as your face twisted, your body trying to curl in on itself despite the way she was holding you together.

“It—” your voice fractured, barely more than air. You tried again, breath catching. “It hurts…”

The words are small.

But they break something open.

Agatha’s grip tightened instantly, her hand coming up to cradle your face more firmly, her thumb brushing frantically along your cheek as if she could soothe it away.

“I know, I know—baby, I know—”

But Rio moved. Fast. Controlled. Purposeful.

Her hand left your chest for only a second, and you felt the absence of it immediately—like something vital slipping away—before she reached for something just out of view.

Glass.

Liquid.

Magic.

She’s back just as quickly, one hand returning to your chest, steady, grounding, while the other brought the vial up.

“I know,” she said, her voice low, firm, but threaded with something softer underneath. “I know it does, my love.”

Her thumb brushes once, briefly, against your collarbone, anchoring you there as her gaze lockd onto yours.

“But you’re still here,” she continued, quieter now. “You’re so brave. So strong.”

There’s no exaggeration in it. No softness meant to comfort. Just truth.

“You made it back to us.” Agatha shifted slightly, helping guide you as Rio tilts the glass toward your lips, her hand steady despite the tremor you can feel beneath it.

“Easy,” Agatha murmured, her voice still shaking but gentler now, her forehead brushing yours again. “Just a little—”

The rim touched your mouth. Warm. Faintly bitter. You hesitate—not from fear, but from instinct—your body unsure of anything right now.

“Trust me,” Rio said quietly.

You do. Your lips parted. The potion slid into your mouth, thick with magic, and the moment you swallowed it.

It burned. Not like the pain that was tearing through you. Different. Deeper. It spread fast, threading through your chest, your ribs, your throat, pushing into every place that hurt and demanded it to mend.

You gasped softly against it, your body tensing as it worked through you, your fingers tightened again against Agatha’s sleeve. “Still hurts—” you breathed again, weaker this time, more breath than voice.

“I know,” Rio repeated, softer now, her hand pressed more firmly against your chest as her magic followed the potion, guiding it, steadying it. “Let it. It’s helping to heal you.”

Agatha’s hand never left your face, her thumb brushed away fresh tears as they fell, her other arm tightened around you like she was holding you through every second of it.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “We’ve got you.”

And you believed her. Even through the pain. Even though the way your body still shook. Because you’re here. You’re breathing. You’re in their arms.

Alive. Broken. But still theirs.

The realization settled into you slowly, not all at once, but in quiet, steady waves that moved through your chest with each uneven breath. The pain was still there, sharp and insistent, but beneath it—threaded through it—was something stronger.

Warmth.

Safety.

Them.

Your body shifted before you fully thought about it, instinct pulling you closer as your fingers tightened faintly in the fabric of Agatha’s sleeve again. Holding onto it like a lifeline holding you here to her. You leaned in, your head turning just slightly, your breath still unsteady as you pressed more fully into her chest, seeking something grounding, something solid.

She adjusted immediately. She always did.

Her arm tightened around you, one hand sliding more securely along your back, supporting you as you moved, as if she already anticipated what you needed before you could ask for it. Her other hand remained at your face, her thumb brushing softly along your cheek, slower now, gentler, as though she was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath her touch.

Your eyes lifted to hers. It took effort. More than it should’ve. But you did it anyway. Her face was still too close, her expression still fractured with relief and fear and something softer beneath it all, something that only ever existed when she looked at you like this.

Like you’re her everything.

Your lips parted slightly, your breath catching—not from pain this time, but from something quieter, something instinctive. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

You just lean. It was small. Barely there. But she understood. Agatha always understood.

Her breath stuttered, her gaze softened instantly as she closed the distance the rest of the way, her hand steadying your jaw as she leaned in. The kiss she pressed to your lips was impossibly gentle—careful, reverent—like she is afraid even this might hurt you.

It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t desperate. It is relief. A quiet, trembling confirmation that you are here. That you were breathing. That she had you. Your lips moved faintly against hers, weak but real, and you felt the way her breath caught at that, the way her hand tightened just slightly at the back of your neck as if grounding herself in the moment.

When she pulled back, it was slow.

Reluctant.

Her forehead lingered against yours, her breath still uneven as it brushed across your lips.

Rio was there before the space could settle.

You felt her shift closer, her hand leaving your chest only long enough to move upward, her fingers brushing gently along your jaw, tilting your face just slightly toward her. There was something quieter in her movement, something steadier—but no less full.

Her eyes meet yours. Searching. Confirming.  And when she leaned in, her kiss was just as soft. Just as careful. Her lips pressed lightly to yours, grounding rather than claiming, her hand steaded against your face as though she was anchoring you here—in this moment, in this body.

Alive. Her breath lingered for a second when she pulled back, her forehead resting briefly against yours, her thumb brushing once beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

Neither of them rushed. Neither of them let go.

You remained between them, held, supported, their hands on you, their presence wrapped around you from both sides as your breath continued to stutter and settle, your body still shaking, still healing, but no longer alone in it.

And for the first time since the pain returned—

You didn’t feel like you were fighting it by yourself.

Your lips parted again.

It took effort.

Your throat still burns, your chest still tight, the taste of blood lingered at the back of your mouth—but the words sat there, pressing forward, something you neededd to give them.

Your fingers tightened faintly where they still clung to Agatha, grounding yourself before you try.

“Nicky…” you managed, your voice rough, fragile, barely more than breath.

Both of them stilled.

Completely.

You felt it.

The way Agatha’s body went rigid around you, the way Rio’s hand stilled against your chest, her magic faltering for just a fraction of a second.

The room seemed to hold its breath with them.

You swallowed, wincing faintly as it pulled against your throat, your gaze flickering weakly between them.

“He… asked me…” your voice caught, breath stuttering, but you pushed through it. “He asked me to tell his Mommy and Màmi…”

Your chest rose again, uneven, your grip tightened just slightly as emotion pressed in behind the words.

“That he loves you.”

Silence.

Not empty.

Not hollow.

Full.

Agatha broke first.

A sharp, shattered inhale that turned into something dangerously close to a sob as her hand came up to your face again, trembling, her forehead pressing harder against yours like she needs to stay anchored there.

Rio closed her eyes.

Just for a second.

But you saw it.

The way her composure fractured—not outwardly, not in the way Agatha did—but inward, something deep shifting beneath the surface as her hand pressed more firmly against your chest again, like she was grounding herself through you.

Through your heartbeat.

Through your breath.

Through the fact that you came back.

“You saw him…” Agatha breathed, the words barely there, breaking apart as they left her.

You nod.

It’s small.

But it’s enough.

“He wasn’t—” your voice faltered again, softer now, something almost fragile in it. “He wasn’t sick…”

Agatha let out another broken sound, her grip tightened as her hand slid into your hair, holding you closer, her breath unsteady against your skin.

Rio exhaled slowly.

Controlled.

But not unaffected.

“Of course he wasn’t,” she murmured, quieter now, her thumb brushing once, gently, against your collarbone. “He wouldn’t be.”

Your chest tightened, but not from pain this time. From something softer. Something that lingered. You were still shaking.

Still hurting. But here. And they heard him. Through you.

And somehow—

That mattered.

It settled into the space between all three of you, quiet and heavy and full, something sacred in the way it existed without needing anything more.

You remain where you are, held between them, their hands still steady on you, their presence wrapped tightly around your broken body as your breath continues to even out, your heartbeat steadier now beneath Rio’s hand.

Alive.

Still healing.

Still hurting.