I thought training meant opening portals and hurling fire.
The Ancient One proved me wrong on the first day.
"Magic," she said, "is not force. It is language."
So, we began not with spells but with words carved into eternity: dead tongues, runes etched into the bones of reality, glyphs whose syllables could tear seams between worlds if spoken carelessly. We translated, meditated, inscribed. For a full year she forbade us from launching even the simplest incantation; first we had to learn the grammar of magic—the properties of dimensions, the resonance of sigils, the true meaning behind names.
Only when that foundation was earned did the castle become our crucible.
Year One — Foundations
The fortress was our monastery, our battlefield, our forge. We emptied shelves into piles of notes; the Ancient One tested us by erasing pages mid-chant and watching how we reconstructed meaning from memory.
Jean was a scholar of the mind. She learned to still thought until telepathy became a steady flame. Her first triumphs were mind-links and astral projection; then came telekinetic blades—psychic edges that gleamed colder than steel. Everything she did thrummed with the Phoenix's presence, and the Ancient One taught her how to let that fire be an instrument rather than a devourer.
Wanda was chaos in a child's body: wild, beautiful, dangerous. At first she scorched rooms with accidental outbursts. Slowly, painfully, she learned shape—glowing spheres, scarlet daggers, precise shields that bent bullets and warped spells. The Ancient One warned: "Chaos is a river. You do not ride a river by drowning in it."
I was a sponge. Agatha's stolen tricks tasted of ash; I took them apart and reassembled them into something steadier. I practiced light to heal and shadow to smother, learning to draw on seams between worlds when I could connect to them. The Ancient One praised my speed and cautioned against haste.
By year's end we could defend ourselves. That was the smallest miracle.
Year Two — The Body
"Your minds are strong," the Ancient One said. "Now make your bodies worthy of carrying them."
So began the martial years.
Monks from Kamar-Taj taught us forms that flowed like rivers and struck like avalanches. We sparred until our knuckles split, learned to slow our heartbeats at will, to make every movement economical and precise.
Jean learned grace: telekinesis paired with motion so that a thought redirected an opponent's balance with a wrist twist. Wanda learned to fight like fire—direct, explosive, unstoppable when she committed. Chaos wrapped her fists and turned each blow into a concussive bloom. I learned to weave my aura into armor and lash out with controlled blasts of shadow.
Every bruise was a lesson. By year's end we were not only sorcerers—we were warriors.
Year Three — The Soul
Grief lingered like a hidden fever. The Ancient One forced us to face it.
Weeks of silence. Long meditations. We dove into the private dark of our minds. In Jean's psyche I found the Phoenix chained in golden flame. In Wanda's interior, chaos thrashed against scarlet bonds. I stepped inside both worlds and anchored what was loose, threading their storms back into order.
We forged pacts—not chains, but shared lattices of responsibility. I bound a sliver of my light to their fires; they grafted a spark of their forces to my edges. Jean learned to call the Phoenix's whisper without surrendering her will. Wanda shattered her worst chains and learned to use chaos as a tool, not a need. I became the bridge—shaping light into spears and shadow into cloaks.
By the end of that year, grief had not vanished. It had become fuel.
Year Four — Mastery
The Ancient One grew more demanding. Magic had become second nature; now she required artistry.
Jean bent psychic threads into illusions that fooled even the castle's wards. She learned matter manipulation—stone into dust, metal into water—performed with the delicate touch of a surgeon. Wanda built chaos constructs with uncanny logic: chains that bound, swords that burned, barriers that swallowed aggression and spat it back tenfold.
I learned fusion—how to stitch their strengths together. Together we formed shields of living light and blades threaded with shadow. Combat became choreography; each engagement a piece of music.
Year Five — Ascension
By the fifth year the castle itself bowed to us. Halls reconfigured into arenas; rooms became dojos. The fortress that had taught us now reflected our will.
Jean moved with fire and thought braided together. Her psychic storms could fell columns; her blades cut steel. Wanda bent probability as if it were clay—shots missing, plans unwinding before they began. And I—Alex Walker—learned to lead the chorus. Light and shadow answered my call; their powers harmonized with mine. We were three voices, one song.
One evening we sparred in the sunlit courtyard. Wanda's scarlet storms screamed across the grass; Jean's psychic blades sliced the air into ribbons; I braided the remnants into a spinning wall of incandescent force that cracked the sky with a sound like ice breaking.
The Ancient One stood at the edge in silence. Then, for the first time since she had claimed us as apprentices, a small smile touched her face.
The Ancient One watched silently, a rare smile touching her lips. "Five years," she said. "You are no longer students. You are grown."
Then I stepped forward. "Master, there is one gift I would like to give you."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what is that, Mr. Walker?"
I cut a shallow line across my finger. A drop of blood fell and swirled, coalescing into a glowing orb of spiritual energy. I held it out, and the Ancient One cupped it, curious.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"This is a power unique to me," I explained. "If my soul accepts it, it will be born inside you. We will be connected, and you will gain a tether of abilities you do not currently possess. You will not have to rely on Dormammu—or any other dark force."
She studied me for a moment. "Very well. I will trust you, Mr. Walker."
The sphere of energy merged with her essence. Light flared, enveloping the courtyard, forming a single letter in the air: T. My vision shimmered, and for a brief instant I glimpsed Dormammu himself, watching from his realm of endless fire. A smirk spread across my face.
"Goodbye, Dormammu," I whispered. Spiritual energy burst from me, binding the gift to her.
The Ancient One's eyes widened as the new power integrated into her being. "This… this is extraordinary. I can feel… the manipulation of space, the ability to hold thresholds, the prolonging of time itself."
I nodded. "Tengan. Immortality and barrier-space manipulation. The perfect ability to sustain you without relying on external forces. You now carry a fragment of my soul, and through it, we are linked. As per our deal, you will not harm Midgard."
"I understand," she said, her voice calm but resolute. "And I will honor this connection. But…" She paused, her gaze sharpening. "I will build my own empire. Anyone who stands in my way will fall."
"You will not interfere with Midgard," I said firmly.
She inclined her head. "Agreed. Goodbye, Mr. Walker."
The light dimmed, leaving the courtyard bathed in a quiet resonance. The bond had been forged. A subtle pulse reminded me that through Tengan, she carried a piece of me—and I a piece of her. Our powers intertwined, our destinies now linked.
Jean and Wanda stepped closer, sensing the shift. Years of training, grief, and mastery had led to this moment. Together, we had become more than humans.