This wasn't the Ancestral Plane.
T'Challa knew it the moment his awareness solidified. He'd walked those purple twilight fields enough times—first as a boy accompanying his father, then as king accepting Bast's blessing—to recognize them instinctively.
But this place was wrong.
The sky above should have been painted in shades of lavender and rose, dotted with stars that were somehow both impossibly close and infinitely distant. Instead, thick darkness pressed down like a physical weight, swallowing any light that dared exist. Yet he could still see—the landscape around him rendered in stark clarity despite the absence of natural illumination.
He stood in tall grass that should have been silver but looked gray. The ancient baobab trees that marked the Plane's sacred spaces were absent. No ancestral kings and queens waited to offer wisdom. No statues of past Black Panthers lined invisible paths.
Empty.
Barren.
Wrong.
"Why am I here?" T'Challa spoke aloud, his voice swallowed by the oppressive silence. "This isn't death. I haven't performed the ritual again. So what—"
A sound behind him. Soft. Deliberate.
T'Challa turned, his warrior instincts flaring despite the dreamlike quality of this space.
A man stood there, dressed simply—plain shirt, practical pants, worn shoes. Nothing like the ornate robes or traditional garments Wakandan rulers wore in the Ancestral Plane. The clothing was almost aggressively ordinary, the kind worn by someone who'd spent time in places far from home.
But the face—
T'Challa's breath caught.
He knew that face. Not from memory, exactly. From photographs hidden in his mother's private chambers. From stories his father refused to tell but his mother shared in whispers when T'Chaka wasn't listening.
The man smiled, warm and sad and achingly familiar. "You look like him," he said softly, his accent carrying traces of both Wakanda and California. "Maybe even more handsome. You must have gotten the best parts from your mother."
"Who..." T'Challa's voice came out rougher than intended. "Who are you?"
But he already knew. The resemblance to his father was unmistakable—the same strong jaw, the same intense eyes. But softer somehow. Less burdened by the weight of a throne.
"Me?" The man's smile turned melancholic. "I'm a guardian of sorts. Used to be part of Wakanda. Now I... maintain balance here. Keep secrets that need keeping."
T'Challa's mind raced through genealogy, through family history his father had deliberately obscured. "N'Jobu," he breathed. "Uncle N'Jobu."
"Ah." The smile widened, genuine pleasure breaking through the sadness. "So they at least told you my name. That's something."
Before conscious thought could intervene, T'Challa moved. In three quick strides he closed the distance and pulled his uncle into an embrace—this man he'd never met, who'd died before T'Challa was old enough to remember, whose absence had shaped his father's reign in ways T'Challa was only beginning to understand.
N'Jobu stiffened in surprise, then slowly returned the embrace, his hands tentative at first, then firmer.
When they separated, T'Challa's composure cracked. "Why are you here? Why didn't I see you before, when I walked the Ancestral Plane as king?"
N'Jobu's expression darkened. "You can thank your father for that."
"What?"
"It's a long story." N'Jobu turned and began walking, his figure already starting to fade at the edges. "Come. We don't have much time."
T'Challa followed instinctively, then caught himself. "That's not fair. You can't just say something like that and walk away without explaining—"
N'Jobu glanced back, amusement flickering across his features. "Your father used to do the same thing to me and my brother when we were boys. Walk away mid-conversation, make us follow, make us work for answers." His smile turned bittersweet. "He said it taught patience. I think he just enjoyed watching us squirm."
Despite everything, T'Challa felt his lips twitch toward a smile. That sounded exactly like his father.
They walked in silence for a time, the empty landscape shifting around them in ways that defied physics. Distance became meaningless. Direction was suggestion rather than rule.
"Uncle," T'Challa finally said, "why am I here? How am I here? I thought the Ancestral Plane could only be accessed through the heart-shaped herb ritual."
N'Jobu stopped walking. When he turned, his expression carried the weight of knowledge he wished he didn't possess.
"Because someone wants to speak with you, nephew."
The words hung in the air.
Then T'Challa felt it—a presence that made every nerve ending ignite with awareness. Power pressed against his consciousness like the approach of thunder, vast and primal and old.
He turned slowly.
The panther that emerged from shadows that shouldn't exist was nothing like the stylized representations in Wakandan art. This was no ceremonial statue, no symbolic carving.
This was real.
She stood as tall as T'Challa himself, massive beyond any natural panther's size. Midnight fur absorbed light rather than reflecting it, each muscle visible beneath sleek coat as she moved with predatory grace. Golden eyes—molten, knowing, ancient—fixed on him with intelligence that transcended any mortal creature.
She sat, her posture regal despite her feline form, and those eyes never left his.
"You are far from home, little cub."
The voice resonated not through his ears but directly into his soul—feminine, maternal, but carrying an undercurrent of such raw power that T'Challa's knees weakened.
He knew her. Had felt her blessing course through his veins when he consumed the heart-shaped herb. Had sensed her presence in every feat of strength, every impossible leap, every moment when the Black Panther's power surged through him.
But knowing intellectually that Bast was real and standing in her actual presence were entirely different experiences.
"Bast," he whispered, then dropped to one knee, head bowed. "Panther Goddess. Guardian of Wakanda. Eater of the Sun and Moon."
A sound like thunder-purr rumbled from the massive panther. "Well taught, little one. Though few of your people remember the old names anymore."
"Every school, every temple, every child in Wakanda learns your story," T'Challa said, his head still bowed. "We pray to you for wisdom. Offer thanks for your protection. The faith of Wakanda burns as bright as ever."
"Some remember." Bast's voice carried approval but also regret. "But many have forgotten what that faith truly means. What true devotion requires."
She leaned forward, and T'Challa could feel her breath—hot and carrying scents of ancient forests and hunting grounds that existed before humans walked upright.
"Raise your head, Prince T'Challa. Look upon your goddess."
He obeyed, meeting those golden eyes. Up close, he could see galaxies swirling in their depths—literal stars, as if Bast's eyes contained pieces of the cosmos itself.
"Great Bast," T'Challa forced himself to speak despite overwhelming awe, "why am I in the Ancestral Plane? I haven't performed the ritual. I'm not—I can't be dead, can I?"
"You walk a place between places," Bast replied, her massive head tilting slightly. "This world you've entered—this Mortis—exists at a convergence point. Where your people's ancestral realm touches the cosmic currents of another galaxy's Force. The impossible becomes possible here."
That answered one question while raising a dozen more. But T'Challa had more pressing concerns.
"Bast, please—" His voice cracked despite his best efforts. "My family. My parents. Are they safe? Are they—" He couldn't finish the question. Couldn't voice the fear that had haunted him since the moment he'd been ripped from his home galaxy.
The goddess's fierce expression softened to something almost grandmotherly. "They live, little cub. They are well. Your mother maintains the throne with wisdom and grace. Your father... grieves, but endures."
T'Challa's composure shattered. He slumped forward, hands pressed against the grass, laughter bubbling up through tears he couldn't contain.
"Thank you," he gasped. "Thank you, thank you—"
"Peace, young king." One massive paw extended, gently touching his shoulder. The contact sent warmth flooding through him—reassurance made tangible. "Your family is strong. They carry on, as they must."
T'Challa took several breaths, forcing himself back to some semblance of calm. When he looked up again, Bast had settled into a sphinx-like pose, watching him with patient understanding.
"The mantle," he said suddenly. "Who carries the Black Panther's blessing now? Father? Mother? Shuri?"
Bast's tail flicked once—a gesture that somehow conveyed both amusement and concern. "Your sister."
"Shuri?" Surprise colored his voice. His brilliant, tech-obsessed little sister who'd always been more comfortable in a lab than on a battlefield?
"She took the heart-shaped herb shortly after you vanished," Bast confirmed. "Claimed the mantle in your absence. The ceremony was... incomplete. Rushed. But her heart was true, and I granted her my blessing."
Pride and worry warred in T'Challa's chest. "Is she—how is she handling it?"
"She struggles." Bast's honesty was gentle but unflinching. "The power overwhelms her at times. She has the strength but not yet the control. The courage but not yet the experience. She is not you, T'Challa. No one could be."
The goddess's golden eyes held his.
"The mantle marks her as temporary keeper. A placeholder until you return. If you do not..." She paused, considering. "She will grow into the role eventually. But at great cost to herself."
"I have to get back." T'Challa's voice carried steel determination. "I have to—"
"You are farther from home than any Black Panther has ever been," Bast interrupted, not unkindly. "Across not just distance but dimensions. Galaxies. The very fabric of reality itself. Your journey back will not be simple."
She leaned closer, her presence overwhelming.
"Know this, little cub: The Avengers still on Earth have offered aid. Your sister has joined their ranks, seeking ways to find you. She is not alone in this quest."
"Shuri joined the Avengers?" T'Challa couldn't help but laugh—sharp, disbelieving. "Of course she did. Reckless, brilliant—just like her."
"She learned from the best." Bast's amusement was palpable. "Your parents pray daily for your return while maintaining Wakanda's strength. Your people endure. The nation stands strong."
Homesickness hit T'Challa like physical blow. The overwhelming need to see his family, to walk Wakanda's streets, to hear Shuri's teasing voice and his mother's wisdom—
"I miss them," he whispered. "So much."
"I know." Bast's massive head lowered until her muzzle nearly touched his forehead. "And they miss you. When your father next walks the Ancestral Plane, I will tell him you live. That you fight to return. That his son remains the warrior and king he raised."
Tears pricked T'Challa's eyes again, but this time he didn't try to hide them. "Thank you, Great Bast."
"But hear this, young king." The goddess's voice took on weight, authority that pressed down like gravity. "The realm you walk now—Mortis—is unlike anything Wakanda's gods have encountered. Forces exist here that predate even divine beings like myself. Powers that could reshape you, break you, or elevate you beyond recognition."
T'Challa felt the world tilt, his consciousness beginning to pull away from this place.
"Be careful, little panther. Trust your companions. Trust yourself. And remember—you carry Wakanda with you, always. My blessing does not diminish with distance."
The Ancestral Plane began to dissolve, reality bleeding at the edges.
"You have walked farther than any before you. Set precedents that will echo through generations. Now return to your path. Survive. Endure. Come home."
The last thing T'Challa saw before the vision released him was Bast's golden eyes, filled with pride and concern in equal measure.
Then darkness took him, and consciousness dragged him back toward his sleeping body in a cave on an impossible world, carrying with him the knowledge that no matter how far he traveled, he was never truly alone.
Bast watched over her children.
Even across galaxies.