Aryan sat behind his desk and Sharon stood by the door with a stack of files, her professional armor firmly in place, but her gaze lingered on him longer than usual.
Wanda and Pietro were at the house, their presence now a grounding part of his new reality. Wanda was adapting with a quiet grace that bordered on the supernatural, while Pietro… Pietro was a restless shadow, his eyes never leaving Aryan for long, sensing that the "normalcy" provided was merely a fragile veil.
In Malibu, Tony Stark had declared a "Creative Sabbatical," a flimsy excuse to lock himself away from a world he no longer trusted. He had tried to convince himself that the first meeting in the fog choked castle was a fever dream, a high concept byproduct of a bottle of Scotch. As the designated hour of 2 PM approached, he sat in the driver's seat of his vintage AC Cobra, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was waiting for the world to dissolve. Not again, he thought, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. And yet... please, let it be again.
In the silent Necropolis of Wakanda, T'Challa dismissed his guards. He stood alone among the towering statues of the Panther Kings, seeking counsel from a power even more ancient than his bloodline. If the world was becoming a game of shadows and impossible forces, he would ensure Wakanda was the one holding the torch. He closed his eyes, inviting the silver fog to take him.
In the warm library of the Spencer mansion, Wanda looked up at Aryan as he entered the room. Their eyes met for a single moment. She gave him a genuine smile. Then, for her, the walls of the mansion blurred and dissolved into grey.
Above the long stone table sat The Fool, a majestic silhouette that exerted a gravitational pull on their very souls, a pressure that demanded reverence.
Aryan rose from his seat at the edge of the table. The sound of stone grinding against stone echoed through the cavernous hall. He stood straight, his head bowed respectfully, and began the recitation, his voice clear and formal in the oppressive silence.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era."
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog."
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
"The True Creator who embodies luck, deception, and fate."
He bowed deeper, a gesture of profound submission. "We pray for your grace. We pray for your blessing. We pray for the mercy of your gaze."
One by one, they followed his lead. Tony's voice was a reluctant whisper, the words feeling alien on his tongue. T'Challa's was a practiced baritone, the voice of a man accustomed to ritual. Wanda's was a melodic hum, a sound of genuine belief. It was an acknowledgment of a power far beyond their comprehension.
The castle seemed to accept the prayer. The immense pressure remained, but the silent hostility vanished.
———
"So," Tony broke the silence, his voice jarringly casual. "We've done the mysterious liturgy. Nice and spooky. Can we skip to the part where I see who I'm stuck in this cosmic elevator with? Trust grows with clarity, and I'm currently blind."
T'Challa nodded his assent from across the table. "It would aid in our proceedings."
Wanda's voice was soft. "It would help."
"There is merit in this," Aryan said, his voice drawing their attention. "This gathering was never meant to be built on blind faith alone."
Tony raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That almost sounds like a yes."
"I will speak in favor of it," Aryan continued, his gaze sweeping over the other silhouettes. "Knowing who stands beside you makes cooperation easier."
Wanda looked at him, a flicker of surprise and gratitude in her expression.
T'Challa inclined his head slightly. "Then the decision rests with the one upon the throne."
All eyes lifted instinctively toward the silent silhouette seated in judgment above them.
A heavy pause followed, a silence so profound it felt like the space between heartbeats. Then, the resonant voice of The Fool descended upon them.
"...Very well."
As if obeying a silent command, the grey fog that had obscured their features thinned. The swirling mists spiraled away, dissolving into the ambient gloom of the hall.
Tony stood revealed, his posture a little too casual, his eyes darting with the analytical hunger of a genius cataloging every new detail.
T'Challa sat with the innate authority of a Prince, his expression calm and observant.
Wanda looked brighter than before, her eyes glowing with a newfound clarity that made her look like a person who had finally found her home against all odds.
And then, they saw Aryan. He sat at the edge of the table, looking entirely ordinary for such an extraordinary place.
Tony's brows knit together. He looked from Aryan to the imposing throne, then back again. He's just a kid, Tony thought, a flicker of his usual arrogance returning. But he was here first. He knows the names. He knows the Master.
T'Challa observed Aryan's calm and his lack of hesitation or surprise. Chosen first, the Prince concluded. A herald permitted to stand in the presence of The Fool.
Wanda's smile was unconscious, a warm expression of familiarity in an impossible place.
"You may call me Aryan," he said into the silence, his voice steady.
"Aryan," Tony said, leaning forward, getting straight to the point. "I've run scans. In my workshop, with my own hands. I used every damn sensor Stark Industries owns."
Aryan turned his full attention toward him. "And?"
"My muscle density has increased by six hundred percent. My neural processing speed is up. My cellular recovery rate is off the charts. I cut my finger on a broken glass, and it closed in three minutes." Tony tapped his temple sharply. "But my DNA? It's the baseline. No mutations. No foreign protein sequences. No chemical traces of a serum. According to every piece of science I have ever read, I'm just a very healthy human. So explain this to me like I'm not insane."
Aryan offered a faint smile. "You're not insane, Tony. You are simply trying to use a ruler to measure a dream. You're thinking in the wrong framework."
Prince T'Challa spoke, his voice a thoughtful bass. "I have observed the same. The enhancement did not rewrite my biological essence. It feels… layered. As if a new truth has been placed upon my skin, rather than injected into my veins."
Aryan exhaled slowly. "The power you obtain through Sefirah Castle is metaphysical."
Tony's eyes narrowed. "You're just saying reality... rewrite the rules for me?"
"Something like that," Aryan replied. "When you purchase power here. You are being acknowledged by fate itself as someone who already possesses that power. The universe sees a new fact, and it complies."
He glanced briefly toward the silhouette on the throne. "The justification for your strength is rewritten in the Book of Fate. If someone scans you, they find nothing because according to the fundamental truth of your existence, there is nothing to find. The power remains because it is now yours metaphysically."
T'Challa's eyes narrowed, his sharp mind grasping the profound implication. "Acknowledged… by whom?"
Aryan glanced toward the throne.
"By The Fool."
Tony let out a long breath. "That's... clean."
"It means there is no physical trail," T'Challa added, his princely mind already calculating the immense tactical advantages. "No biological vulnerability for an enemy to exploit. No serum for a rival chemist to steal."
"Exactly," Aryan said. "Power acquired here cannot be reverse engineered."
Tony grimaced, a flicker of his old humor returning. "Well, there goes my plan for an IPO on 'Super Soldier In A Can.'"
Aryan kept his gaze steady. "If you truly wish to grant this power to another, Tony... it is possible. But the path is narrow."
Their attention sharpened instantly, a collective intake of breath.
"You may purchase the power again through your panel and designate a recipient," Aryan explained. "But the procedure is sacred. The one who accepts the power must recite the honorifics of The Fool, just as you did. And the cost is twice the original price."
"Steep," Tony muttered. "Why the premium?"
"Because generosity in this world is a high risk investment," Aryan replied, his voice cool and logical. "If your recipient is untrustworthy, if they reveal the source of their power to governments, to organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D., you won't be questioned just once. You will become the Source. And the world never, ever leaves a Source alone. Sefirah Castle does not forbid choice, but it does not shield you from the responsibility of that choice."
Wanda's voice was a mere breath, a sad whisper. "So even kindness can be a cage."
Tony leaned back again, rubbing his chin, the gears in his genius brain turning at a furious pace. "So basically," he said, "we're walking, talking paradoxes now."
"Yes."
"Protected by a reality warping god."
"...Yes."
Tony laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Man," he muttered, "and I thought the Arc Reactor was complicated."
Wanda looked up toward the throne again, her expression one of awe and a sliver of fear. "Does The Fool… care what we do with this power?" she asked softly.
From the high throne, the voice of The Fool descended, each word a universe of meaning.
"Power is not a sin."
A pause.
"Intention is."
For Tony, the words were a scalpel, cutting through years of self-deception. He thought about Obadiah, about selling weapons of mass destruction to the highest bidder, about the "Jericho" missile he was supposed to demonstrate in Afghanistan. He had always told himself he wasn't responsible for what happened after the check cleared. But if power itself wasn't the sin... then his sin was the part of him that chose not to care.
For T'Challa, the sentence was a mirror reflecting the soul of his nation. He thought of Wakanda's isolationism. They possessed the power to heal the world, yet they sat behind a veil of secrecy. If intention was the final measure of a man, then the burden of a Prince was not to avoid power, but to ensure his will never rotted into apathy.