It’s raining. Of course it is. It always rains when witches give birth. Not just water — but thunder, like the Earth mourning what’s about to happen. You lie back, soaked in pain and power, blood and magic between your legs. Alone. Until you’re not.

The air ripples — folds in on itself — and suddenly the shadows gather on the ground.

Rio.

She doesn’t warn. She never has.

Her boots sink into the wet ground. Her coat is wet, but her eyes? Dry. Sharp. Still beautiful in that way that once made you forget everything else. Still terrifying.

She sees you — your legs trembling, the baby half-born, your face pale and tear-streaked. And she says nothing.

Not at first.

Then—

“He’s ready.”

Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid to wake something more ancient than either of you. Or maybe just pretending she’s still gentle.

You clutch the small, sticky body against your chest — not even crying yet, just warm and real and yours — and you can’t help it. You beg.

“No—no, not yet, Rio. Please, please. Give me time.”

Your voice cracks. The world cracks with it. A shelf falls off the wall. Candles blow out. But she doesn’t flinch.

“Agatha,” she says, soft as a curse. “You knew this moment would come. You knew. I’m being merciful.”

“This is my child.”

“No. This is our mistake.”

You scream then, not in pain — that’s already passed — but in something worse. A ripping grief that floods the forest.

“Don’t call him that. Don’t call him that. You said— you said I could have this. You promised.”

Rio walks toward you, slowly, like death in a beautiful coat.

“I promised you a taste. Not forever. You knew he would burn too bright. You know what he is. You always did.”

“He’s just a baby.”

“He’s a flare. A breach. If we don’t contain it now, it becomes something no one can hold.”

You shake your head. Clutch him tighter. You’d kill her. You’d die for him. You’re not sure which would happen first.

“Then let me hold him a while longer.”

Rio finally looks down — really looks — at the child in your arms.

A flicker of something passes over her face. Not quite mercy. Not quite guilt. Maybe love, in the twisted way she feels it.

She kneels, just barely.

“Okay.”

You stare.

“Okay,” she repeats. “But I’ll come back. You don’t hide. You don’t run. I will find him, Agatha.”

Her hand brushes your wrist. Cold. Gentle. Final.

“Name him. Wrap him. Burn this into your soul. Because after then… he won’t remember you.”

And she leaves. The shadows pass. The night holds you both like a secret. For who knows how long. Maybe a day. Maybe forever…