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- Immortal City, Beneath Ro -
- May 17, 1939 | Midnight -
Far below Ro’s cracked stones and sleeping streets, there was a city that never saw the sun.
The Immortal City.
It wasn’t marked on any map. Its walls were carved from the bones of the Earth itself, polished until they caught the dim light of hanging orbs — spheres of alchemical fla that never went out. Ancient aqueducts ran like silver veins along the marble avenues, feeding gardens no mortal eye had seen in centuries.
And at the city’s heart, inside a hall built in the image of a Roman basilica, the High Council of the Shield sat in session.
Long tables of black walnut stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling, its frescoes telling the Brotherhood’s "true history" — wars never fought, plagues stopped before they began, kings nudged into the right treaties. Each council seat was marked not by nation, but by achievent: science, discovery, influence.
Now, those seats were filled with Newton’s loyalists. n and won who had walked out of their centuries still wearing the faces of their pri — bought with the Elixir of Life. They were history’s brightest minds, but also its most obedient servants.
Not all had joined willingly. Newton’s rivals had dwindled, one by one. Galileo Galilei — silenced permanently when his defiance outweighed his value. Blaise Pascal — brilliant, but too compassionate, too unwilling to twist science into control. They had vanished from the world above, their fates whispered only in this room.
One survived in chains. Nostradamus sat at the end of the chamber, bound in golden cuffs that bit into his skin but kept his mind alive. Kept his prophecies flowing. His gift for seeing the threads of fate was still unmatched — but lately, those threads tangled and frayed. His predictions ca with gaps, sudden blanks where there should have been certainty.
And Newton noticed.
Now, the man himself stood at the head of the table. His presence filled the hall without needing to raise his voice. Tall, pale, his hair tied back in the style of another age, Newton’s eyes carried the weight of centuries — and the cold patience of soone who had outlived every enemy but ti.
His hand rested on an astrolabe, polished and humming faintly with enchantnt. "The tiline is... misaligned," he said, each word asured. "Predictions fail where once they were perfect. Sothing stirs in the East — in Bharat."
The council murmured, exchanging glances.
Nostradamus lifted his head, his voice rasping. "You know this, Isaac. You have felt it, as I have. There is one the stars do not na. His shadow touches events it should never touch."
Newton’s eyes narrowed. "Aryan. A Samrat where none was foretold. A mutant of extraordinary capacity — and yet, absent from every prophecy until now. Absent from every tiline I know."
He stepped away from the table, letting the soft echo of his boots fill the pause. "If this were rely a mortal king, I would already have him brought here. But Aryan’s alignnt with Kamar-Taj... complicates matters."
At the na, a few councilors shifted uneasily. Newton’s own history with the Ancient One was legend here — how he had once held the title of Sorcerer Supre, and how it had been taken from him.
"I will not walk blindly into an unknown," he continued, voice sharpening. "Not with Da Vinci’s return inevitable. Not with Nikola Tesla hiding in shadows I have yet to pierce. If I move against this anomaly, I do so with allies who can tip the balance."
That was why, tonight, she was here.
The great doors opened, and Morgan Le Fey entered.
She was ageless in a different way than the council — not preserved by science, but sustained by magic older than the city itself. Her gown shimred like water at midnight, each step carrying the scent of wild forests and distant storms. Her eyes, green as the heart of a deep wood, took in the chamber with a predator’s ease.
Newton stepped forward, a leather-bound to in his hands. The cover was blacker than pitch, etched in letters no mortal tongue could speak. The Darkhold.
The air In the room seed to tighten as she took it, her fingers caressing the binding as though greeting an old friend. "You’ve kept it well," Morgan said, her voice low, rich with amusent.
"Our cooperation depends on it," Newton replied evenly.
Morgan’s smile was slow, deliberate. "Then let us be clear. I will aid you — but only once my objectives are t. rlin will fall. His bloodline, his wards, his legacy — gone. When that is done, when the world rembers who truly commands the arcane, then I will turn my hand to this... Aryan of yours."
Newton inclined his head slightly. "Agreed. Remove rlin from the board, and the Darkhold remains yours."
Nostradamus stirred, chains rattling. "You make deals with wolves while the forest burns," he muttered.
Morgan’s gaze flicked to him — sharp enough to cut. "And yet the forest grows stronger when the weak trees fall."
Newton ignored the exchange. He knew Morgan’s conditions. He also knew she was the only one who had accepted his invitation. Selene Gallio had laughed at him, calling her Hellfire Club "a better investnt." Agatha Harkness had brushed him off entirely. While others like Sinister were unreachable at the mont. But Morgan — Morgan had taken the Darkhold without hesitation.
It was a dangerous alliance. But Newton had lived too long to fear danger.
"Then it’s settled," he said. "We watch Bharat. We prepare for Da Vinci. And when the mont cos, we test Aryan’s intent — and his limits."
Morgan’s smile deepened, the Darkhold cradled in her arms. "Just be ready, Isaac. Anomalies have a way of rewriting the story... and sotis, the ending."
—
- Hidden Fla Alpine Headquarters, Switzerland -
- May 19, 1939 | Late Evening -
Snow drifted down in lazy spirals outside the tall, narrow windows of the Hidden Fla’s European command. From the outside, the place still looked like nothing more than a hunter’s lodge, tucked into a fold of the Alps where avalanches ca more often than strangers. Inside, it was a nerve centre — maps spread across long oak tables, radios humming softly, a faint sll of strong coffee and cold tal in the air.
Karna leaned over one of those maps now, tapping a thin pencil against the shape of Europe. Red pins marked Hydra facilities. Blue ones were for British, French, and German intelligence sites. Black pins — there were only a handful of those — marked Brotherhood movents they had confird.
Rudra stood beside him, calm as always, his broad shoulders squared, eyes scanning each mark like he was morising them for war. "We’ve built well," he said, voice quiet but certain. "But Europe’s still a half-finished web. Too many holes."
Karna gave a short nod. "The UK is coming along. We’ve got sympathisers in their War Office, and our people in London are setting up cover businesses. But Germany..." He exhaled slowly. "Germany is different. Too closed, too suspicious. And Hydra is rooted deep there."
The na alone carried a weight between them. Hydra’s European network was older than most governnts, and in Germany, it thrived under the shadow of the new regi. Infiltrating it wasn’t just dangerous — it was like diving into a nest of vipers with a torch and hoping you didn’t get bitten before the flas caught.
Anaya’s face ca to mind — her easy smile, her quick wit. Right now, she was playing a dangerous hand in Arica, posing as a high-ranking military official while secretly serving as a Hydra agent. Or rather, letting them think she served them. A triple agent. Her reports were short, cautious, coded so tightly it took hours to decipher.
But here in Europe, Hydra was stronger, better hidden. Karna knew they needed more than one Anaya. They needed a network inside Hydra — agents who could breathe their air and not choke.
The Brotherhood was the other problem. If Hydra was a nest of snakes, the Brotherhood’s base under Ro was a fortress of ghosts. No easy entrances, no cracks to slip through — and after the near miss with Neel, Karna wasn’t going to risk burning their only bridge. He had plans, detailed ones, for how to get in. But those plans needed ti. More eyes in more places. More friends in shadows.
So for now, they watched. Always on alert, always ready to drop everything if the Brotherhood or Hydra made a move that even hinted at Bharat.
And then there was her.
Morgan Le Fey. Or soone who fit every whisper, every half-glimpsed figure in a hooded cloak. Reports said she’d t with the Brotherhood. Rudra didn’t believe in coincidences, and neither did Karna. That ant things were moving faster than they liked.
But until the threat was clear, they’d wait. Watch. Gather pieces. The mont it beca imdiate — the mont Aryan’s na was in their enemies’ mouths — they would act without hesitation. Both n knew what they were willing to risk.
The heavy oak door creaked open, letting in a cold breath of air and a young woman with sharp eyes and a quiet, careful step. Her na was Liora, a mutant they’d recruited a year ago in Prague. She didn’t look like much at a glance — short, wiry, with a habit of tucking her hands into her sleeves — but her mind was a blade.
A psychic. And tonight, that was exactly what they needed.
She slid into the chair opposite them, laying out a small leather notebook. "These are the ones you marked," she said, her accent faint but musical. "Hydra agents. Low to mid-level, but all with access to communications hubs."
Karna glanced over the list, eyes narrowing. "If we take them over quietly — plant thoughts, bend loyalties — they’ll open doors for us. Hydra will never know."
Rudra folded his arms. "We don’t rush it. One wrong move, and Hydra will gut them before we can use them. Liora, can you hold them for long periods without... damage?"
The young woman’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile. "If I’m careful. Minds are like glass — too much pressure, and they crack. But these..." She tapped the nas. "They will hold. I can make them think the right orders are their own ideas."
Karna leaned back, a rare flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. "Good. We’ll start small. ssages. Misdirection. Then we work up to operations. By the ti they realise they’ve been compromised, it’ll be too late."
Rudra t his eyes, unspoken understanding passing between them. This was the slow ga — the kind Aryan had always been patient enough to play, the kind that won wars before they began.
Outside, the Alps slept under their blanket of snow. Inside, under the glow of warm lamps and the scent of ink and paper, the Hidden Fla wove a net in silence.
If the Brotherhood or Hydra reached for Bharat, that net would snap tight. And Karna, along with Rudra, would be holding the lines.
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