Nathan felt a chill crawl up his spine the moment he heard the name.
Demiurge.
In Marvel lore, the Demiurge was an ancient, almost forgotten cosmic entity—something only the most diehard comic readers might recognize. But for those who didn't know?
Here's some context:
Odin is the son of Bor.
Bor is the son of Buri.
And Buri… is the son of the Demiurge.
Still not impressed?
Zeus's father is Kronos.
Kronos is the son of Ouranos.
And Ouranos? Created by Gaea.
Gaea, in turn, is a daughter of the Demiurge.
Still not enough?
Here's the kicker: Chthon, the father of chaos magic and one of the oldest dark entities in existence, is also a child of the Demiurge.
That name didn't belong on anyone's lips—not in this timeline, not in this universe. And certainly not from Charmcaster of all people.
"Demiurge…" Gwen murmured, brows furrowing as she tried to place it. "I think I've heard that name in some old Greek texts. Or maybe something in Gnosticism? He's like… the evil version of God in some of those."
Nathan didn't respond. What could he even say?
That Hex—the guy who used to swing staves and yell about magic like a Saturday morning cartoon villain—might be in contact with the Godcreator?
Yeah. No. Not exactly the kind of thing you say out loud without making the room colder.
Gwen remained quiet for a beat longer, her gaze distant. Then she pulled out her phone.
"I'm going to reach out to a few of my contacts," she said, tone clipped but focused. "Some that I have trust might be able to help, others from a few… less mainstream circles. If this Demiurge thing is even remotely accurate, someone's bound to have heard whispers."
She looked over at Charmcaster. "And what about you? Is there anyone else you trust who might know more?"
Charmcaster shook her head slowly, her expression grim. "Trust? No. Knowledgeable? Maybe. But most of the people who deal in that kind of magic don't exactly do it for charity. The ones who could help… are either dead, insane, or would want a favor that would make Hex look tame."
"Lovely," Gwen muttered.
As the conversation continued, Nathan stood up, stretching casually. "I'll… be back in a bit," he said, dusting off his coat and slipping it on. "Need to take care of something important. Don't wait up."
Gwen gave him a curious glance. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said, managing a crooked grin. "Just remembered I owe someone… rare minerals."
[You're terrible at lying,] Raphael muttered in his head.
Yeah, well, better than saying "I'm off to go steal vibranium and maybe drop a cosmic nuke of a name on the Ancient One."
Truth was, if Hex really was being influenced by something tied to the Demiurge, Nathan needed resources. He still had his eye on that Portable Hole in the Shop—and to buy it, he'd either need to locate a rare mineral… or acquire one through creative means. Vibranium was the best candidate.
And then there was the Ancient One.
Should he tell her? If anyone could help, it was her—but something about the name Demiurge made Nathan hesitate. There were forces you didn't whisper about unless you were ready for them to whisper back.
As he stepped outside into the cool night air, the hum of the city still recovering from alien invasion, Nathan let out a breath and murmured, "Let's go find some trouble."
[Finally, something normal,] Raphael quipped.
On the other side.
Charmcaster pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she stood near the doorway, ready to leave. Her eyes were distant, unsettled.
"I'll be back in touch soon," she said to Gwen, voice low. "There's… one particular witch who might be able to help. She's powerful. Has a knack for cutting through magical nonsense. But getting her to work with anyone is—" she paused, letting out a frustrated breath, "—going to be an absolute nightmare."
Gwen raised an eyebrow. "You've got a list of enemies longer than my spell index. That witch on speaking terms with you?"
Charmcaster snorted. "Barely. Let's just say I owe her favors I don't want to pay." With that ominous note, she turned and left, the front door closing behind her with a thud and a shimmer of magic warding reactivating.
Gwen stood still for a few moments, mulling it all over. Then her gaze drifted to the staircase.
"Time to call in my own favor," she muttered.
She descended into the basement—Nathan's, of course. The space was wide, empty, with reinforced walls from some half-finished project involving servers. Gwen didn't care. She cleared the center and began drawing a glowing sigil in the air with her fingers, green light trailing behind.
The moment she finished the last symbol, the circle pulsed—once, twice—and then flared.
A gust of cold air swept through the basement as emerald magic spiraled upward like a reversed whirlpool.
Then she stepped out of it.
Morgan le Fay.
Tall, elegant, and absolutely radiating power, Morgan looked like she'd walked out of a painting—green robes shimmering like liquid silk, long dark hair cascading in waves, and piercing violet eyes that held amusement and danger in equal measure.
"Well," she said with a lazy smirk, "if it isn't my almost-apprentice. You rang, darling?"
Gwen smiled a little despite herself. "Hello, Morgan."
Morgan stepped forward, heels tapping softly against the floor as she looked around the basement with faint distaste. "This is where you're summoning me now? A boy's basement? Please tell me this is at least a haunted manor or an underground temple. Do I look like a Craigslist consultant?"
"I didn't exactly have time to build a wizard tower," Gwen replied. "And I didn't summon you for small talk."
Morgan tilted her head, amused. "You rarely do. Fine. Hit me."
Gwen hesitated for a beat. "I need your help. There's a powerful magician—Hex—who's… changed. Someone I know investigated and barely got out alive."
Morgan's expression didn't shift much until Gwen added:
"And there's a name. A name he might be connected to. Demiurge."
That did it.
Morgan's playful smile dropped like a stone.
Her hand shot up in warning, tone suddenly sharp. "Don't say that name so freely. Names have power."
Gwen blinked. "Wait… you know it?"
Morgan slowly turned away, walking a few paces toward the glowing sigil that still hovered in the air. She raised one hand and waved it off. The light dimmed to a low hum.
Then, without turning, she spoke.
"The being you're referring to isn't just ancient. He's before ancient. He is one of the first. Not a god in the way you understand—no myths, no temples. Just… primordial will. A god forgotten. Lost. And if he's stirring again…"
She finally turned back to Gwen, eyes dark. "Then things are about to get very serious, very quickly."
Gwen folded her arms. "Charmcaster said she found a book… something written in blood. Something that changed Hex."
Morgan let out a soft sigh, almost pained. "There are a few tomes that could link back to him. They should have been destroyed. Sealed in dying realms. But I suppose nothing ever stays buried when mortals go poking around."
"So you'll help?"
"I'm not letting something like him walk freely in this world," Morgan said with steel in her voice. "Not even for the fun of watching it all unravel."
She stepped closer, a bit of that sassy smile returning. "Besides, you called me. I always did like you best, Gwendolyn."
Gwen rolled her eyes. "Don't call me that."
Morgan gave her a wink. "No promises."
Somewhere in Prague – Midnight
Charmcaster walked briskly down the cobbled alley, the worn stones beneath her boots damp with mist and memories. The magical residue in the air told her she was close. Ancient wards whispered along the edges of her senses—wards that hissed and welcomed her in equal measure.
She reached an iron-wrought door nestled between two abandoned buildings and knocked twice, then once, then twice again.
The door swung open of its own accord.
Inside, the faint scent of incense and dry parchment mingled with perfume and faint, charred ash. Seated on a velvet chaise, sipping blood-red wine and draped in a silk robe that somehow made "powerful" and "problematic" fashion statements at once, was Rowena MacLeod.
"Well, well," Rowena purred. "If it isn't the prodigal niece."
"Rowena," Charmcaster said flatly.
"I'd ask what brings you crawling to my doorstep," she said, rising with practiced elegance, "but I think I already know. Trouble with dear Uncle Hex, yes?"
Charmcaster didn't respond at first, her jaw tight. "I need your help. Something's… wrong with him. He's not himself anymore."
Rowena tilted her head. "You came all this way for therapy?"
"I came for information. I need to know if you've ever heard of a being called the Demiurge."
That got Rowena's attention. Her playfulness faltered.
"The Demiurge," she echoed. "Now that... is a name I haven't heard in a very long time."
"You have heard of it?"
"Perhaps in passing," Rowena admitted, her expression growing thoughtful. "I don't recall specifics. Just an old, dust-ridden tome I could barely translate at the time. Something about a primordial being tied to the foundation of magical law."
Charmcaster took a step forward. "Then I need that book."
Rowena smirked, regaining her usual sharpness. "You want my help, love? That's going to cost you. Surely you haven't forgotten our little deal?"
Charmcaster narrowed her eyes. "You've always wanted the true name of Ledgerdomain."
Rowena's eyes sparkled.
"Well," Charmcaster said, voice low, "you might get your wish. But not unless you help me first."
Rowena set her wine down. "Go on."
"You give me something useful. Something that'll actually help me fix this. Otherwise, no name, no deal."
Rowena gave a dramatic sigh but didn't argue. She crossed the room, rifled through a stack of scrolls and grimoires, and pulled a worn, leather-bound ledger from the pile. Dust floated in the lamplight as she opened it.
"There's a ritual," she said slowly. "Ancient, difficult. You'd need a specific blend of energies and conditions—alignment of leylines, moonlight filters, stabilizing wards… the works. It'll summon the visp of a witch long dead. One who might know the name you're after."
Charmcaster leaned over her shoulder, reading the Latin scrawl beneath a symbol that almost moved when she stared at it too long. "You're not lying?"
Rowena glanced over her shoulder, offended. "I never lie. I just… selectively exaggerate."
Charmcaster rolled her eyes and grabbed the book. "Thanks. I'll send you a spellsealed copy of the name if this works."
"Not good enough—"
But she was already gone, disappearing in a shimmer of pink light.
---
Nathan's Basement – Later That Night
Morgan le Fey sat atop an old alchemy table, twirling her finger in lazy circles through the air, occasionally sketching glyphs for fun. Gwen, cross-legged nearby, was double-checking circle lines for her next spell.
A second shimmer of pink light flared—and Charmcaster appeared mid-stride, looking winded and thoroughly irritated.
"Oh," Gwen blinked. "That was fast. You good?"
Charmcaster didn't answer right away. Then her gaze landed on Morgan. "And who's…?"
Morgan arched an eyebrow, lips curling. "I am Morgan le Fey. And you must be the problematic niece I've heard about."
Charmcaster stared. "Morgan le Fey?"
Gwen nodded, slightly embarrassed. "I… forgot to mention I know her."
"Charmed," Morgan said, offering a half-bow that was somehow graceful and condescending all at once. "So? I heard you went out fishing for forbidden knowledge. Did you catch anything useful?"
Charmcaster dropped a thick, rune-covered book onto the table with a dull thud. "Not exactly answers. But I found a ritual—it might help us contact someone who knows more about the Demiurge."
Morgan's expression snapped into something colder, spine straightening with sharp, unnatural grace. Her eyes flashed. "You young witches," she said, voice tight with restrained irritation, "has no one taught you the weight names carry?"
She stepped forward slightly, gaze locked on Charmcaster. "You say that name so casually—like it's just another ancient horror in a world already crowded with them. Don't. Names have power. Especially that one."
Charmcaster didn't reply immediately. She held her ground, but the air in the room had definitely changed.
Sometime later
Nathan slipped quietly into the house, the soft click of the front door barely louder than the ticking wall clock. 2:07 a.m., according to the glowing numbers. Predictably, Jessica was already knocked out on the couch, tangled up in a blanket like a lazy spider in her web.
He smiled, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek before heading toward the basement.
But something made him pause on the stairs.
Mana.
Thick, swirling magical pressure. Not hostile—yet—but definitely active.
He descended the rest of the way, quiet but alert.
When he reached the bottom, he stopped dead.
The basement was glowing.
Sigils floated in the air like ghostly tattoos. Candles hovered in arcs of green light. Charmcaster stood at the center, flipping through a tome that looked far too ancient to be safe. Gwen hovered nearby, magic crackling at her fingertips. And at the heart of the ritual stood a woman in green—tall, poised, effortlessly commanding the room.
She exuded power like it was her perfume. Elegant. Dangerous. Enchanting. The kind of older woman that made Nathan's brain short-circuit. A classic femme fatale draped in mysticism and mystery.
His Status pinged.
[Morgan le Fey
Threat Level: Island - Planet level
Title: The Witch of Avalon.
Personal Information:
Mother: Igraine….
…]
Nathan blinked. "That Morgan le Fey?"
According to his meta knowledge, most versions of her leaned toward villainy—or at least questionable morals. But then again, Charmcaster wasn't exactly a Disney princess either. Context mattered.
He cleared his throat and stepped fully into the room. "Okay. I leave the house for one night, and suddenly my basement's a magical Girls' Night Out?"
Morgan turned slowly, her smile graceful and just a touch wicked. "Ohh, is this your little boyfriend, Gwendolyn darling?"
Gwen, mid-cast, went scarlet and nearly lost control of her spell. "He's not—I mean—Nathan, you're back."
"Yeah, and this isn't exactly the welcome I expected." He glanced around the room. "You girls prepping for Hex, or is this just a magical slumber party I wasn't invited to?"
Charmcaster didn't even look up. "You tell us. This is your basement, genius."
Morgan took a step closer, her eyes scanning Nathan with slow, deliberate interest. "You're brimming with magical potential, sweetheart. Ever thought about joining a coven?"
He was, actually. Just earlier today, Nathan had finally claimed the Unique Skill: Mana Spring, which filled him with abundant mana and multiplied his reserve a hundredfold. His whole body practically thrummed with energy.
He leaned toward Gwen, stage-whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. "Is it just me, or am I being flirted with by a 500-year-old witch?"
Morgan let out a delighted laugh and swayed just slightly as she walked. "Oh, thank you for the compliment, darling. But I'm actually closer to fifteen hundred. Give or take a few decades."
She winked as she passed him, looking no older than thirty.
Nathan raised a brow. "...Yeah, of course you are."