Darkness came first.
Not the gentle kind that followed sleep, but the suffocating dark that pressed inward, heavy with memory. The kind that carried heat, screams, and the smell of burning flesh.
Agatha was a child again.
She stood barefoot on cold stone, toes numb, the hem of her dress torn and blackened. Smoke clawed at her lungs, thick and bitter. The village square once bright with banners and laughter had collapsed into a ring of fire. Houses burned like offerings. The church bell rang once, cracked and wrong, then fell silent.
She remembered the sound most of all.
Not the flames.
Not the crying.
The chanting.
Men in white and gold stood beyond the fireline, their voices calm, rehearsed. Holy symbols gleamed at their throats, catching the firelight. They spoke of purification. Of necessity. Of mercy.
Her mother's hand tightened around hers.
"Don't speak," she whispered. "No matter what they say."
They had already said her name.
Agatha.
A word passed from mouth to mouth like a verdict.
Someone screamed that she was cursed. Someone else shouted that they had always known. A woman she had shared bread with spat on the ground and crossed herself. A man she had called uncle wouldn't meet her eyes.
Then the spell-circle flared.
It was crude. Hastily drawn. Chalk and blood smeared together by shaking hands. The pain that followed was not magical at first it was human. Hands grabbing her arms. Fingers digging into her skin. Someone struck her across the face hard enough that stars burst behind her eyes.
She fell.
Her mother tried to reach her.
A sword blocked the way.
"I beg you," her mother said, voice breaking. "She's just a child."
The man holding the sword did not look cruel. That was the worst part. His face was tired. Resigned.
"She will grow," he said. "And then she will kill more than this village ever could."
The flames roared higher.
Agatha screamed.
Magic answered.
Not a spell. Not words. Just terror and instinct tearing something open inside her. The circle shattered. Fire twisted the wrong way. Stone cracked. The chanting broke into panic.
When it was over, the square was silent.
Bodies lay where they had stood.
Her mother was among them.
Agatha woke with a sharp gasp, lungs burning as if she had truly inhaled smoke.
She bolted upright
and froze.
This was not a forest.
The air was cool, clean, faintly metallic. The floor beneath her was smooth stone, polished to a dull sheen. Pale blue lines ran through it in precise geometric patterns, glowing softly like veins beneath skin. The ceiling arched high overhead, supported by angular pillars etched with symbols she did not recognize too exact, too symmetrical to be arcane script.
She was lying on a low platform, not a bed. No restraints. No chains.
Her magic stirred instinctively, then recoiled.
Not suppressed.
Contained.
Agatha's breath slowed as she took in her surroundings.
The chamber was vast far larger than any underground space should have been. Along the far wall, an opening led into a wide tunnel sloping downward, disappearing into darkness lit intermittently by the same blue glow. From that tunnel emerged machines.
They hovered a handspan above the ground, smooth-bodied constructs of dark metal and articulated limbs. No faces. No eyes. They moved in steady lines, silent except for a faint harmonic hum. Each carried materials: crystalline rods, ingots of unfamiliar alloys, sealed containers marked with symbols that made her magic itch when she looked too long.
The machines did not react to her.
They simply worked.
Agatha pushed herself to her feet slowly, testing her balance. Her body ached deep, bone-level soreness but nothing felt broken. The memory of the fight returned in fragments: spells colliding, pressure crushing her wards, a presence that never rushed, never panicked.
Seth.
Her jaw tightened.
This was his doing. This place. This impossible underground domain humming with intention.
Footsteps echoed from the far side of the chamber.
Not armored. Not heavy.
Bare feet on stone.
Agatha turned just as he stepped into view.
Seth wore no armor. No jacket. No weapons.
Only black trousers, fitted and practical, and the familiar black blindfold wrapped cleanly around his eyes. His upper body was bare and marked.
Bruises bloomed across his ribs in deep purples and blues, some already yellowing at the edges. A long gash crossed his shoulder, cleanly sealed but unbandaged. Faint burn marks traced patterns along his side where magic had kissed flesh too closely.
Treated.
But deliberately left visible.
His posture was relaxed, shoulders loose, hands at his sides. He did not favor any injury. He did not hide them either.
"Your up," he said simply.
No accusation.
No explanation.
Agatha studied him in silence.
Most men would have patched themselves fully. Most would hide damage, especially when returning to a place where questions could be asked.
He hadn't.
Because questions were more dangerous than pain.
Because visible injuries were easier to explain than careful concealment.
That realization settled heavily in her chest.
"How long?" she asked at last.
"A few hours," Seth replied. "Enough for your magic to stabilize."
"You brought me here unconscious."
"Yes."
"Bold."
"Efficient."
Her lips twitched despite herself, then stilled. "Why am I alive?"
Seth tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much of the truth to offer.
"Killing you would have created variables," he said. "Letting you go would have created more."
He turned and walked toward the edge of the platform, stopping a respectful distance away not close enough to threaten, not far enough to disengage.
"This was the optimal outcome."
Agatha let out a quiet breath. "You sound like a machine."
One corner of his mouth lifted. "I build them. I try to learn from my mistakes."
Her gaze flicked back to the moving constructs, to the endless tunnel beyond. "This place… this isn't a lair."
"No."
"It's a system."
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them, thick but not hostile.
Finally, Seth spoke again. "You were hunted before you met me."
Agatha's eyes sharpened. "You don't know that."
"I do," he said. "Your wards are designed for pursuit evasion. Your spells favor denial and misdirection over domination. And you don't stay anywhere long enough to be comfortable."
She said nothing.
"The Church will continue," Seth went on calmly. "Even if they lose interest temporarily. Even if you disappear for years. You represent an anomaly they can't categorize. That's unacceptable to them."
Agatha folded her arms, fingers digging into her sleeves. "You're not telling me anything new."
"I am telling you why I won't allow that attention near this domain."
There it was.
Not concern.
Territory.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
Seth met her gaze blindfolded, unflinching. "Competence. Discretion. Maintenance."
"Maintenance?" she echoed.
"This domain operates on balance," he said. "Mechanical systems, arcane arrays, resource cycles. I can manage the engineering. I don't waste time on fine magical calibration."
Agatha's eyes widened fractionally despite her control. "You want me to"
"Oversee the arcane integrity," Seth finished. "Identify anomalies. Repair degradation. Prevent external detection."
"You're asking me to stay."
"I am offering you a role."
She laughed softly, incredulous. "You expect me to believe this is mutual?"
"I expect you to recognize reality," he replied. "You need a place the Church cannot breach. I need someone capable of ensuring this place remains silent."
Agatha turned away, pacing a few steps as she looked out over the chamber. The machines flowed around her like a river around stone, uncaring, precise.
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
"I will escort you to the surface," Seth said. "Far from here."
"And then?"
"And then I will assume you will not survive long-term."
He said it without malice.
That was worse.
Agatha stopped walking.
Caretaker.
Not prisoner.
Not servant.
A guardian of something vast and hidden.
She turned back to him slowly. "What are the rules?"
Seth answered immediately. "You do not reveal this place, You do not interfere with its core systems without my consent, You do not bring outsiders and you don't not go need my treasures."
"And in return?"
"You operate freely within designated zones. You have access to resources. You are not hunted while you are here."
Not protected.
Not hunted.
Agatha exhaled, a long, measured breath. "You don't trust me."
"No," Seth agreed. "But trust is inefficient. Structure is reliable."
She studied him his injuries, his calm, the way he stood as if already half-elsewhere.
"Why leave the wounds visible?" she asked suddenly.
Seth paused.
"If I return fully repaired, questions follow," he said. "Questions lead to patterns. Patterns lead to exposure."
"And pain doesn't bother you."
"It's temporary."
Agatha nodded once.
"I'll do it," she said.
Seth inclined his head. No smile. No relief.
"Good."
He turned toward the exit tunnel, the blue-lit path leading upward.
"I'll return before sunrise," he added.
He took a step, then stopped.
"One more thing," he said.
Agatha looked at him.
"This alignment is mutual," Seth said. "But betrayal is not."
She met his gaze steadily. "Understood."
Seth walked away, footsteps fading into the hum of the domain.
Agatha stood alone.
The machines continued their work. The walls pulsed softly with contained power. Far below, something vast shifted—layers of purpose unfolding beneath her feet.
She placed a hand against the stone.
For the first time since childhood, the silence did not feel like fear.
It felt like weight.
And she understood, with chilling clarity, that stepping into this place meant there was no going back.
Not for either of them.