"Master." Kaecilius bowed his head in greeting, then quickly raised it again, his gaze fixed anxiously on the Ancient One seated at the low table before him. His worry was palpable, etched into the furrow of his brows and radiating from the twitch of his nose and eyes. Anyone could see his restlessness. He had reason to be anxious: Solomon Damonet had sent him numerous messages, and both the Eye of Agamotto and planetary defense systems had detected dark magic energy waves originating from the Aether dimension. Yet the Ancient One remained unbothered, seemingly allowing her favored disciple to face the forces of Mephisto head-on without intervention.
Mordo always said, "The Ancient One has her reasons," but Kaecilius disliked this explanation. It sounded like a command to abandon one's own reasoning. He understood that every decision the Ancient One made had intricate layers of intent, but he couldn't stay silent on this matter. He had practically raised Solomon—he'd been there since the boy, orphaned and lost, had been brought to Kamar-Taj as a child. In Solomon, Kaecilius had found an outlet for his own long-buried paternal instincts, seeing him almost as a son. Watching Solomon grow into a brilliant sorcerer had filled him with pride—a feeling so profound it even dulled the anguish of his wife's voice calling to him from the abyss and kept the nightmares at bay.
Now he had to ask. He couldn't let this child—his child in all but blood—be harmed.
"Mephisto and I have signed a pact," the Ancient One said simply, her response no more than a statement of fact. Kaecilius felt no relief. If anything, it fanned the flames of his agitation. "Why?" he demanded, looking up at her with uncharacteristic impertinence. "We should've struck first to eliminate Mephisto's forces. Solomon has already called for reinforcements!"
The Ancient One ignored his lack of decorum, calmly observing her distressed disciple.
"Mephisto doesn't make deals unless it's profitable for him," she said with a shrug—though, of course, no one could actually see her shrug. "If he's agreed to such a pact, it means he has plans beyond what he's letting on. Retrieving his avatar is likely only one part of his strategy. Until we fully understand his intentions, any move we make could play directly into his hands. The Eye of Agamotto can't fully untangle Solomon's fate, and the Silver Key he carries makes predictions even murkier. But don't worry, Kaecilius. Solomon can handle this. I've already prepared countermeasures for him.
"To you, he's just a boy. But to Mephisto, he's something else entirely. Solomon's very presence is a deterrent to Mephisto."
Kaecilius pursed his lips, glancing aside. He didn't doubt the Ancient One's capabilities, nor her preparations against Mephisto. But that didn't mean he could quell his unease. Like Mordo, he wasn't content to leave all the thinking to the Ancient One.
As for what those countermeasures were, Kaecilius could only guess. He knew the Ancient One had summoned three sorcerers from the Merlin School to Kamar-Taj. He glanced at Balthazar, who was sitting quietly nearby. The man, who bore a passing resemblance to Johnny Blaze, looked disheveled in his worn leather duster, which seemed as though it hadn't been washed in months. With his eyes closed, Balthazar appeared to be dozing, while his wife and apprentice were off exploring Kamar-Taj's many wonders.
The Ancient One noticed Kaecilius' distracted gaze and smiled slightly.
"The Merlin School has ties to Kamar-Taj," she explained. "What they've brought will serve as Solomon's countermeasure. If you had studied planar theory more extensively, you might already have guessed what I'm referring to. Unfortunately, I haven't covered this in your lessons yet—it concerns the relationship between the Prime Material Plane and the Dirac Sea. It's advanced planar theory requiring a foundation in mathematics and physics."
She paused, the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. "You can catch up now, Kaecilius. Solomon has surpassed you in his studies, after all. As for the rest, you don't need to worry. Solomon is far stronger than you give him credit for, and his gains there will exceed even your expectations. Make sure to tell the two witches the same—they're not meant to step in just yet."
Indeed, Solomon had gained much. In diverting the necromancer's attention, the android had brought back not only the necromancer's severed head but also a tall woman in a black dress with striking crimson lipstick. Yet whatever elegance or charm she might have possessed had been thoroughly stripped away. Dragged by her long, raven-black hair, she was a pitiful sight. Her once-tight gown was dusty and tattered, her makeup smudged beyond recognition by tears. She screamed and pleaded, flailing against the android's unyielding grip as she was hauled before Solomon.
One look from Solomon (or, more precisely, a telepathic command) was enough for the android to throw the woman to the ground and plant a boot firmly on her chest. Her screams turned to rapid-fire curses, her tone sharp with defiance—until the android tore her dress open, revealing a tattoo of an inverted cross and a six-pointed star across her pale chest. The black markings were unmistakable: symbols of the Southern Cross, a Russian demonic cult long targeted by Kamar-Taj for elimination. These devil worshippers specialized in hiding among ordinary people, making them notoriously difficult to root out.
Solomon hadn't expected to encounter the Southern Cross here in Romania. The group was firmly rooted in Moscow, and their presence hinted at something far more sinister.
"Are we done?" the woman asked in heavily accented English, her rolling 'R's sharp and exaggerated. She made no attempt to cover herself. Instead, she leaned back, her torn dress slipping to her thighs as she provocatively displayed her figure. Her legs shifted against one another, sliding what little remained of her clothing off entirely, leaving the black scraps hanging from her toes.
"I'm willing to serve…" she whispered. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, yet it reverberated in everyone's ears, stirring an involuntary reaction. Rogers quickly turned his back, while the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were visibly entranced, their eyes locked on her. Only Solomon and the android were unaffected—one because of sheer disinterest, the other because of built-in immunity.
Solomon kicked her, breaking the spell. "Cut it out," he growled.
The Southern Cross cult was infamous for its hedonistic creed: "Human desires should not be restrained but fulfilled by any means necessary." Their powers revolved around seduction, targeting men and women alike. Though their combat strength was minimal, their ability to manipulate others made them incredibly dangerous. The sight of this cultist confirmed something Solomon had feared: Mephisto wasn't the only demonic entity at play. The Southern Cross was devoted to Lilith, the Sumerian goddess of storms, vampires, and succubi. Was there an alliance brewing among the lords of Hell? Did the Ancient One already know?
"Dana, hold her hands," Solomon ordered. The android pinned the woman's arms as Solomon crouched, drawing a knife from his dimensional pouch.
Rogers looked ready to intervene, but Solomon was quick, and the android's massive sword served as a clear deterrent. The cultist didn't have the resilience to endure the mystic's methods. Addicted to ritual narcotics, her willpower crumbled the moment Solomon carved the first shallow cut into her flesh. She confessed everything.
She was merely a messenger, sent to oversee the necromancer and the supernatural assault. It was she who had pressured the necromancer into summoning the skeletal hound, acting under orders from her demonic patron. While she knew little magic herself, her beauty and charm—gifts from her infernal master—gave her influence among groups like the Southern Cross and the Black Angels. During blood sacrifice rituals, she was even allowed to share in Lilith's offerings, sustaining her youth and allure.
But her final revelation made Solomon narrow his eyes.
"She wants King Solomon!" the cultist shrieked, sobbing as the android restrained her. Her words came after Solomon had peeled back a layer of skin from her chest—a brutal technique that left no doubt of her sincerity. Both physical and magical means had confirmed her claim. Exhausted and broken, she begged for death.
Rogers, deeply unsettled by Solomon's ruthless methods, made no effort to hide his disapproval. To him, such barbaric interrogation had no place in civilized society. Solomon, however, found this indignation faintly amusing. Coming from an Anglo-Saxon, it carried a certain irony that he couldn't help but appreciate.
Dusting off his cloak, Solomon stood and looked at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, none of whom dared meet his gaze. Shaking his head, he turned back toward the monastery.
"Where are you going?" Rogers asked.
"To prepare for a war," Solomon replied grimly. "Our enemies are more numerous than we thought."
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