An Encounter With Death - RioxAgatha - AgathaxRio

1

The night was thick with the stench of burnt flesh and the acrid smell of singed magic. Agatha stood at the center of the devastation, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Bodies lay scattered around her, lifeless, drained, their once vibrant forms now hollow husks. The remnants of her coven, women she had once trusted, lay crumpled in the dirt, their faces frozen in the terror of their final moments. The ground was scorched where their magic had met hers, the air still humming with the energy of what had transpired.

Agatha's hands trembled as she stared at them, fingers stained with the dark essence of what she had done. She hadn't meant for it to end this way. But they had left her no choice. They had turned on her, attempted to take her life, and in a desperate surge of survival, she had taken theirs. Their power had been too much—too intoxicating, too consuming—and now it coursed through her veins, burning with a vicious intensity.

A sob tore from her throat, but she swallowed it down. There was no room for weakness now, no time for grief. The world felt still, unnaturally so, as though the very air held its breath, waiting for what would come next.

And then she felt it—a presence, ancient and cold, weaving through the shadows that clung to the edges of the clearing. Agatha's pulse quickened, her senses sharp as the temperature around her plummeted. The night seemed to grow darker, the stars above dimming, as if the very essence of life was being drained from the world itself.

She turned slowly, her heart pounding in her chest, and that's when she saw her.

Rio.

She stood at the edge of the clearing, bathed in the faint, eerie glow of moonlight. Her dark robes flowed around her like liquid shadow, and her eyes gleamed with an unsettling light, cool and calculating. She moved with a grace that seemed both effortless and dangerous, her presence a force that commanded the attention of the very air around her.

Agatha felt her throat tighten. She knew who this was. She didn't need an introduction—every witch knew her name, whispered it in hushed tones when speaking of the inevitable. Death.

"Agatha Harkness," Rio said, her voice low and smooth, carrying across the clearing with an unnatural clarity. It was not a question. She knew exactly who she was.

Agatha's breath caught in her chest. There was no mistaking the power radiating from the woman before her. It was different from the raw, chaotic magic of the witches she had just slain. This was something deeper, something older—a power that transcended life itself.

"What do you want?" Agatha asked, her voice steadier than she felt. She could sense the weight of the souls that lingered in the air, the spirits of her fallen sisters, hovering on the edge of existence, waiting to be claimed.

Rio's gaze swept across the carnage, her expression unreadable. "I think you know."

Agatha swallowed hard. Of course, she knew. Death had come to collect what was hers.

"They attacked me," Agatha said, her voice soft, the words slipping from her lips like a confession. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

Rio's eyes flicked back to her, sharp and penetrating, as though she could see straight through the defenses Agatha had built around herself. "Didn't you?"

The question lingered, a razor-edged truth that cut deeper than Agatha cared to admit. She wanted to deny it, wanted to say that it had been self-defense, that she had acted in desperation. But the truth gnawed at her insides. She had felt it, in the heat of the moment—something dark, something hungry, awakening within her as she drew their magic into herself, feeding off their power like a parasite.

"I didn't have a choice," Agatha whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of it.

Rio took a step closer, her movements fluid, almost predatory. "We always have a choice."