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The air was thick with the stench of decay, her coven’s bodies already beginning to rot in the overwhelming humidity of the greenwood.
The young witch wailed, feeling sinful, perhaps her mother was right?
Maybe she could not be good.
Here she was, basking in the stolen power while her mother lay dead.
Not far, a figure stood. Her dark eyes flickered between the witch and her dead coven, debating if she should reveal herself to the girl or do her job and leave.
OR: Agatha and Rio meet.

