The moon vanished behind a veil of bck clouds as Strange and Wong descended the jagged path behind the shattered remains of Mount Wundagore. Lanterns of conjured fme lit their descent—dim, flickering, uneasy. Each step into the shadow below felt like a step into a dream best forgotten.

  Beneath them, the air thickened. The Gate was no longer a concept, no longer metaphor. It was alive—a vast chasm framed by ancient, twisted roots soaked in eldritch blood. Symbols—etched in a nguage older than Latin or Sanskrit—pulsed dimly along the crag walls. They were not written. They were grown.

  Strange raised a hand and muttered:

  “Tendrakal. Orb of Agamotto.”

  A translucent sphere bloomed before them, revealing pathways of magic through the dark. But what it did not show was the figure slithering behind them—barefoot, breathless, a shadow with snake-like grace.

  Voldemort, robes shredded and eyes glowing with newfound madness, had escaped. The chains of runes that bound him cracked under an unseen whisper of power—not his own, but something he had bargained with when he awakened the Scarlet Throne.

  He did not pursue them to strike.

  He followed to understand.

  To consume.

  ---

  The Descent

  Strange paused before a ridge overlooking the inner gorge. Below: a temple, half-colpsed, its towers sunken like teeth into the stone. Rivers of crimson magic flowed between glyphs, and in the center: a mirror, suspended mid-air, wrapped in barbed incantations.

  Wong’s voice shook. “That is not a portal. That’s a wound.”

  Strange nodded.

  “The Scarlet Gate.”

  Wong stepped forward and whispered:

  “By the Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth… let this veil be pierced.”

  “Eldross Kel’tash!”

  A sliver of the mirror peeled open, revealing a world of fog, ash, and wandering lights—a limbo between time and mind. They entered.

  ---

  The World Between

  Inside, the world bent. Buildings twisted into trees. Time stalled mid-motion. Nightmares whispered across the sky. They saw fragments of Wanda’s psyche, scattered like ash: her ughter, her fury, her screams as a mother.

  Strange stepped carefully, conjuring glowing sigils with every movement:

  “Vishanti’s Eye. Crimson Bands. Winds of Watoomb.”

  Behind them, Voldemort smiled.

  He watched. He learned.

  He whispered with a cruel smirk:

  “By the Fmes of Faltine.”

  “Seraphim… lend me your hunger.”

  The air obeyed.

  He had stolen their magic.

  And then… he disappeared into a corridor of broken light, hunting for something deeper.

  ---

  The Heart of the Gate

  Strange and Wong reached a final chamber—carved not by hands but emotion. A basin of red mercury rippled at the center. Above it, a shard of Wanda’s soul floated—her st protection. She called to them again:

  “Stephen. He’s here. He’s learning me… as I learned the Darkhold.”

  Strange’s voice grew sharp. “We can’t let him complete the mimicry. If he bonds with her soul-shard—he becomes the new Scarlet Throne.”

  Suddenly, the fog parted.

  Voldemort emerged. Not a man. Not yet a god. But something... halfway there.

  His eyes bled red. Magic fred from his hands. Not wands. Not words. Just will.

  Strange narrowed his gaze. “Tom Riddle… you’ve already fallen. But this time, you fall through eternity.”

  Wong: “Let’s finish this.”

  The air thickened as ancient powers collided.

  Voldemort spoke not in Latin, but in the sacred tongues of stolen realms:

  “By the Book of Cagliostro… by the Wand of Watoomb… Obliviate Eternum!”

  The battle began—not just of power, but of memory, identity, and soul.