Petals of the Damned

Season of The Witch

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Agatha was now a covenless witch.

She drifted through the countryside like a shadow, weaving in and out of small towns under cover of night. Each town had rumors of witches and their whereabouts, covens hidden behind closed doors and barred windows - with the right questions, she found their hiding spots. Each encounter left her stronger, more volatile. The magic she stole layered within her like rings of a tree, fueling her. She was past stopping. Besides, she needed more than magic. She needed food, supplies, clothes - she was alone now, after all.

She moved fast, barely stopping to savor her victories. One witch was ambushed at a secluded creek, her power siphoned before she could scream; another cornered in an abandoned chapel, her body left cold on the altar. All were easily goaded into striking. It became almost effortless, Agatha's patience sharpening to a blade she wielded with merciless precision. Each stolen spirit, each ounce of borrowed strength, throbbed inside her like a drug.

Yet every time she struck, Agatha felt it - the faintest prickling at the back of her neck, as if someone were watching from just beyond the shadows. The presence was familiar, and she attuned it to the night she killed her mother and coven. Maybe it was regret? No...that couldn't be right. The feeling lingered, growing more tangible with each kill, until after two months of being on the run and six witches dead, she could almost sense the shape of her pursuer, the intensity of those eyes. She was certain it was the mysterious woman from that night.

After her seventh kill, Agatha felt the presence stronger than ever. The air was thick with magic and blood, the faint scent of iron mingling with damp earth. She wiped her hands clean on her skirt, eyes scanning the treeline as her heartbeat slowed. This time, though, she didn't see only darkness.

A figure stood there, cloaked in shadows but unmistakably present. The woman's form was shrouded in black, her silhouette blurring against the night sky, but her eyes - piercing and haunting - fixed on Agatha like twin daggers. For a moment, neither moved; they stared at one another across the clearing.

Agatha's breath caught, and for the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of something close to longing. She wanted to say something - demand an answer, maybe, or at least find out why this stranger had been haunting her every step.

She called out, "You know, if you're a witch hunter here to kill me, you're a pretty awful one."

The woman made no sound, no movement, only staring at her with a calm that felt ancient, like she'd seen Agatha a thousand times before. The silence stretched on, thick and stifling, until Agatha's fists clenched with frustration. This woman had applauded her once, teased her, but now hid in the shadows - her intentions were unclear, and that made Agatha nervous.

The woman's gaze softened, almost as if she wanted to say something. Her lips parted, the faintest spark of emotion flickering across her otherwise stoic face. But just as quickly, she seemed to think better of it. Her expression closed, and she took a single step back, fading into the darkness. She was alone again.

The next day, weary from travel, Agatha picked her way along a winding forest path. Her mind was still consumed by thoughts of the woman - her silence, her gaze that seemed to consume Agatha. She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice the steep bank until it was too late. Her foot slipped, and she tumbled down, branches and stones scraping her skin until she landed hard on a patch of damp earth.

Pain shot through her leg, and she bit back a curse, brushing off dirt to reveal a deep, raw scratch along her whole calf. She pressed a hand to it and grit her teeth. Panic pricked her skin as she tried to focus and call forth a healing incantation, but her mind felt hazy - she needed to study more.