Chapter Text
Agatha jolted awake with a gasp, her chest heaving as though she had been dragged out violently from her dream. Cold sweat beaded down her temple and clung to her skin, but her fingertips burned, pulsing with a strange heat.
The sensation lingered. Flexing her fingers, she tried to shake the unease. She noticed tendrils of grey ash curling around her fingertips, only to dissipate with the breath that was caught in her throat.
Was she truly awake?
Nervously, she traced the locket at her throat, attempting to ground herself in its familiar contours. It was a piece of history handed down through generations - a single thread to a lineage she had long since culled.
She had learned to distrust such visions, but she couldn’t shake this one. Her magic, despite its power and how effortlessly it absorbed what should overwhelm her, could not dispel the terrors of her dreams.
Taking a deep breath, Agatha tossed the blankets aside, forcing herself to rise. The house groaned in response, mirroring her unease. Magic in the air was thick and musty. Each step she took made the floorboards creak beneath her. The stones and wooden beams breathed raggedly, as if the house itself had learned to exist on the cusp of life and death, always on the verge of collapse but never quite yielding.
In the corner of the room, the fire in the hearth had extinguished during the night, its embers casting flickers of light across the room. The shadows danced erratically along the shelves of books and odd tinctures, unsettled. Her home had grown louder over the years, but never like this.
She dressed in silence, pulling her long cloak over her shoulders. As she fastened it at her throat, she felt the weight of purpose settle around her.
Agatha made her way toward the door, her steps steadying with each movement. She had to leave. The dream’s whispers still echoed in her mind, and the restlessness in her chest wouldn’t subside. There was a pull in the air tonight, something drawing her away from her home and into the darkness.
…
Outside, the night was cool, the fog curling low across the ground. Agatha stepped into the mist. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional flicker of movement in the corners.
It wasn’t long before she found herself at the edge of the open market, its stalls still bustling despite the late hour. This place was different at night—it was filled with those who sought illicit desires and those who pursued their business in alleyways. Here, among the haggard faces and desperate eyes, whispers traveled, carrying secrets too dangerous to be exposed under the sun's gaze.
Agatha moved swiftly through the market, her cloak billowing behind her as she passed vendors selling various trinkets and elixirs. The air carried a thick scent of herbs and incense, mingling with the stench of something acrid. Rats scurried and squealed against the wet cobblestones. She paused near a group of men hunched over in a circle by a crooked building, their voices low, murmuring words she barely caught.
“...I hear of a masquerade… a gathering of those… dark magic…”
Her ears pricked at the mention of dark magic. Agatha took a step closer, her presence unnoticed by the men as they continued their hushed conversation.
“... it’s at the noble's estate, not far… those with ties to the old ways. Forbidden runes and witchcraft.”
One of the men glanced around nervously, his eyes darting toward the alleyway behind him before continuing. “It’s said there’ll be those who know of the tome.. or at least, its whereabouts."
" It's only a myth," another scoffed.
Agatha’s breath caught. Was it the cursed book she had been searching for? The Darkhold? Her heart raced.
The men scattered, their conversation fading into the night, but the information had already taken root in Agatha’s mind. A gathering. Arcane forces. And perhaps, a lead to what she most desired.