The swirling golden gateway snapped shut behind them, leaving only the broken silence of Westview in its wake.
Wong stood still for a long moment, watching the afterglow of Wanda's face—the way it had hardened with resolve, the terrifying stillness in her gaze. He hadn't seen her like that since Kamar-Taj first discovered the Darkhold's resonance clinging to her soul like black vines.
"She let him go," muttered one of the disciples beside him, his hands trembling despite the calm wind.
"No," Wong replied. "She let herself stay on the board."
With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a converging portal rune and stepped through it with the others. They emerged not in Kamar-Taj, but in a hidden sanctum carved between folds of reality—one of the Eldritch Vaults, a place even the Sorcerer Supreme rarely used.
Behind them, enchanted barriers snapped into place, shielding the space from prying minds—even those that slipped through dreams and deception.
Wong moved with haste, sweeping past glowing obelisks, spectral orbs, and floating scrolls that defied gravity. At the heart of the chamber sat a circle of elder relics—tools designed to monitor reality's fabric.
But today, every one of them flickered in erratic, contradictory patterns.
A sigil that once tracked alternate timelines spun like a compass caught in a magnetic storm. A mirror meant to reflect the future showed only smiling masks—each bearing a single eye, each muttering riddles.
And in the far corner, a bronze bell meant to toll only during dimensional breaches hadn't stopped ringing in three days.
Wong took a breath and placed his hand upon the central pedestal. "Begin record," he commanded.
The runes around the circle blazed with pale light.
Log Entry: Master Wong, current Sorcerer Supreme. Subject: Designation 'Amon' — unknown interdimensional manipulator. Potential dual-pathway entity. Threat Level: Pending Classification.
He closed his eyes and spoke carefully.
"This being, known as Amon, arrived under uncertain circumstances shortly after the multiversal fracture caused by the convergence event involving Doctor Stephen Strange, America Chavez, and Wanda Maximoff. Initial behavior suggests a fragmented yet deliberate approach to destabilizing personal realities—first targeting individuals carrying emotional or metaphysical trauma."
"He possesses unusual influence over memory, perception, and narrative causality—manipulating not just what is seen, but why events unfold the way they do. His interaction with Wanda Maximoff is particularly concerning."
He paused.
"She allowed him to speak to her. She resisted… yet engaged. This may be part of a larger game."
Wong sighed and opened his eyes. "End log."
From the shadows, another voice echoed, calm and ancient.
"Your fears are valid."
Wong turned to find Agatha Harkness emerging from a spiraling glyph in the air, her cloak humming with old, wild magic.
"I didn't summon you," Wong said.
"No," Agatha replied, brushing ash from her shoulder. "But the dead witches in my dreams have been screaming his name."
Wong's brow furrowed. "You've seen Amon?"
"I felt him," she said. "Just once. A flicker. Like a thread unraveling from a tapestry you thought was nailed to the wall. He isn't mortal."
Wong grimaced. "He claims no ambition for power—only for 'the twist.'"
Agatha laughed, bitterly. "That's worse. A monster chasing power can be stopped. A storyteller? That's a force of nature."
Meanwhile…
Across the ruins of Westview, in the veil between perception and madness, Amon walked alone.
Well… not entirely alone.
"She suspects you," said a voice—soft, feminine, layered with overlapping tones.
Amon smiled without turning. "Of course she does. She's brilliant."
"She'll resist," the voice continued, morphing between the voices of Wanda, Agatha, even Klien. "She's not your puppet."
"None of them are," Amon whispered, tapping his cane on the edge of a sidewalk. "That's what makes it fun."
He paused near a shattered playground, watching a swing move back and forth with no wind. His monocle glowed faintly, and through its lens, the barriers between fiction and memory shimmered.
A group of children laughed in the distance—echoes, maybe. Or puppets.
Amon whispered, "She'll come to me again. Not out of trust. Out of necessity."
The illusionary voice paused. "And if she brings the Sorcerers?"
"I want them to come," Amon said, his grin widening. "Order always overreacts to improvisation."
In the Sanctum…
Back in the hidden vault, Wong stared at Agatha. "We need allies."
"Strange is gone," she said. "And even if he returns, the universe doesn't quite trust him anymore."
"What about the Avengers?" Wong asked.
Agatha shook her head. "They're fractured. You want someone to fight a mind war, not throw a shield."
Wong was silent.
Then he said, "There may be one option… But he's sealed away for a reason."
Agatha raised an eyebrow. "You're not seriously thinking of—"
"Better a madman we know," Wong said, "than one we don't."
Back with Wanda…
She sat atop the crumbled frame of her former home, staring at the sky.
It was darker now.
Not with night—but with something heavier.
She had barely spoken a word since Amon vanished. Her magic twitched beneath her skin like a wounded animal unsure whether to sleep or strike.
In her lap, a fragment of the Darkhold hovered—its pages blank, its power burned. But every so often, she could feel a whisper crawl across her thoughts.
"Do you truly fear becoming me?" Amon's voice teased from memory.
She clenched her fists.
No, she thought. I fear forgetting who I was before everything shattered.
Wanda stood slowly and breathed in the still air. "You want me to fall, Amon? Fine. But you'll fall with me."
She whispered a single phrase—and the skies darkened above her.
"Let's begin Act Two."