The winds screamed as if mourning a queen.

  Doctor Stephen Strange and Wong stood before the looming, crag-ced entrance to Mount Wundagore—a pce once steeped in chaos magic, now corrupted by Voldemort’s intrusion. The mists rolled unnaturally, blood-red, whispering fragments of Wanda Maximoff’s broken mind.

  Wong pced a hand on the stone:

  "Residual hex energy... but twisted. Something’s feeding off it."

  Strange’s cloak curled protectively around him. He held out his hands and chanted:

  “By the Fmes of the Faltine.”

  Scarlet light rose from the glyphs in his palms, revealing runic markings on the mountain walls—chaos wards, etched with pain and memory.

  As they stepped inside, illusions shimmered to life—memories echoing in the stone.

  A child’s ughter.

  A crumbling Sokovian apartment.

  A red crown made of magic.

  Then—a scream.

  Wong drew his hands into a circur motion, forming a Tao Manda, ready.

  Strange whispered:

  “By the Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth… guide our minds through shadow.”

  The mountain twisted around them. A corridor shifted into a throne room bathed in red mist, where ghostly fragments of Wanda’s alternate selves hovered above the chaos-forged throne. These phantoms cried, screamed, and ughed—all at once.

  Suddenly, the shadows moved.

  Undead constructs, shaped by Wanda’s suppressed pain, shambled into view—bone-like limbs wrapped in red cords of magic.

  Wong stepped forward, chanting:

  “Winds of Watoomb!”

  A gust of spectral wind bsted the closest wraith into dust. Strange followed with a spiral gesture, forming a sigil before thrusting it forward:

  “Chains of Krakkan!”

  Violet energy surged from his hands, binding two of the constructs in ethereal shackles.

  Strange (gritting his teeth): "They aren’t real... they’re grief-echoes. But they hurt."

  The wraiths lunged again. Wong threw his sling ring into the air and stepped through a fsh-step portal to higher ground. From above, he roared:

  “Bolts of Balthakk!”

  A series of burning bolts struck down into the shadows, dispersing them like ash.

  As the spirits faded, the cave opened into the Heart of the Mountain—a massive chasm lit by a pulsing, throne-shaped altar of stone and blood. A spectral wind circled it like a cyclone.

  And at its center… a dark sigil burned.

  Voldemort’s magic had touched the throne, twisting it. Scarlet and emerald energy warred in the air—chaos versus dark ritual.

  From the blood-lit cracks rose a creature of Wanda’s final will—The Scarlet Sentinel, a towering, horned guardian forged of chaos magic and rage, sealed to prevent misuse of the throne.

  It let out a guttural roar.

  Wong (wide-eyed): "A conjured golem, made of hex-matter... it's bound to her st command."

  Strange stepped forward, voice firm.

  “By the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak—be still!”

  Bands of searing red magic shed toward the creature, binding it momentarily, but it broke free, sshing with cws that shimmered between reality and illusion.

  Wong leapt into the air, striking the ground with both palms:

  “Shield of the Seraphim!”

  A golden dome enveloped them just as the Sentinel smmed its arm into the ledge, cracking stone and raining shards.

  Strange floated above, hands spinning twin mandas, and decred:

  “Vapors of Valtorr—arise!”

  A cloud of disorienting mystic fog erupted around the creature, dispcing its form briefly as Wong teleported behind it via a sling ring gate.

  Wong (calling out): "We weaken it here. But Voldemort feeds the throne from afar."

  Strange (grim): "Then we sever the source… or burn the whole mountain down with it."