You ever try leaving behind seven superpowered girlfriends for more than five minutes? It's like trying to sneak out of Pride Rock while the lionesses are awake and very handsy. Which, don't get me wrong, is weirdly flattering. Also terrifying. But mostly flattering. Ninety-eight percent.
The other two percent was currently smushed in my jacket pocket in the form of an aggressively detailed shopping list written by Kara in terrifyingly neat handwriting. She even drew little hearts next to the "king cake" and underlined "SEXY GIFT" three times like it was a final boss fight.
I stepped out of the Zeta Tube into New Orleans and got hit in the face with enough humidity to drown a dragon. Honestly, it felt like walking into a gumbo pot. A jazz band was playing down the street, a guy with dreadlocks was dancing like gravity owed him money, and I swear the air itself smelled like powdered sugar, voodoo, and sin.
"Alright," I muttered, adjusting my collar. "Time to buy pastries before I get hexed by a psychic gator."
Mission: Sugar Rush & Sexy Souvenirs had begun.
First stop: beignets.
I made my way through the French Quarter, dodging jazz musicians, tarot readers, and a very intense mime who gave me the kind of look that said "I know your star sign and your browser history." I picked up the pace.
Café du Monde was as crowded as you'd expect a holy shrine to fried dough to be. I was three steps from bailing when I heard:
"Well now, cher, you look like someone who needs a little sweetness."
The woman behind the counter gave me a wink that could've melted chocolate. I turned on the accent—yes, I know it's cheating. Don't judge me.
"I'd kill for a dozen of your best beignets," I said. "Not literally. Unless there's a line—then I'll start swinging."
She laughed. "British and bold. We like that. You want powdered sugar or extra powdered sugar?"
"Hit me with the snowstorm. I want the inside of this bag to look like a Tony Montana crime scene."
The box of golden, fluffy joy was barely in my hands before I slid it into the magically chilled pocket of my coat. Zatanna had enchanted the lining to preserve anything I put inside, up to and including a full rack of barbecue ribs. Ask me how I know. (Spoiler: It did not go well with the extra-strength Pepper Imps.)
Next: pralines. Mareena wanted something "caramelized, nutty, and worth starting a war over." Found a tiny shop where the walls were lined with jars, charms, and pralines that looked like they were handcrafted by sugar witches.
The old lady behind the counter gave me a look that said I know your past lives, child, but she still handed me a sampler wrapped in purple foil.
"For your sweetheart?" she asked.
"Seven of them," I said.
She blinked. "Boy, you either blessed or cursed."
"Why not both?"
That earned me a cackle and a pinch of something she called "spiritual insurance," which I really hope wasn't chicken blood.
King cake was next. Which sounds simple. Spoiler: it is not.
"Pick a color, cher," said the man behind the counter. "We got baby Jesus in gold, baby Jesus in silver, and baby Jesus with glitter."
"…I don't know what any of that means," I said.
"It means you get the baby, you hosting the next party," he said with a laugh. "Or the spirits follow you home. Depends who you ask."
"Well, let's roll the dice then. I'll take two—one for the girls, one for Fate if I survive his magical pop quiz."
By the time I packed those away, my jacket was looking like a mobile bakery run by a hoarder with access to wizardry.
And I still had time to kill before meeting Doctor Fate—who, like every cosmic mentor in my life, considered "urgent" to mean whenever Mercury stops being a drama queen and my chakras are aligned.
So, obviously, I decided to wander.
Jackson Square was alive with music, tourists, and exactly one mime who tried to hand me a balloon shaped like the Grim Reaper. I declined.
At one point, a street psychic locked eyes with me and said, "You got the aura of a man haunted by love... and at least one eldritch horror."
Which—rude. But not inaccurate.
Eventually, I followed the scent of fried alligator and incense to a little shop that looked like it had been there since the 1700s. The sign said:
"ENTER IF YOU DARE — NO REFUNDS FOR CURSES OR EXISTENTIAL CRISES."
I stared at it. Thought about my life. Thought about the fact that I had once literally fist-fought a basilisk in my pajamas.
"…Yeah, okay," I muttered, pushing open the door. "That sounds like my Wednesday."
The bell above the door didn't ding. It whispered. Like it was judging me.
I stepped inside.
And that's when things got weird.
Like... even for me weird.
—
The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the voodoo shop?
It smelled like secrets.
Not the fun kind you whisper during a sleepover while debating which One Direction member would survive a zombie apocalypse. No, this was the bad kind. The kind of secrets that hide under your bed, leave bloodstains on the wallpaper, and cackle when you try to sleep.
The second thing?
It was bigger on the inside.
And yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Oh, like a TARDIS?" But this wasn't some adorable British time machine. This was more like if the walls had made a shady pact with an elder god in exchange for infinite shelf space and a complimentary poltergeist.
There were aisles upon aisles crammed with weird glowing herbs, animal bones strung together like dreamcatchers from Hell, and jars with hand-scrawled labels like:
"Truth of Tongues"
"Gris-Gris of Regret"
"Cousin Leon's Last Chance" (I didn't want to know what happened to his first chance.)
Somewhere in the back, a scratchy old jazz record was playing a cover of House of the Rising Sun. Only it sounded like it had been recorded by the ghosts still stuck in the house.
"Charming," I muttered, side-eyeing a voodoo doll that looked disturbingly like Snape. "If I don't leave with a curse or a new spirit wife, I want a full refund."
"Oh, baby," said a voice behind me, rich and dark like molasses poured over thunder, "ain't nobody asks for a spirit wife. They just show up."
I turned around slowly, because of course I was being ambushed by sass in stereo.
The woman behind the counter was maybe in her sixties, dressed like royalty in deep purple velvet and more gold jewelry than an Egyptian tomb. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, sharp as obsidian, and her fingers were so full of rings that I was 90% sure she could assassinate someone just by snapping.
If Viola Davis ever played a voodoo queen who also knew five kinds of necromancy and made killer gumbo, this was her.
"You the wizard boy they keep talkin' 'bout?" she asked, voice honey-smooth with an edge of steel. "The one with firebird blood and king snake eyes?"
Okay. That was unsettlingly specific.
"Depends," I said, trying for charming. "If he owes you money, I'm his stunt double. If not—hi, yes, that's me. Local menace and part-time magical disaster."
She raised one eyebrow like it weighed judgment and bad decisions. Then she smiled. "I like you."
Honestly, I've been cursed less threateningly.
She curled a single finger at me—long, bony, full of "I-dare-you-to-be-sassy" energy. "Come on up here, child. Let Mama see what you're really made of."
Now, listen. I've faced down dementors, Death Eaters, actual gods, and once even got into a shouting match with Wolverine. (Spoiler: I lost. But I looked good doing it.)
But there was something about this woman that screamed, Don't test her unless you're okay living the rest of your life as a possessed toaster.
Naturally, I walked right up.
"You want a lock of hair for your dark rituals?" I asked. "Might be tricky. It's mostly held together by product and unresolved trauma."
She let out a laugh that could shatter glass. "Lawd, you got the devil's tongue. You make trouble wherever you go, don'tcha?"
"Professionally. It's on my résumé. Right under 'survives magical world-ending events on a semi-weekly basis.'"
She reached under the counter and pulled out a deck of cards that looked old. Not "vintage bookstore" old. Biblically-haunted, someone-summoned-something-they-shouldn't-have old.
"Tarot?" I asked, one brow raised.
"Spirit cards," she corrected, shuffling them with a flick of her fingers that sent up sparks. "Not that Etsy nonsense. These ones bite back."
Cool. So we were skipping the casual chit-chat and going straight to possible psychic attack. Love that for me.
She laid the cards down in a fan. Each one gave off a soft hum, like they were alive and trying very hard not to say something rude.
The Fool. The Tower. The Lovers.
Oh, great. The Holy Trinity of You're About To Make Some Really Bad Life Choices.
"Hmm," she said, squinting at the cards. "You got chaos in your veins. A crossroads in your heart. You stand in the middle of three storms: one behind, one ahead… and one inside."
"Well that's comforting," I said. "Does one of those storms involve death, fire, or another Dark Lord showing up?"
She flipped the next card.
Death.
"Yep," I nodded. "Knew it. Plot twist—it probably isn't even mine. I attract fatalities like New Orleans attracts hurricanes."
She leaned in, eyes locked on mine, and for a second, it felt like she was looking straight through every version of me—The Boy Who Lived, the hero, the orphan, the killer, the survivor.
"You keep runnin'," she said softly. "Not from fear. Not from guilt. Not even pain."
She tapped my chest once, gently. "You run from peace."
My mouth opened to fire back some grade-A sarcasm—but nothing came out.
She plucked a tiny velvet pouch from under the table and pressed it into my hand.
"Gris-gris," she said. "Protection charm. Old magic. Real magic. Keep it on you."
"No cryptic riddle? No threat about what happens if I open it under a blood moon?"
She smirked. "Child, if I told you everything, where's the fun in watchin' you try to survive?"
I slipped it into my coat pocket. The coat—yes, it has opinions—gave an offended shudder. The pouch buzzed once like it was joining a very dysfunctional family of cursed objects.
"Thanks," I said, heading for the door.
"Wait." Her voice dropped like thunder behind me. "One more thing."
I turned.
She pointed a long nail at me. "Don't eat the purple baby."
"…What?"
"If it starts movin', throw it in the river."
"That's… specific."
"And yet," she said with a knowing smile, "you know exactly what I mean."
Unfortunately, I did.
I stepped back onto the street, the shop bell whispering behind me like it had just judged my haircut and my life choices.
The sky was streaked lavender and gold. Jazz floated through the Quarter like a living thing. The scent of powdered sugar and danger was everywhere.
And deep in my pocket?
The plastic baby from the king cake wiggled.
Just once.
I sighed. "Yeah, okay. Straight into the Mississippi with you, tiny demon spawn."
Because some advice?
You don't question.
You just run with it.
—
If you've never been dragged halfway across the magical leyline map of existence by a cursed voodoo pouch, congratulations. You have a healthy life. Me? I was carrying the magical equivalent of a demonically possessed Happy Meal, and the only thing keeping me from panic-buying sage and bath bombs was muscle memory.
Because I knew where I was headed.
The Tower of Fate.
A structure that exists in every dimension and none at all. A building that says, "I defy physics, logic, and your sense of personal safety."
It doesn't look for you. It just decides you're worthy of an emotional thrashing and drops a golden door in front of you when you least expect it.
This time, it waited until I was halfway through my king cake, standing outside an abandoned jazz club that smelled like ghost bourbon and powdered sugar.
The air shimmered like bad CGI, and boom. There it was.
A giant gold-and-silver door covered in enough ancient symbols to make a Hogwarts library card sweat. The whole thing radiated judgment. Like, "Oh, you really wore Crocs to a magical dimension? Shame."
Naturally, I raised my hand to knock—because I'm British, and politeness is coded into my DNA even when space-time is unraveling.
The door opened before I touched it.
Because of course it did.
"Harry Potter," said the voice. Not just any voice. This one sounded like someone had dipped pure authority in velvet, mixed it with a Shakespearean monologue, and let it age for a thousand years in a barrel of mystic sarcasm.
"Doctor Fate," I replied. "Looking extra glowy today. Did you buff your helmet?"
Doctor Fate, sorcerer supreme of this dimension, floated above a staircase that led precisely nowhere and everywhere at once. The man was wearing full gold armor like it was business casual, with a cloak that billowed even though there was zero wind. Classic overachiever.
"I see you've returned with questionable artifacts and worse judgment," he said.
"Guilty," I replied, holding up the voodoo pouch. "Also, pretty sure this baby is cursed. Or possibly possessed by Louis Armstrong. I haven't ruled out either."
The baby wiggled in my coat again. Yeah, that was going to be a thing.
Fate sighed in a way that could crumble cities.
"Follow me."
I trudged into the Tower, which was still the worst IKEA ever. Floating staircases, Escher geometry, and ambient chanting that sounded like monks having a really dramatic group therapy session.
"I hope today's lesson involves less soul-binding and more snacks," I muttered.
Doctor Fate didn't respond, because humor bounces off that helmet like sarcasm off Voldemort. But I saw his shoulders twitch. That's his version of laughing.
We floated—okay, he floated, I stumbled—up to the central chamber, where golden light spun in elaborate circles, forming a spell diagram that looked like geometry had just won an Oscar.
Fate turned to me. "Translate the runes. Invoke the circle. Sustain the energy. And—ideally—do not explode."
"Aw, you do care," I said, stepping forward. "Want me to wear a helmet this time, or are we just embracing the concussive lifestyle?"
"Begin."
I raised my hands, focused, and took a deep breath. Magic thrummed through me like a guitar solo from a sentient amp. The spell circle responded—flaring golden, stabilizing into place.
"Boom," I said. "Still got it. Suck it, geometry."
Fate tilted his helmet. "Your form is improved. Your sarcasm is… consistent."
"Thank you. I practice daily in the mirror while not crying."
He walked—okay, glided—around me, inspecting my spellwork like a Michelin chef judging soup.
"But your spirit is fraying," he said quietly.
I blinked. "That a poetic way of saying I look like hell, or are we going full Disney villain prophecy now?"
"You have touched too many fates, seen too many paths. Your soul is beginning to slip between worlds."
"Right," I said. "So less Doctor Strange and more Doctor Existential Crisis."
"I am warning you, Harry. You must anchor yourself."
"To what? A therapist? My Hogwarts alumni newsletter? The haunted king cake baby that may or may not be growing fangs?"
Silence.
Fate raised a hand, and a golden portal shimmered into view—one that crackled with New Orleans energy. Jazz, rum, voodoo, and a little bit of swamp sass.
"There is something stirring in the Otherworld," he said. "A storm that bends dimensions. It calls for you."
"Why me?" I asked. "Why not send, I don't know, a slightly more stable sorcerer without PTSD and sass issues?"
"Because," Fate said, "you are the only one it will allow through."
Which is totally not ominous.
I adjusted my coat, made sure the cursed pouch wasn't trying to eat its way out, and gave Fate a lazy salute.
"Cool. No pressure. Just me and my haunted jazz baby walking into a multidimensional storm. What could go wrong?"
Fate didn't smile. But I swear I felt the ghost of one in the air.
"I will watch over you," he said.
"From the comfort of your magical bachelor pad with floating stairs and ominous vibes?"
"Precisely."
I stepped through the portal.
The air rippled like it was judging my life choices, and then the Tower of Fate vanished behind me with a whisper of forgotten gods.
Ahead of me? New Orleans. Again.
And a city that was very unhappy to see me.
"This is fine," I said.
It wasn't fine.
Not even close.
—
Now, I don't usually go full magical superhero unless the vibes are seriously off.
Like, "a haunted jazz baby is tap dancing in my pocket and whispering threats in Creole" kind of off.
And trust me—I've been to New Orleans before. The food? Chef's kiss. The ghosts? Less kissy, more stabby.
So the second I stepped out of Doctor Fate's sparkly gold Stargate and into the muggy embrace of the French Quarter, my danger sense started doing the Macarena while chugging Red Bull.
You ever feel the air judging you? Like the entire city just muttered, "You shouldn't have come, white boy."
Yeah. That.
The shadows were too dark. The lights flickered like they were on a horror movie payroll. And the wind? There wasn't any. But my cloak still billowed because magic likes to be dramatic. It's got a flair for the theatrical, kind of like Loki, but with less sibling trauma.
And then there was Fate's voice in my head, all ominous and echoey, like a magical Siri having a philosophical crisis:
"Beware the storm. It seeks you as much as you seek it."
"Thanks, Pierce Brosnan," I muttered. "Real helpful."
"You mock what you do not yet comprehend."
"I mock everything, goldilocks," I replied. "It's my coping mechanism."
Silence. Which, honestly, was worse. Fate only shuts up when he's either impressed or dramatically letting me walk into something deadly.
Which was fine. I had style.
I reached up and touched the crimson gem on my necklace—the one that looks like it belongs in a museum labeled "Cursed Object: Handle Only If You're Feeling Reckless, Desperate, or Hot Enough to Pull It Off."
(I qualify for at least two of those. You can guess.)
"Alright, creepy jazz spirits," I muttered. "Time to make your worst mistake."
I tapped the gem.
It pulsed—deep and rhythmic, like a heartbeat made of war drums, phoenix fire, and whispered spells that probably came with legal disclaimers.
And then?
Armor time.
The gem melted—not in a "whoops, lava" kind of way, but in a glorious, liquid-gold swoosh that flowed up my chest in gold-veined black shadow. It spun over my shoulders, down my arms, over my legs, wrapping me in magic that felt like a second skin. Or a third. Honestly, I've lost count of how many skins I've worn at this point.
The armor hissed, flexed, and locked into place with a satisfying click. I looked like a walking myth: obsidian and gold, shadows dancing over every curve of the plating.
The red cloak burst out behind me with full Disney-princess drama.
And the mask? Oh, the mask slid on like liquid royalty—golden, angular, with glowing eye slits that said, "I eat nightmares for breakfast and critique their choreography."
I flexed my fingers.
The armor moved like it was alive. My magic surged, calibrated itself, and whispered, Ready to burn the world?
(I told it, Let's start with a few demons first, and then we'll see.)
"Shadowflame Armor," I murmured, admiring the reflection of my flaming eyes in a broken shop window. "Because subtlety's for Hufflepuffs."
"You are insufferable," Fate added in my brain.
"And yet, you still call me."
Suddenly, something moved above me.
A shadow darted across the rooftop, fast and slinky like a jazz solo that just turned into a knife fight.
My eyes narrowed.
The runes on my forearms lit up like a magical rave. I drew a glowing circle in the air, runes trailing like neon graffiti. Trap ward. Blast shield. Soul net. Basically, the magical equivalent of a Swiss Army Knife meets a landmine.
I didn't even flinch when the cursed gris-gris pouch under my coat wriggled again.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, baby doom sack," I said, patting it gently. "Daddy's working."
Then I heard it.
A laugh.
But not the "haha, you tripped on a banana peel" kind. This was the bad kind—the kind you hear in dreams right before you wake up missing a kidney and dating your ex again.
I turned slowly.
Rising from the mist was a figure in a long, tattered cloak. Glowing eyes. Shadow tendrils that curled and twisted around it like adoring fans at a goth concert.
"Oh, good," I said. "You brought ambiance."
The figure didn't speak. It just existed, like a haunted painting that wanted to eat your face.
Its eyes locked onto me. The shadows shivered.
Then it raised one hand and pointed. Directly at my chest.
At the gem.
"The child of prophecy," it rasped, voice like two tombstones grinding together. "The Flame That Should Not Be."
I tilted my head. "Wow. Cool title. Sounds like an emo band."
It hissed. Literally hissed. Like it was mad that I didn't properly appreciate its creepy poetry.
I let my power flare.
The crimson gem on my chest pulsed once—like a warning shot that said, "I'm him."
"Listen," I said, voice calm, cocky, and full of bite. "I've had a long day. I fell through a portal, got shade from a wizard in a shiny helmet, and now I'm babysitting a cursed voodoo charm while fending off fog-demons."
I raised one hand, fire gathering in my palm.
"So unless you brought beignets and a decent latte, I suggest you get back in your haunted clown car and roll the hell out."
The shadows screamed.
And I smiled under the mask.
"Let's dance."
—
Here's what you don't expect to see on a late-night stroll through New Orleans:
A literal orchestra of brass-playing skeleton demons made of shadow sludge.
A cloaked figure channeling Big Bad energy like it auditioned for Villains R Us.
Me—floating ten feet off the ground with wings of fire, and wondering if I remembered to DVR the new season of Stranger Things.
"Alright, Bone Band," I said, scanning the lineup of what looked like the rejected love-children of a haunted marching band and a bottle of black ink, "are we doing this with choreography or just free-form nightmare fuel?"
No answer. Just the eerie hiss of air and the creak of brass joints.
Classic.
Above it all stood Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Ominous, cloak flaring, eyes glowing red like two tiny Death Stars. The kind of guy who definitely narrates his own internal monologues in Idris Elba's voice and expects you to be intimidated.
Spoiler alert: I wasn't.
"You know," I said, still hovering with wings crackling behind me like a fireworks show about to go off, "if you're gonna summon demons, at least tune them. That one looks like his trumpet's been cursed since the Roaring Twenties."
The nearest demon screeched, lifting a saxophone arm like it was offended. It lunged forward, wailing something that sounded like a banshee remixing Miles Davis.
I blasted it mid-air.
The firebolt hit it square in the mouthpiece, which—gross—exploded in a cloud of shadow and brass shrapnel. It let out one last sour note, like a dying goose choking on a kazoo, and disintegrated into greasy smoke.
"I warned you," I said, shaking my head. "No one comes between me and my metaphorical mic drop."
The main villain—still unnamed, still brooding—didn't even flinch. He just raised a hand. Shadows peeled from the buildings like wet paint and swirled around him, forming what looked like—oh, great—a horned crown. Really milking the aesthetic.
"You do not understand the flame you carry," he said, voice smoother than velvet but with an undertone like thunder warming up. Idris would be so proud. "It is not yours. It was never meant to awaken in you."
"Yeah?" I swirled my wand and etched a fiery sigil in the air. It hovered, rotating like a mini solar flare. "Well, guess what? Nobody told the flame that. And it's a little too late for returns."
He stepped forward, shadows twisting around his feet like affectionate snakes. "You were supposed to die, child."
"Oof." I winced. "That sounded a lot like a threat. Or a failed prophecy. Take your pick."
Another wave of shadow demons surged toward me.
I dropped.
Fell like a meteor straight out of Call of Duty: Mythical Edition, wings tucked in, flames building at my core. At the last second, I flared out—BOOM—a shockwave of phoenix fire erupting in all directions. The demons went poof. So did the nearest wall. (Sorry, 200-year-old French Quarter architecture.)
"Oops," I said as bricks rained down. "Let's call that an urban renewal project."
Shadow Cloak (I was still workshopping names, but that one was currently winning) raised both arms. The sky darkened.
Like actually darkened.
Storm clouds rolled in where there shouldn't be any. The moon winked out like it was too scared to stick around. The only light left was my wings—and the burning sigils I was tracing midair with my wand like a pyromaniac conductor.
"You cannot stop what is coming," he said, voice now echoing like it was coming from inside my own head. "The fire will consume you."
"Buddy," I said, charging another blast, "I am the fire. The only thing getting consumed here is your whole 'I shop exclusively at Evil Men's Wearhouse' vibe."
Then I let loose.
Spell after spell flew from me—flaming sigils, bolts of phoenix fire, burning runes that spun and detonated like magical grenades. I weaved between the demons, blasting, burning, dodging a shadowy tuba that should not have been that aerodynamic. My wings cut through the night like blades of dawn.
I was flying. Fighting. Laughing.
I was alive.
And somewhere deep in the back of my mind, something even older stirred. Something ancient. Something watching.
Shadow Cloak must've felt it too, because he froze mid-gesture.
"You… awakened it," he whispered.
"Define 'it,'" I said. "And does it like hugs?"
He growled—no, rumbled. The shadows recoiled like something just slapped their lunch tray in the cafeteria.
"Very well, Shadowflame. We will meet again. Soon."
Then he snapped his fingers.
Every demon went pfft. Shadows dissolved. The air lightened.
And he was gone.
Vanished like he was never there.
I hovered alone, panting, my wings flickering like dying coals. The alley was a mess. I was a mess. But…
I grinned.
"That," I said, "was awesome."
—
I was still hovering above what used to be a totally normal alleyway but now looked like a barbecue hosted by Satan himself. My wings crackled behind me like they'd just binge-watched Game of Thrones and were feeling dramatic. Honestly? I was halfway to adding "flaming wings of doom" to my resume. Right under "World's Youngest Arsonist (By Accident)" and "Professional Magnet for Chaos."
That's when the air decided to glitch out.
I'm talking reality buffering levels of glitch. Static shimmered around me like someone had pressed pause on the universe mid-frame. Then—RRRIP—the alley tore open with a screech of golden light, and out spun this massive glowing ankh in the air.
Because why use a door like a normal person when you can slice open the cosmos with Egyptian punctuation?
The portal crackled with energy. My magic flared instinctively. Even my wings twitched, probably in awe. Or jealousy. Hard to tell with sentient fire appendages.
Out stepped a man dressed like a Blue-and-Gold Oscar Award winner with attitude. Helmet? Gold. Cape? Flowing in nonexistent wind like it had a fan crew on standby. Aura? So intense even the shadows looked like they wanted to run and cry in a corner.
Doctor freaking Fate.
You ever seen someone who looked like they walked out of an ancient prophecy and a GQ photoshoot at the same time? That was him. He looked like if Dumbledore and Iron Man had a baby, raised it on philosophical riddles, and gave it access to all the cheat codes.
"Doc," I said, lowering myself to the ground with the grace of someone pretending they totally meant to incinerate a small chunk of Gotham. "Nice of you to pop in. You just missed the Jazz Demons. Real classy bunch—left mid-solo, though. Rude."
Doctor Fate didn't laugh. Honestly, I wasn't sure he could. The helmet made him look like he ate smiles for breakfast. Still, I felt him stare at me. You know that kind of stare that makes your spine straighten, your soul sit up, and your past mistakes try to delete themselves? Yeah. That kind.
"You encountered the Harbinger," he said, voice echoing like cathedral bells wrapped in thunder and sprinkled with British drama.
"Oh good," I deadpanned. "It has a name. Of course it does. Tell me—is it spelled all creepy with unnecessary Ys? 'Haarbynyger'? 'Harbyngyre'? Maybe throw in an umlaut for extra trauma?"
Fate didn't respond. Which is either his version of "don't encourage him" or "he's totally considering it now."
"The Harbinger is not of this world," he intoned. "Nor of the next. It is a herald of awakening. A storm upon the threshold of time. It comes only when something buried… stirs."
"Well, that's just great," I muttered. "Here I was thinking it was just another cursed Tuesday. So… any idea what exactly I stirred? Because all I did was light up, sprout wings, roast a demon, and maybe scream something heroic that sounded way cooler in my head."
Fate stepped forward. The air shimmered around him like it didn't want to get in his way. Gravity sort of… gave up.
"You've awakened the Flame of Beginning."
I blinked.
Then blinked harder.
"Okay," I said slowly, "coolcoolcool. Just give me a sec while I update my will and write a quick apology to reality. The Flame of what, now?"
"The Flame of Beginning," he repeated, like that explained anything. "The First Fire. The origin spark. Before gods. Before magic. Before time itself looped into paradoxes and prophecy—there was the Flame. It chose no wielder. Until now."
I stared at him, letting that marinate in my brain for a hot second. Then I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled.
"So what you're telling me is: I'm basically carrying the Big Bang in my chest. Great. So that's why my hoodie caught fire."
Fate didn't argue.
"The Harbinger came to see if you were worthy," he said. "To test the vessel. If you failed, he would have taken the flame."
"Oh, good," I said. "So I was one flaming sneeze away from becoming a human bonfire. Awesome. Love that journey for me."
Fate tilted his head. "You succeeded… barely."
"Wow," I said. "Thanks for the glowing review, Professor Judgypants. I'll be sure to put 'barely survived cosmic interview' under extracurriculars."
He continued like I hadn't just roasted him with the power of a thousand suns. (Literally.)
"He will return. But not alone. There are others… bound to the First Flame. Some worship it. Some want to extinguish it. But most… most will try to claim it."
"Because of course they will," I said. "Can't just let me have one cool thing without ten mystical weirdos showing up to ruin it. Next thing I know, some ancient fire cult's gonna try to throw me in a volcano."
Doctor Fate didn't deny it. Which—y'know—super comforting.
"You are chaos given form," he said, voice soft but still carrying that 'I read fate like it's the morning paper' vibe. "The Flame chose you because you are unwritten. A variable in the equation. The page before the prophecy is inked."
I blinked.
"That's either the most poetic compliment I've ever gotten or the most cryptic threat. Possibly both."
I looked down at myself. My skin was still glowing faintly gold, like I was lit from the inside by cosmic fire. My wings flared once, and the alley shadows actually recoiled. Not gonna lie—it was kinda metal.
The Flame of Beginning. Harbinger. Chaos. Unwritten.
So basically? I was one flaming existential crisis away from a Disney villain origin story.
I looked back at Fate. "So… what now? Do I get a decoder ring? A mystical instruction manual? Like Flame of Beginning for Dummies?"
Fate raised one arm. The portal behind him roared to life again, revealing a swirling vision of a massive stone tower filled with floating books, arcane circles, and enough magic vibes to make Hogwarts weep in envy.
"Now," he said, "you come with me. To the Tower of Fate. You must learn to control the Flame—before it consumes more than just your enemies."
I nodded. "Sounds fun. One question."
"Yes?"
"Do we get snacks?"
"No."
"...Can I summon snacks?"
He paused. "Perhaps."
I grinned. "Then lead the way, Captain Shiny. Let's go learn how to be a cosmic fire god."
And with that, I stepped into the portal—wings blazing, hoodie singed, and sass locked and loaded.
Because if the universe thought it could throw ancient fire magic, cryptic sorcerers, and flaming jazz demons at me without consequences… well.
It clearly hadn't read my prophecy yet.
---
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