If you've never stepped through a portal made of living fire, I can confirm two important facts.
One: it does not feel like walking through a doorway. It feels like reality briefly forgetting you exist, then remembering at the last second and panicking.
Two: the air on the other side can hit you so hard it makes you emotional, which is embarrassing when you're trying to look cool in front of the Ancient One.
The portal bloomed open in front of a tiny village like a circular wound in the world, lines of flame stitching themselves into a perfect ring. Beyond it was green—real green, the kind you only see in nature documentaries or wizarding paintings where nobody ever invented diesel engines. The Ancient One stepped through first, calm as if she was entering a tea shop. The rest of us followed in a neat little line, like ducklings about to do something illegal.
The moment my boots hit the ground, I breathed in and almost choked—not because the air was bad, but because it was too good. It was cold and sharp and clean, like it had teeth. It smelled like pine needles, wet dirt, and that faint metallic tang you get right before a storm. No smog, no exhaust, no distant sirens. Just wind moving through trees like it had nowhere urgent to be.
I looked around at the wilderness, then back at the Ancient One. "Okay," I said, trying to sound casual and failing because my voice came out like someone on vacation. "This is… genuinely nice. Where are we?"
"This is Latveria," she replied, hands folded in her sleeves. Her eyes swept the horizon the way a general looks at a battlefield, not a forest. "Eastern Europe. A small agricultural country. Its isolation is precisely why Dormammu's followers chose to hide here—to avoid our detection."
Latveria. The name landed with weight, like a stone dropping into still water. I knew enough about this world's future to feel my stomach do that slow, unhappy twist it does right before something goes wrong. Also, I knew enough about history—both wizarding and Muggle—to recognize the vibe immediately.
A poor place. A forgotten place. The kind of place the powerful point at and say, tragic, before turning away because tragedy is inconvenient.
It was bordered by Serbia and Hungary, the Ancient One had told us before we left Kamar-Taj, and it was still basically a feudal monarchy—one of those countries where the word "modernity" arrived late, took one look around, and decided to go somewhere else. No oil. No glittering mineral deposits. No strategic value that made the world's biggest superpower suddenly develop a humanitarian conscience.
In other words, the United States had never bothered to "liberate" it.
They'd left it under the polite banner of "non-interference in other countries' internal affairs."
Translation: not worth invading.
I didn't say that part out loud because Mordo was already in a mood and I didn't need him deciding I was morally compromised for making jokes during a mission. Still, the thought sat in my head like a bitter candy I couldn't stop tasting.
The Ancient One's gaze shifted to the tree line. "Dormammu's followers have built a church here," she continued. "They call it the Dark Church. Their presence has been difficult to confirm because the country's mundane infrastructure is minimal, and the people are—by necessity—quiet."
Agatha, standing a little apart with her black cat tucked against her chest like it was an accessory she'd refused to leave behind, clicked her tongue softly. "Quiet is a euphemism," she murmured. "Desperate people are always quiet. They learn it or they die."
Jericho Drumm—who somehow managed to look like the kind of man who'd already seen the end of the world twice—stared toward the village in silence, as if listening to something the rest of us couldn't hear. Daniel, younger and nervous and trying not to show it, rolled his shoulders as if preparing for a workout that might kill him. Mordo's jaw was set so tight I worried his teeth would crack.
Me? I was trying to act like this was normal.
Sure, Abel, I told myself. Totally standard day. Walk into a forgotten European country, fight cultists who worship a flaming space demon, and do it with two of the most terrifying sorcerers alive watching you like disappointed professors.
The Ancient One lifted her hand again, and another portal opened—this one smaller, precise, like she was cutting a neat circle out of the air with invisible scissors.
A man stepped through.
Tall. Well-built in that quiet, controlled way. Too clean-looking for a place like this, but not in a pampered rich-boy way—more like someone who'd learned to keep himself disciplined because everything else around him was chaos. His hair was dark and neatly kept. His posture was perfect, not stiff but exact. And his eyes…
His eyes were the kind you don't forget. Intelligent, cold at the edges, like a blade hidden under velvet.
He looked at the Ancient One first, then Agatha, then Jericho, then Mordo, then Daniel… and then his gaze paused on me for half a second longer than it needed to.
Like he was taking inventory.
Like he'd already decided I was the variable.
Then he bowed, polite and measured. "Hello, mages. You can call me Victor. I'm also a mage—though of course not as powerful as you. Just a beginner."
Victor.
Latveria.
Young mage.
My brain took the facts, stacked them neatly, and then lit them on fire.
Oh.
Oh no.
Victor von Doom.
Future Doctor Doom—future metal mask, future world domination, future "I'm not the villain, I'm the inevitable solution"—was standing here being polite and helpful like a well-raised honors student.
For a split second I felt like laughing, but it came out as a weird exhale that I coughed into my fist. The timeline wasn't just weird. The timeline was doing parkour and landing on my face.
The Ancient One returned his bow with the calm grace of someone greeting a neighbor, not a person who would eventually become one of the most dangerous men on the planet. "Master Victor," she said, using the title like she wasn't even slightly concerned by destiny. "Please take us to the Dark Church."
"I'd be honored," Victor replied. His voice had a faint accent, hard to place, Eastern European but smoothed by education. "Please, follow me."
He led us through the woods, moving with confidence that said he knew every root and stone. The branches above us tangled like ribs in a cathedral ceiling, and somewhere in the distance I heard faint animal calls—birds, maybe, or something else. The wind kept shifting, as if the forest itself couldn't settle on a direction.
When we reached the village's edge, Victor raised a hand and stopped us. We were concealed behind trees and undergrowth, but we had a clear view ahead. The village looked like a picture from a history book: small wooden homes, thin smoke lines from chimneys, dirt roads rutted by carts instead of cars. People moved between buildings in simple clothes, heads down.
Victor gestured toward them. "Look carefully. Everyone you see walking outside is a member of the Dark Church. You don't need to show mercy."
The words were delivered like weather reporting. No hatred, no excitement—just certainty.
Mordo immediately frowned, like Victor had slapped him. "How can you be certain?" he demanded. "What if innocents are still in the village? What if we harm them by mistake?"
Victor turned toward Mordo, and for the first time a sharper emotion slid into his expression—something like disdain, quickly controlled. "The Dark Church's doctrine is extremely exclusive," he said. "If you refuse to believe, you're sacrificed to Dormammu."
He pointed again, this time not at the whole village but at specific figures. "Those innocent people are either waiting to be sacrificed, or they have already been sacrificed. Either way, they will not be walking freely."
Mordo's eyes narrowed, then he inhaled slowly. I could almost see him weighing justice against efficiency like they were stones in his hands. Finally, he nodded. "Understood."
That was the thing about Mordo—he wasn't heartless. He was just… absolute. Give him a rule and he'd follow it off a cliff, but he needed to believe the rule was real.
Agatha's mouth quirked. "Well," she said, shifting the cat in her arms, "if we're marching into a village full of cultists, we'll need cover. Ancient One, can you handle that part?"
The Ancient One's smile was slight, like she'd been waiting for someone to ask. "Of course."
She stepped forward, feet sinking lightly into leaf litter. Her hands rose and began weaving patterns in the air—intricate, precise, seals blooming and collapsing like geometric flowers. The motion had an elegance to it, but there was force behind it too, the way a dancer's grace can still break bones.
Then she thrust both palms toward the village.
The wind erupted.
At first it was a gust, then it became a living thing—a violent gale that tore through the streets. Leaves and dirt and small stones rose into the air, spinning into a vortex that expanded with horrifying speed. The sound hit a second later, a roar like the sky itself was angry.
I felt my robes snap against my legs, my hair whipping across my forehead. The trees groaned. Somewhere in the village, people shouted—panicked, confused. Figures scattered, ducking into doorways, slamming shutters, stumbling through swirling debris.
I swallowed hard, partly in awe and partly because I'd just inhaled something that might have once been a leaf.
Winds of Watoomb, I thought, recognizing the spell from Kamar-Taj texts. Reading about it in a book did not prepare you for watching it turn an entire village into a sandblasted storm globe.
"Perfect," Agatha said, watching the chaos like she was appreciating good theater. She glanced at the Ancient One. "Your strength is still comparable to before. Truly impressive."
The Ancient One didn't look flattered. She just looked focused, eyes fixed on the village as if she were already mapping every moving soul inside it.
Agatha lowered the black cat gently to the ground—who immediately sat with the offended dignity of a creature that did not consent to being placed anywhere—and then she knelt, pressing one hand flat into the soil. Her fingers spread wide, and her lips began moving in a low chant I didn't recognize. The words sounded old, like they'd been dragged across centuries and picked up scratches.
Around the village, the air shimmered.
At first it looked like heat haze, like the world had decided to blur itself for privacy. But then I felt it—an invisible pressure snapping into place, like someone had sealed a lid over the entire area. The hairs on my arms stood up. Magic thickened, not oppressive, but absolute.
Space warped, then stabilized.
The village looked the same, but it didn't feel the same.
Agatha rose to her feet, dusting her hands as if she'd just finished gardening. "There," she said. "Now nothing enters or leaves unless I allow it."
I stared at her, then at the Ancient One. They'd just turned the battlefield into a controlled environment in less time than it took me to brew a halfway decent potion back home. My own magic—strong as it was—suddenly felt like a kid showing up to a dragon fight with a sharp stick.
The Ancient One turned back to us. "You may begin," she said. "Be careful. If you encounter an opponent you cannot defeat, come to me or Agatha immediately."
Everyone nodded, the kind of nod you give when you understand the words and also understand the consequences of ignoring them.
The Ancient One opened a portal at the village border, and we stepped through into the storm. Sand and debris whipped past, making my eyes water. Visibility dropped to a few feet. It was loud enough that even thoughts felt like they had to shout.
Agatha walked first. When she reached the invisible boundary she'd created, she snapped her fingers and an opening appeared like a curtain pulled aside. She stepped through, unbothered by the wind like she had a personal agreement with the atmosphere.
The Ancient One followed, then the rest of us.
Inside the village, most of the Dark Church members had taken shelter, which made moving unseen easier. Doors were slammed shut. Windows shuttered. Only occasional silhouettes darted through the haze, trying to keep from being sandblasted into regret.
The Ancient One made a subtle gesture and then stepped upward—onto empty air.
And ran.
She sprinted through the sky as if it were solid ground, robes trailing behind her like the tail of a comet, heading toward the village's core. The casual violation of physics would've been hilarious if it wasn't so intimidating. Agatha split off in another direction with Jericho, moving with purpose, her cat somehow keeping pace like it was part of her spellwork. Their forms vanished into the storm, swallowed by dust and swirling leaves.
That left me standing with Victor, Daniel, and Mordo in the gritty twilight of the windstorm.
Daniel and Mordo exchanged a look—a quick, practiced coordination between Kamar-Taj mages. They didn't need words. They simply nodded, and their stance shifted into that familiar "we've done drills together" posture.
I was about to peel off alone. Old habits. Lone-wolf wizard stuff. Also, I didn't want to accidentally babysit anyone.
Then Victor spoke beside me, voice steady even with the storm screaming around us. "Master Abel," he said, "would you like to team up with me?"
I turned toward him, studying his face through the grit in the air. He wasn't joking. He wasn't flattering. He was… offering. Like an equal. Like someone who understood that power was useful, but partnership was efficiency.
And I felt it again—that odd sensation that he'd measured me earlier and come to a conclusion.
I could sense his magic too, coiled and controlled. Not wild. Not sloppy. It reminded me of a wand held perfectly still right before a spell—no wasted motion, no wasted intent. He wasn't weak. He wasn't a "beginner" in the way most people meant it. He was a beginner in the way a shark is a beginner at swimming: technically true, functionally terrifying.
Refusing would've been rude, and right now, rudeness felt like a stupid way to make a future supervillain hold a grudge.
Also… I was curious. Painfully curious. Because meeting Victor von Doom like this—before the mask, before the legend—felt like peeking behind a curtain I wasn't supposed to touch.
"Alright," I said, forcing my voice to stay casual. "Let's work together."
Victor nodded once. "Good. Follow me."
I glanced at Daniel and Mordo. "Good luck."
"You as well, Master Abel," Daniel replied, and even through the storm I could hear the tension in his voice, like he was trying to convince himself he wasn't terrified.
Mordo just stared at me for a beat, then gave a short nod, already moving.
Victor and I slipped deeper into the village, using the windstorm as cover. We moved between buildings, stepping over scattered debris. I caught glimpses through half-open doors—dark rooms, people crouched in corners, murmuring prayers that didn't sound like prayers. The air smelled like damp wood and fear, and underneath it all, faintly, like a stain you couldn't wash out, there was the scent of incense… and something metallic.
Blood, maybe. Or the promise of it.
Victor guided us toward the center, and as we drew closer, the architecture subtly changed. The houses became older, more tightly packed, like the village had grown inward around something it couldn't escape. Ahead, through the whirling dust, I saw the silhouette of a building taller than the rest. A church, but wrong—its shape was familiar, yet the angles felt too sharp, too deliberate, like it was designed to cut the sky.
"You were certain everyone outside was one of them," I said, keeping my voice low as we moved. "How did you figure that out? Surveillance? Local informants?"
Victor's mouth tightened. "I lived here," he said simply. "I learned what happens to those who refuse."
The way he said it wasn't dramatic. It was worse than dramatic. It was flat, like a fact he'd long ago stopped reacting to because reacting didn't change anything.
We reached the church's side entrance. The windstorm didn't touch this place as strongly, like the building itself was resisting it. That was my first real "oh no" moment, because weather spells don't usually get politely ignored unless something nastier is pushing back.
Victor crouched by the doorframe, fingers brushing carved symbols in the wood. "They warded it," he murmured. "Crude, but effective. Dark Dimension techniques."
I leaned in, squinting. The carvings weren't just decorative. They were layered, repeating patterns that made my eyes want to slide away. I recognized echoes of Kamar-Taj diagrams, but twisted—like someone had copied a textbook upside down while angry.
"What's the plan?" I asked.
Victor looked up at me, and in the dim light his eyes seemed almost reflective. "We enter quietly," he said. "We find the ritual chamber. We eliminate the priests first. Without leadership, the rest will panic."
"Efficient," I muttered. "And terrifyingly Doom-like."
He didn't react to the word Doom—either because it meant nothing to him yet, or because he'd already decided names were irrelevant.
He placed his palm against the door. Magic gathered around his hand, not flashy, just precise. The warding runes flickered—resisting, then bending.
The door swung inward.
Warm air spilled out, heavy with incense and candle smoke, and something else—something like burnt sugar mixed with rot. The sound hit next: chanting. Low voices, many of them, layered into a rhythm that made my skin prickle. It wasn't Latin. It wasn't any human language I knew. It felt like hearing a word you weren't meant to understand, and your soul understanding it anyway.
Victor stepped in without hesitation. I followed.
Inside, the corridor was lit by candles set into iron holders. The walls were covered in murals—saints with their faces scratched out, replaced by something that looked like a swirling flame. A few steps in, I saw a familiar symbol etched into the stone, and my stomach dropped.
I'd seen it before.
Not here—never here—but in Kamar-Taj records. In sketches of zealots. In the margins of warnings.
The same style of sigil Kaecilius's lot used, like a signature carved into reality.
The chanting grew louder as we approached the next doorway, and then, through the crack, I saw it.
A circle on the floor drawn in something dark and wet. People in robes kneeling around it. A figure standing at the center, holding a blade above a struggling body.
And above them—just above the circle—the air had begun to split.
Not a portal like the Ancient One's, clean and controlled.
This was a wound. A tear.
On the other side was darkness that wasn't absence but presence, like an ocean of shadow staring back.
Victor's voice was barely a whisper. "They're opening it," he said.
The figure at the center raised the blade higher.
The victim screamed.
And the darkness on the other side of the tear… moved, as if something huge had noticed the sound and was turning its head.
I tightened my grip on my wand, heart slamming against my ribs, and realized with sudden clarity that this wasn't going to be a simple raid.
This was going to be a race.
And we were already late.