Chapter 10
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**Location: S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier — Fury's Office**
"*God on a damn volcano…*"
The file snapped shut harder than necessary as Director Nick Fury stared at the half-empty report like it had insulted his mother.
He stood, walked a slow, pacing line behind his desk, then circled back and reopened the file again—as if the words would somehow change this time.
They didn't.
> **Agent Coulter's Debrief – Excerpt**
> *Tony Stark confirmed an unidentified sentient presence within the volcano.*
> *Subject referred to as "a god of fire."*
> *Claimed 'even gods dream of silence.'*
> *Further description redacted due to lack of verified physical intel.*
> *Suggested caution due to the subject's desire for secrecy and potential existential-level power.*
Fury tossed the report onto the table.
"Stark, you cryptic little bastard."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the kind of exhausted anger only Tony could inspire.
Goose, curled up on the corner of the desk like a spoiled housecat and not the eldritch terror she truly was, blinked at him with slow disinterest. He reached over and absently stroked her head. She purred. Or vibrated. Or maybe threatened reality itself. Who knew anymore.
Fury's eye flicked to the old flip phone on his desk.
Carol's number sat inside. Just one call. One word, and she'd be on Earth in minutes.
His fingers hovered over the phone. One second. Two.
He sighed and dropped his hand.
Not yet.
Because if it really was what it *sounded* like… not even she could help them.
He sat back in the chair, looking not at the report now, but out the window. Past the clouds. Toward the distant line of mountains.
His thoughts lingered there, over magma and myth.
And somewhere, far from the steel halls of S.H.I.E.L.D.—
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**Location: Deep within the Volcano — A Few Weeks Later**
The anvil rang like thunder.
Molten sparks danced around the cave, briefly painting the stone walls in gold as the forge breathed, alive and steady.
Vulkan stood at its heart, alone.
His frame, still and immense, cast long shadows across the cavern as he worked. Not frantic—never rushed—but with that unshakable rhythm only a master craftsman could hold. Hammer. Turn. Fold. Fire. Repeat.
And yet, even in that focus, his mind wandered.
He could *feel* it.
The air had shifted. Not physically, not in the way mortals would notice—but spiritually, psychically.
The **Warp**—weak and distant in this realm, almost silent when he first arrived—was no longer still.
It stirred.
And that was what troubled him.
Vulkan turned, gaze sweeping across the far wall of the chamber where statues of the other Primarchs stood. Unfinished, frozen in time—his brothers, remembered in stone. Beyond them, in a recess carved from the mountain itself, his armor stood upright, waiting.
And near it, **Dawnbringer**, the warhammer, gleamed faintly in the forge-light.
Vulkan set down the hammer in his hand and took a slow breath.
This world was never meant to hold the Warp. Not truly. Not in the way *his* did. It lacked the depth, the madness… the screaming infinity behind the veil.
But now?
Now, the Warp here was *changing.*
It felt him—the essence of one who was shaped by it, forged in it, tempered in a galaxy soaked in blood and gods. And this world's Warp, in its confusion, had begun to imitate him. Or rather… absorb the echoes of what he carried inside.
That was the danger.
In its mimicry, the Warp here was trying to evolve. And it had begun to feed—on emotion, on death, on pain. On the galaxy's growing unrest. Even if this place did not know Chaos yet… it was learning.
It would not be long.
A new god could form here. A creature of madness. A parasite born of sorrow, rage, hunger. Perhaps something new. Perhaps something worse.
Vulkan's fists clenched.
He would not let that happen.
He walked forward, each step echoing against stone, until he stood before the armor. The black and bronze plates stood silent, ageless, but he saw more than metal.
He saw war.
He remembered fire.
And he made a vow, low and thunderous in his chest:
> "If Chaos is born in this world…
>
> I will unmake it myself.
>
> Before it can ever rise."
His hand drifted across the breastplate. Not yet donned. Not yet needed.
But waiting.
His gaze turned next to the warhammer.
It pulsed faintly, warm and ready.
He gave it a small nod, as if reassuring an old friend.
Then he turned back toward the forge.
The fire still needed tending.
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1 year later
**Location: Somewhere Over the Atlantic – Late Evening**
The sky was calm.
Clouds drifted lazily beneath him, painted gold by the dying sun, while the soft hum of repulsors purred like a heartbeat—controlled, stable, *alive*.
Tony Stark soared above it all.
He wasn't testing this time. No new weapons, no urgent redesigns. Just… flying. Cruising at high altitude, watching the world tilt beneath his boots.
"Altitude stable, sir," JARVIS said softly in his ear. "No atmospheric anomalies within two hundred miles."
Tony exhaled, letting the wind slip past the helmet seams. "Finally. A quiet night."
The HUD flickered with the usual readouts: vitals, oxygen, fuel reserves, suit integrity.
But it wasn't the *Mark VI* anymore.
Not entirely.
The frame was bulkier, a touch broader in the shoulders, with subtle overlapping plates across the arms and back. Reinforced. Heat-resistant. Hardened not just for battle—but *endurance.*
He had Vulkan to thank for that.
Not that the man had given him any blueprints or design specs—just the memory of that towering armor, its silence, its weight, its *presence*. The kind of gear that didn't say *"look at me"*—it said *"I survive wars."*
So Tony took notes.
Steel learned to breathe like bronze.
"JARVIS," he said, cutting through the breeze. "How's my reputation these days? Give it to me straight. Rotten eggs or golden stars?"
"Public approval rating has improved marginally. Fifty-two percent currently hold a neutral or favorable opinion. Thirty-eight still consider you 'reckless but brilliant.' Eight percent selected 'menace.'"
Tony snorted. "What about Pepper's poll?"
JARVIS paused, like he *really* didn't want to say.
"She has not updated it since the Monaco Incident."
"…Ow."
He hovered still for a moment, letting his boots drop slightly as he drifted with the wind, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
A lot had happened since then. Hammer was disgraced. Whiplash was dead. S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken more of an interest in him—Fury looming in the shadows, talking about teams, threats, *initiatives*.
But more than that, he had changed.
He wasn't just reacting anymore. Not just running from death or chasing legacy. He was building something *stronger* now. Layer by layer.
And yeah… maybe a bit of that came from meeting a living god hiding in a volcano.
Tony tilted slightly mid-air, banked left, and cut through a cloud, letting the mist hiss past his armor.
"You know," he said after a moment, voice quieter, "I've been wondering what he's doing now."
"Sir?"
"Vulkan," he said. "The big guy. Hammer like a freight train. Talked like a monk. Walked like a mountain."
There was a pause. Even JARVIS seemed to be calculating a cautious response.
"You believe he's still within the volcano?"
Tony shrugged, the motion smooth in the suit.
"Feels like the kind of guy who doesn't move unless he *has* to." He paused, watching the sun dip lower toward the edge of the world. "Still. You don't meet someone like that and *not* wonder."
He didn't say it aloud—but something about that meeting had stuck with him.
Not the fire. Not even the weight of that presence.
It was the *stillness.*
The kind of stillness that didn't come from peace… but from knowing exactly what you were meant to do—even if it cost everything.
Tony hadn't found that yet.
But maybe he was getting closer.
He angled his flight path upward, picking up speed as the clouds blurred beneath him.
"Take me home, JARVIS," he said softly. "Let's get back to work."
"Right away, sir."
And with a burst of light, he vanished into the twilight, streaking toward the horizon—armor gleaming, heart steady.
Somewhere down below, the world kept turning.
Somewhere deep beneath stone, the forge still burned.
And the storm—whatever it would become—was still waiting.
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