Erik Selvig stirred with a low groan, his fingers scraping over blackened concrete.
He opened his eyes slowly, squinting through the haze of smoke and dust.
The whisper was gone.
That voice, that cold, commanding presence that had wrapped itself around his mind like barbed wire, was no longer there.
It left behind silence. And the weight of what he'd done.
Selvig forced himself upright, his arms trembling with the effort, and slumped against the twisted remains of a girder. His breath came shallow, his shirt was torn and scorched, and his ribs ached where he must have struck the railing.
But he was awake now. Fully awake.
And the memories were already clawing their way back.
He remembered.
The Tesseract humming in its cradle. His hands making minute adjustments, calibrating the containment field. His voice, detached and obedient, explaining that the portal would hold — must hold — even as the god behind him smiled and turned his scepter in one lazy hand.
He had opened that.
He looked up, his eyes catching the eerie blue light pouring down from the sky.
The portal loomed over the skyline like an angry scar, spilling Chitauri skimmers and Leviathans into the city in endless waves.
His stomach lurched.
Selvig pressed his palm to his forehead, feeling the bruised skin there.
"Oh, God," he rasped, his voice cracked and hollow. "What have I done…?"
But he didn't stay down.
He reached for the railing, pulled himself to his feet with an unsteady grunt. His knees buckled at first, but he caught himself, squaring his shoulders. His jaw tightened.
He turned toward the Tesseract platform, already half-obscured by dust and flames. If he could just get to it — shut it down — there had to be a way —
Then the ground began to shake.
A deep, steady rumble that rose through the soles of his feet.
Selvig froze, half-convinced it was another Leviathan.
But this was different.
It was… rhythmic.
He turned toward the avenue — and stopped dead.
The haze of battle smoke parted just enough to reveal the blunt, angular silhouette of an Abrams M1 tank rolling through the wreckage. Its treads tore up the asphalt as it came, turret already swiveling upward.
Behind it came another. And another.
Humvees roared in alongside them, soldiers packed in the beds, rifles already shouldered as they leapt out into the chaos.
The cavalry.
Selvig stared at them, clutching the girder as they fanned out, forming a defensive line at the end of the plaza.
The soldiers, though disciplined, couldn't help but hesitate at the sight before them — a Leviathan, its colossal carcass draped across the street like some armored nightmare, its jaws still smoking. Skimmers streaked overhead in coordinated attack runs, the portal churning like an open wound above.
One young private actually faltered, muttering under his breath.
"Holy… hell."
The sergeant nearest to him barked sharply without looking.
"Eyes up, soldier! You'll have time to piss yourself later — MOVE!"
And just like that, training kicked in.
The first tank fired, its report shattering windows for blocks as a shell screamed into the air and slammed into a skimmer, reducing it to molten shrapnel. The other tanks followed suit, hammering the skies while the infantry cut loose with M4s and .50-cal heavy guns.
Selvig stayed where he was, watching.
Even with all their firepower, even with all their discipline… he could see it in their faces.
Awe.
And fear.
This was no war they'd been trained for.
Yet they fought anyway.
They fought what he had brought into their world.
He swallowed hard, pressing his hand to his chest, feeling his own heartbeat, ragged and fast.
Then he closed his eyes and drew in one long, slow breath.
When he opened them again, his eyes were flint.
He pushed off the girder, staggering toward the glowing platform.
The soldiers' shouts and the roar of the tanks filled his ears as he moved, their bullets sparking off Chitauri armor, shells detonating in the sky.
The world was still burning.
But it wasn't over yet.
And Erik Selvig still had work to do.
"I can fix this," he muttered under his breath, louder now, as though daring himself to believe it. "I will fix this."
One foot in front of the other.
Toward the machine.
Toward redemption.
—
The street was hell on asphalt.
Flaming cars littered the intersection, smoke rolled in thick, black plumes, and the air stank of ozone and alien metal.
Steve Rogers grunted as he held the barrel of a Chitauri plasma rifle in both hands, the warrior at the other end snarling and trying to wrench it free. The weapon whined threateningly, heat building in its core. Steve's boots dug into cracked concrete. His jaw tightened.
Not today, pal.
With a roar, Steve ripped the weapon from the Chitauri's claws, then spun on his heel and shoved the creature backward with every ounce of force he could muster. It staggered, its feet catching on a pile of debris—then it landed hard on a jagged steel rebar jutting up from the ground. The alien shrieked once before going limp, impaled like a grotesque trophy.
Steve straightened, planting the edge of his shield against the pavement for a second to catch his breath. His chest heaved, sweat and blood streaking his face as static crackled in his earpiece.
"Cap," Clint Barton's voice came through, calm and clipped but with an edge of urgency. "Bank. 42nd, just past Madison. They've got a whole crowd pinned down in there. Civvies are sitting ducks."
Steve's eyes narrowed as he scanned the skyline and spotted the bank through the smoke. Already moving, he answered flatly:
"I'm on it."
From the rooftop, Clint's voice followed dryly:
"No rush. They're just, y'know, screaming and dying and stuff."
Steve allowed himself the faintest of smirks as he broke into a sprint.
—
The double doors were barricaded with a wrecked car shoved against them from the inside. Steve didn't waste time arguing with it.
He ran flat-out to the side of the building, launched himself up a brick ledge, and dove clean through one of the tall windows.
Glass exploded around him in a blizzard of glittering shards as he landed in a low crouch, shield raised.
Inside, the scene was worse.
A dozen civilians were huddled behind the counters and against the walls. Mothers clutched children. A man had his arm wrapped around an elderly woman's shoulders, shielding her with his body.
Standing over them were three Chitauri warriors, weapons raised, armor gleaming.
Steve didn't hesitate.
"Everybody down!" he barked, his voice cutting like a whip.
The civilians dropped instantly.
Steve launched himself forward.
The first warrior swung toward him, but Steve's fist was already slamming into its throat. Cartilage cracked audibly. He grabbed the creature by its head and twisted sharply, feeling the spine snap, then hurled the corpse into the open vault pit.
"Go!" he barked again at the civilians. "Out the back! Move!"
They didn't wait to be told twice.
The second Chitauri grabbed Steve's shoulder and spun him around. Steve slammed his elbow into its jaw, then drove a knee into its chest and sent it sprawling across the polished floor.
The third warrior activated a grenade-shaped device in its claw.
Steve saw the glow—too late.
The blast went off with a sharp whump, a concussive wave that ripped him off his feet and sent him crashing through the same window he'd come in through.
—
The world tilted sideways.
Steve landed hard on the roof of a parked car, the metal crumpling under him before he bounced off and hit the pavement with a dull, heavy thud.
For a long moment, he just lay there, staring up at the sky, smoke and ash swirling overhead. His mask was gone now—blown clear off somewhere inside the bank. Blond hair clung damp to his forehead. His breath came in ragged pulls.
Slowly, he rolled to his feet.
Blood trickled down his temple from a cut above his eyebrow. His ribs screamed with pain. But his eyes… his eyes were still clear. Still cold.
Around him, police officers were ushering the civilians out of the bank, herding them down the street and away from the carnage.
One cop, a younger guy with soot streaking his face, glanced at Steve and caught his gaze.
Steve simply nodded once.
The cop straightened instinctively and barked an order at his men to keep moving the evacuees.
Steve bent down, picked up his shield, and slid it back into place on his arm.
Over his comms, Clint's voice crackled back to life.
"That sounded like a hell of a party. You okay down there, Cap?"
Steve exhaled through his nose and started walking back toward the fray.
"I'm fine," he said.
Pause. Then, dryly:
"You should see the other guys."
Up on his rooftop perch, Clint grinned faintly.
"That's my line."
Steve allowed himself a wry smile as he adjusted his grip on the shield.
The fight wasn't over yet.
He didn't expect it to be.
—
The room crackled with tension like a live wire.
Nick Fury stood in the middle of it all, tall and immovable, his good eye glinting under the cold glow of holographic screens. The four members of the World Security Council floated above his console like judgmental ghosts, all stone-faced and serene as the city burned below.
The councilwoman's voice cut in first — cool, measured, like she was discussing crop reports instead of a goddamn invasion.
"Director Fury. The council has made a decision."
Fury didn't move at first. He just leaned forward, planting his gloved hands on the console, letting her words sit there and stink up the air.
Then he straightened slightly, his lip curling into the faintest of smirks.
"Oh, I don't doubt you did," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "The council loves making decisions. Damn shame about the quality of 'em."
The councilman on the right shifted in his seat, his jaw tightening.
"Director—"
But Fury cut him off, his voice rising just enough to fill the room.
"—I recognize the council has made a decision…"
He paused for effect, tilting his head, his good eye locked on them like a hawk circling a rat.
"…but given that it's a stupid-ass decision?" He stepped closer to the console, stabbing a finger at the holograms. "I've elected. To ignore it."
Behind him, Maria Hill froze at her station, her fingers hovering over her keyboard, her breath shallow. You could almost hear her heart thudding from across the room.
One of the older councilmen leaned forward, his face pinched, his tone acidic.
"Director, you're closer to the epicenter than any of our subs. If you scramble that jet now, we can contain this before it spreads. Or are you suggesting you'd rather gamble New York City than take decisive action?"
Fury's eye narrowed into a blade.
"Oh, I'm plenty decisive, Councilman. But let me spell this out for you in real small words so it sticks—"
He jabbed a finger at the shimmering Manhattan skyline on his display.
"That is the island of Manhattan. You know what lives there? People. Americans. People who didn't sign up to get turned into collateral damage 'cause your ass can't stand to let my team do its damn job."
The councilman's lip curled, his voice rising.
"If we don't hold them in the air, Director, we lose everything!"
Fury straightened to his full height, his long black coat settling around him like a storm cloud. His next words were calm, quiet — and they carried more weight than any shouting ever could.
"If I send that bird out?" He let the question hang for a beat, then finished, his voice like gravel. "We already have."
For a long second, no one said a word.
Then Fury's gloved fingers swept across the console with a flourish, cutting the council's holograms off mid-scowl. Their images blinked out, leaving only the faint hum of the command center and the faraway rumble of battle.
Hill exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of her console as her shoulders dropped an inch.
But Fury didn't even glance at her.
He stood there a moment longer, staring at the now-empty screen, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling as he fought to keep the fire in his veins from burning the whole room down.
Then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the hangar without a word, his coat snapping behind him like a black banner of war.
Hill risked a glance after him and muttered under her breath:
"God help whoever's next."
And the command center fell silent once more — save for the faint echo of Fury's boots and the distant, unrelenting sound of a city under siege.
—
The Chitauri craft screamed through the sky, its wings thrumming as it cut through a haze of smoke and fire. Natasha Romanoff crouched low on the front of the skimmer, one gloved hand gripping the hull, the other steering it with fierce, practiced jerks. Her red hair lashed across her cheek as she leaned into the wind.
Behind her, Fleur Delacour stood impossibly graceful despite the velocity, her heels planted, her wand snapping through the air in precise arcs. Each flick sent streaks of sapphire and gold light tearing into their pursuers. One skimmer erupted in a gout of blue flame, spiraling into the avenue below; another she sliced clean through with a cry of "Sectumsempra!" before it even had a chance to fire.
Natasha flashed a smirk over her shoulder at the blonde.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
Fleur's lips curled into a dangerous smile.
"But of course. Zis is fun, non?"
Before Natasha could answer, a blast from behind rocked the craft hard. Fleur gripped the edge of the hull, her spell cutting wild as they lurched sideways.
Natasha hissed through her teeth and craned her neck back—
And there he was.
Loki.
The god of mischief stood on another skimmer like it belonged to him, horns gleaming in the dying light, his emerald cape snapping in the wind. He gripped his scepter casually, lightning coiling lazily up the shaft, his dark eyes fixed on them with predatory focus.
"Oh, you!" Natasha barked, rolling her eyes like he was just another bad date. She jabbed her comm and growled into it. "Hawkeye. Little help?"
—
Perched at the edge of a rooftop, Clint Barton squinted down the avenue, his bow already drawn. In the distance, through the haze of smoke and debris, he saw her skimmer weaving between the towers—black and gold, with Loki bearing down behind them.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose.
"Nat," he muttered into his mic, "what the hell are you doing?"
Natasha's voice came back dry as desert sand.
"Uh, getting shot at. What does it look like?"
"You know," he drawled, sighting down the line, "there are easier ways to get my attention."
"Clint. Shoot. The damn. God."
"Relax, Red. I got it."
He tracked the skimmers as they drew closer, waiting for the right moment. Loki lined up perfectly, his cape streaming behind him like some overdramatic runway model.
Barton smirked faintly.
"Let's see you catch this one, Reindeer Games."
Barton loosed.
The arrow whistled through the air like a hawk diving for the kill.
On his skimmer, Loki's head lifted at just the right moment. His lip curled in disdain as his fingers darted out and plucked the arrow from the air with infuriating elegance.
He turned it in his hand, examining it as though Barton had delivered him a bouquet of dead flowers.
"Really, archer?" he called down, his voice dripping with mockery, carrying even over the howl of the wind. "Is that the best you can—"
Then the arrow beeped.
Loki's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, bother—"
The explosion ripped through the sky in a blossom of fire and concussive force. Loki was hurled off his skimmer, his cape snapping violently as he pinwheeled through the air like a scorched raven.
Natasha whooped despite herself, glancing back at the fireball.
"Nice shot, Barton!"
On his rooftop, Clint allowed himself a smug little shrug, already reaching for another arrow.
"You're welcome."
—
Loki hit the gleaming platform of Stark Tower hard, armor scraping across the metal, his body bouncing once before skidding to a graceless stop near the edge. He lay there in a heap of twisted silk and dented gold for a moment, coughing through the smoke, his teeth bared.
With a groan, he pushed himself up on his elbows, the scorched remnants of the arrow clattering away. His horned helm had gone askew, and one of his pauldrons hung loose, the metal blackened and warped.
For the first time all day, his perfect smirk faltered.
"Impertinent… mortals," he hissed under his breath, his voice rasping.
—
Natasha and Fleur sped on, streaking through the sky toward the gleaming tower, the wind tearing at them, smoke trailing from the wreckage behind.
Natasha's eyes were already scanning the horizon for the next fight.
Fleur, standing tall and calm on the skimmer, gave a soft laugh and murmured just loudly enough for Natasha to hear:
"He does not take humiliation very well, non?"
Natasha smirked and adjusted her grip on the controls.
"Nope. That's the best part."
The two women shot forward through the smoke and fire, ready for round two.
—
The city burned.
Flames licked at broken windows, storefronts sagged inward from plasma blasts, and acrid smoke curled between shattered towers. Chitauri skimmers howled overhead like wolves, raining fire on the cracked, cratered streets.
Through it all, three figures carved a path, unhurried yet unstoppable.
Harry led the way, his black bodysuit gleaming faintly under the infernal light, red and gold plates of light armor catching sparks as they fell. His cloak cut through the smoke behind him like a blade. His dark hair was tousled by the wind, his emerald eyes glowing faintly. He didn't bother with a wand — his empty hand was enough now.
Ahead, a massive Chitauri warrior dropped from a rooftop, landing so hard the asphalt spiderwebbed underfoot. It roared and leveled its blade at him.
Harry didn't even slow.
He raised two fingers, and his voice came low, calm.
"Feram in cinerem."
The air shimmered, thick with raw power, and the Chitauri froze in place before disintegrating into a swirling cloud of ash and metal dust.
Behind him, Daphne Greengrass glided over the fractured pavement in boots that clicked faintly with every step. The pale mist curling around her heels chilled the air with every breath she took. Sydney Sweeney's soft, sculpted features carried a faint smirk as she watched another squad of Chitauri emerge from a side street.
Her sapphire eyes gleamed as she lifted her hand.
"Pathetic," she murmured, her French-manicured fingers curling. "Freeze."
The ground cracked and erupted into a forest of shimmering blue spikes, impaling one, encasing the rest in jagged ice.
She strolled past the carnage without so much as a glance.
At their rear, Susan Bones strode forward with a faint hum of green light dancing across her rune-etched arms. Her copper hair caught the light like fire as she spun her staff in one hand, the Gaelic markings along the wood glowing faintly.
From the rubble leapt a Chitauri captain, its maw open in a roar.
Susan didn't flinch.
She caught the downward strike of its blade on her staff, twisted sharply, and slammed the emerald-glowing butt of the staff into its chest.
"Go back to the bogs, you ugly bastard," she snapped.
The creature flew backward into a car with a resounding crash.
The three moved as one, weaving through the chaos without a word.
Because at the end of the street — waiting for them — was something older, something bigger than even this war.
The door to 177A Bleecker Street stood untouched amid the destruction, its faint golden wards humming against the dark sky.
Harry stopped at the foot of the steps.
His hand tightened at his side, the faintest crease marring his usually calm expression. He glanced at the door, at the faint glow of magic around its seams. Seventeen years.
He could still hear her voice, soft and knowing and infuriating all at once.
The Ancient One.
Their first guide when they'd landed here. The one who'd warned them they'd never truly belong.
Behind him, Daphne tilted her head, the corners of her lips curving into a faint smirk.
"If you're going to stare dramatically at the door all night, at least look handsome doing it," she teased, her voice laced with frosty amusement.
Susan planted her staff on the cracked sidewalk and leaned on it, crossing her arms, her emerald tattoos still glowing faintly.
"Oh, just bloody knock already, Harry. Or I'll freeze it off its hinges for her."
Harry huffed — equal parts grin and grimace — and raised his armored fist to rap firmly on the wood.
The wards shimmered, rippling under his knuckles, before dimming as the lock clicked softly.
Then, that voice. Calm. Quiet. Maddeningly composed.
"Ah. At last," the Ancient One said. "The prodigals return."
The door swung open without a sound.
And there she was — unchanged. Robes of gold and saffron hung neatly on her slim frame, her pale, shaven head gleaming faintly under the flickering streetlights. Her sharp, ageless face held the faintest ghost of a smile, though her eyes were as cool and impenetrable as ever.
She swept her gaze over the three of them, as if cataloging what seventeen years and a war had made of them.
"You've all grown into your power," she said softly, with that same inscrutable calm. Then, after the briefest pause: "Finally."
Harry's jaw tightened faintly at that, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Nice to see you haven't changed a bit," he replied. His tone was just shy of respectful, but his green eyes still carried the quiet weight of every grudge he'd never voiced.
Daphne smirked faintly and murmured under her breath:
"Still creepy."
Susan straightened and tapped her staff against the floor once.
"We didn't come here for nostalgia," she said bluntly. "We need answers. And you owe us that much."
The Ancient One's gaze slid to Susan, lingering a heartbeat longer — then she simply inclined her head.
"We have much to discuss," she said.
She stepped aside and gestured gracefully into the dim sanctuary beyond.
The three shared a glance — old habits and old wars written in their eyes — before Harry finally stepped forward, his boots silent on the steps.
Daphne followed with a delicate sniff, her chill trailing behind her.
And Susan brought up the rear, her staff already glowing brighter as she cast one last glance over her shoulder at the battlefield before vanishing into the quiet, waiting dark of Kamar-Taj.
The door swung shut behind them, sealing the chaos of New York outside — for now.
—
The door closed behind them with a low, resonant click, sealing out the chaos of Manhattan's burning skyline.
The hush inside was almost mocking. Warm candlelight played over the walls, throwing long shadows across ancient symbols carved into stone. The faint scent of sandalwood incense curled through the air, masking — but not erasing — the metallic tang of fire and ash clinging to their clothes.
The Ancient One drifted ahead of them, her robes whispering against the smooth floor as though she were gliding rather than walking.
Harry's steps slowed.
His emerald-green eyes narrowed on her back — not at her face yet, but at her chest. More specifically, at the empty golden amulet that hung there.
The gem.
Gone.
He stopped dead.
"Where is it?" he said flatly.
The Ancient One stopped, but didn't turn. Her pale head inclined slightly, as though she'd been expecting the question.
"Ah," she murmured. "You noticed."
"I always notice," Harry shot back, his tone cool but taut with controlled heat. "Where is it?"
At last she turned to face him, her hands folding together in front of her. Her expression was maddeningly serene — though there was a flicker of something wry in her gaze, like a teacher faintly amused her pupil still had lessons left to learn.
"I gave it away," she said simply.
Harry's jaw tensed.
"To who?"
Her eyes drifted toward some point in the middle distance, as though she were watching another time entirely.
"To someone who needs it more than I do… at this moment," she replied. "But don't trouble yourself. I expect I'll have it back in a few hours."
That faint, cryptic smile returned — the kind that made his fists curl at his sides.
Daphne let out a sharp, humorless laugh as she stepped up beside him, her heeled boots clicking on the stone. Her icy-blue eyes swept over the Ancient One like twin daggers.
"Oh, lovely," she said, voice sweet and biting at once. "Just… lent out the key to reality, then? No big deal. Happens to the best of us."
Susan's copper hair caught the candlelight as she stalked up behind them, her staff rapping hard on the floor with each stride. Her eyes flashed like embers, and her tone was pure venom.
"Honestly," she muttered. "It's so on brand, it's almost funny."
But Harry's gaze never wavered from the Ancient One. Lifetimes worth of wars — of choosing who to save and who to let fall — coiled in his chest.
"Did this really need to happen?" he asked, quiet but firm.
The words landed in the silence like a hammer.
"We were in Andromeda," he pressed, his voice climbing a notch, deep and rough. "You could've called us. You knew. You could've told us what Loki was planning, and we'd have tracked the Chitauri mothership before he even touched the Tesseract. You could've saved the Helicarrier. You could've saved them."
He gestured to the faint orange light of fire still visible through the window.
"This didn't have to happen. You let it."
Daphne's voice sliced through next, glacial and precise.
"We know you knew," she said coldly, stepping even closer. "Shaak and Aayla both felt the enemy carrier the second it arrived. They could've crushed it before it even uncloaked — but you told Shaak not to interfere. Why?"
Susan stepped forward with a growl in her voice, the runes on her arms glowing faintly.
"All those lives," she snapped. "All those families — children — dead in the streets. And you just… stood here and let it burn?"
The Ancient One tilted her head faintly, as though considering whether to bother explaining at all.
When she did, her tone was infuriatingly even.
"These events," she said at last, "are Absolute Points."
Harry's brow furrowed.
"Absolute what?"
Her gaze drifted between them, still placid, still maddeningly unbothered.
"Fixed moments in time that cannot — must not — be altered," she replied softly. "To do so would shatter the outcome they lead to."
She began to pace slowly, hands clasped behind her back, her voice carrying in the stillness of the room.
"The Helicarrier attack… brought the Avengers together. This invasion… will forge them into something stronger. And the Avengers — with you and your girls among them — are the catalyst that will win the war that matters. The one I warned you about seventeen years ago."
Harry's eyes bored into hers, his broad shoulders tense, his hands flexing at his sides.
And then he shook his head, a bitter edge to his deep voice.
"You sound just like him," he said quietly.
The Ancient One's brow arched faintly.
"Him?"
Harry's lips curled into something between a grimace and a smirk, though there was no humor in it.
"Dumbledore," he said. "Always talking about the Greater Good. Always so sure a few sacrifices were worth the bigger picture. Always so sure it wouldn't be his blood being spilled."
His voice dropped, low and cold.
"And he was wrong."
Daphne moved closer, standing just off his shoulder, her arm grazing his as her ice-blue eyes bored into the Ancient One's.
"You've got your war," she said, each word laced with frost. "But don't you dare stand there and pretend this wasn't avoidable. Because we could've stopped it. We could've."
Susan's staff thudded against the floor, a sharp crack like thunder. Her copper hair gleamed like fire, and her voice was low, dangerous.
"You're so damn calm for someone who just let half a city burn."
The Ancient One merely inclined her head, her faint smile never fading, as though their anger was inevitable — and irrelevant.
"You'll understand in time," she said, her tone almost pitying. "You always do."
But Harry's emerald eyes stayed locked on hers.
And though he didn't say another word, the way his jaw clenched — the way his fists curled — spoke louder than anything.
Because he wasn't sure he ever would.
—
The silence was suffocating. Beyond the walls, the city still burned, screams and plasma fire muffled now into background noise. Inside, the air was heavy with incense and tension.
The Ancient One's fingers brushed once over the empty golden casing of her amulet before clasping behind her back.
Her gaze flicked from one furious young face to the next.
"You think this," she said softly, "is the war. You're wrong. This is only the prelude."
Harry's jaw flexed. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his armor still dusted with ash and blood.
"Then start explaining," he said, his voice low, steady, dangerous.
The Ancient One inclined her head as if granting him a concession.
"Thanos," she began.
Daphne let out a scoffing laugh, stepping forward so her frosted boots clicked against the stone. Her blue eyes glittered like shards of ice.
"Oh, we've heard of him," she said, tone dripping with venom. "The Mad Titan. Butcher. Slaver. Warlord. I think we even killed two of his lieutenants on Theros Prime, didn't we, Harry?"
Harry's green eyes stayed fixed on the Ancient One, but his reply was curt.
"Three."
Susan's copper hair flared like fire as she rapped her staff hard against the floor. "We've fought his armies. We've burned his ships. What's your point?"
The Ancient One's eyes narrowed slightly, her tone quiet and sharp at once.
"My point," she said, "is that everything you fought out there… was nothing more than his pawns."
Daphne's lip curled. "Oh, lovely. So the real monster's still waiting for his entrance."
The Ancient One's gaze dropped to the empty amulet on her chest, then drifted back up.
"Yes," she said. "And he is not coming for you. Not yet. He is coming… for these."
She raised her hand and drew a slow circle in the air, conjuring a faint green projection: six stones spinning slowly, each radiating its own light.
"Six stones," she said. "Remnants of the creation of the universe itself. Six fundamental aspects of existence. Power. Mind. Soul. Time. Space. Reality."
The illusion pulsed as she spoke each word, the stones burning brighter.
Harry's shoulders stiffened. His voice was cold.
"Say that again."
The Ancient One didn't hesitate.
"You've already seen three."
Daphne's sharp laugh cut through. "Oh, don't tell me—"
"The Tesseract," the Ancient One continued evenly. "The Space Stone. The scepter Loki wields — its head holds the Mind Stone. And this—" she tapped the empty golden casing lightly "—was the Time Stone."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Susan's voice broke it, low and dangerous.
"You're saying," she said slowly, "that lunatic with the horns out there has one of these stones?"
"Yes."
Daphne barked a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "Brilliant. Just brilliant. So we've been bleeding in the dirt for years, thinking this was about power or thrones or territory… and you knew it was about the bloody universe the whole time."
The Ancient One's lips curved faintly. "And still you played your part well."
Harry's hands clenched at his sides, his armor groaning faintly as his muscles tensed.
"You knew," he said, his voice quiet but venomous. "All this time. You knew what they were, what he was, what he wanted — and you didn't tell us."
"Yes."
"You let us waste seventeen years," Harry went on, his tone now barely contained fury. "Fighting scraps. Letting people die. For pawns. When we could've gone for the king."
The Ancient One's calm didn't crack. Not even a hairline fracture.
"You're still thinking," she said, "like soldiers. Not like stewards. What is coming is bigger than one king, bigger than one Titan. It is bigger than you. And you are not ready."
Daphne's boots carried her to Harry's side, her frosted breath curling in the candlelight. "You'd better hope we're ready," she hissed, her eyes glittering like glaciers. "Because when he comes… and more of us die because of this little 'lesson'… you'd better pray the Mad Titan gets to you before we do."
Susan's staff slammed into the floor with a resounding crack that echoed through the sanctum. Her copper hair blazed around her like wildfire.
"You smug, sanctimonious—" she spat, her runes flaring on her skin. "How dare you tell us who's ready to die and who's not."
Harry raised a hand slightly, quieting them both, though his green eyes never left the Ancient One's.
He stepped closer to her — close enough to see the faintest flicker of exhaustion in her ancient gaze.
"You sound just like Dumbledore," he said softly.
Her brow arched faintly.
"And you still don't understand," she murmured.
"No," he said. "No, I don't. And here's the thing — I'm not sure I want to. Because the last time someone told me this was all for the 'greater good,' I buried too many of my own to count."
For the first time, a shadow of something — regret, maybe — passed across her features.
"You'll see," she said quietly. "In the end… you'll see."
Harry's jaw tightened. His fists unclenched, then clenched again.
"We'd better," he growled.
Daphne's voice followed a beat later, cold as death.
"And if you're wrong… there won't be a sanctum left to hide in."
The Ancient One finally closed her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opened them again her faint smile was back — but it didn't reach her eyes.
"I suppose," she murmured, "we'll see."
And with that, she turned away, leaving them standing there — three warriors, battle-weary and furious, staring at the green projections of six stones spinning in the air.
Harry's gaze settled on them. And in that moment, he knew this wasn't just another war.
This was the war.
And he was done playing by someone else's rules.
---
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