Scene 1: The Falcon Throne
The city of Damascus shimmered beneath a copper dusk. Its skyline had changed. Towering spires of obsidian steel and golden domes radiated with arcane energy. What was once fractured by war now pulsed with impossible harmony.
At its center, atop the Sky Citadel, stood the Falcon Throne.
Zafira sat upon it.
Not cloaked in velvet or pearls, but in the Sovereign Spark armor, polished yet battle-worn. Her helm rested beside her, eyes forever glowing. Her gaze was distant, watching caravans pass through gates that once bled.
> "Peace is never given," she murmured.
"It must be manufactured."
Across from her stood the Scarlet Wizard.
Waseem Maximoff—robes red, woven with hex sigils, silver strands in his hair, a crooked smile on his lips. His fingers crackled with latent energy, but his posture was relaxed.
> "They still call you Doom," he said.
"You let them?"
> "Names are tools," Zafira replied.
"Let them name me what they need."
He circled the throne.
> "You've turned a land into a legend. Nations bow to you. And still, you sit alone."
Zafira rose.
> "Not alone," she said softly.
"Strategic."
Their eyes met. The air between them thickened with something ancient, something electric.
> "You've built an empire," Waseem said.
"Now what?"
She stepped to the window. Outside, airships lined with her insignia patrolled silently. Cities below shimmered with clean energy pulled from the Veil itself.
> "Now I see who dares challenge it."
And in the distance, across continents and oceans, a tower in New York lit up.
Stark Tower.
And a name whispered through encrypted comms:
Iron Woman.
---
Scene 2: Sparks in Manhattan
Anthiya Stark didn't sleep. Not since Geneva.
She stood in the heart of her workshop, the walls alive with projections—holograms of Zafira's cities, energy readouts from satellites, diplomatic broadcasts, intercepted magical pulses. All of them looping around one word: Doom.
The Mark 98 suit stood behind her—sleek, crimson, trimmed in obsidian-gold. It was the first model to weave arcane channels directly into StarkTech.
Because tech alone wasn't enough anymore.
> "JARVIS," she said, tying her braid into a knot, "show me Damascus."
> "Encrypted footage, rerouted through Latverian satellites. Shall I proceed?"
> "Break every protocol you need."
A feed blinked on. Zafira's image emerged—standing on her Citadel balcony, speaking to her people in Arabic, her voice calm, commanding. Her gauntlet sparkled with mystic power as she raised it toward the sky and summoned a storm of light that danced across the atmosphere like firebirds.
Anthiya clenched her jaw.
> "She's not just ruling," she said.
"She's rewriting the laws of physics."
Pepper Potts entered, tablet in hand, eyes tired.
> "UN Security Council wants a statement. Rogers wants you to stay grounded."
Anthiya turned, voice quiet but sharp.
> "You don't stay grounded when gods start making thrones."
Pepper hesitated.
> "You admire her."
> "I understand her," Anthiya replied.
"That's why I'm the only one who can stop her if she crosses the line."
Pepper stepped forward, lowering her voice.
> "Just be sure it's not envy talking."
Anthiya stared at the footage one last time, then turned to the Mark 98.
> "Suit up," she whispered.
"War's always personal."
---
Scene 3: The Pact of Fire and Chaos
The Grand Oasis—once a neutral ground among mystics and monarchs—now bristled with soldiers in enchanted armor, their boots silent across sand turned glass.
Inside its ancient marble halls, torches burned with emerald flame, and banners bore the sigil of the falcon entwined with lightning: the Mark of Doom.
At the center of the chamber, Zafira bint Hakib knelt over a circle of glyphs, palms pressed to the stone. The glyphs pulsed, reacting to her presence. Time shifted—slowed—around her.
A voice echoed behind her, both amused and irritated.
> "You don't summon chaos like it's a servant."
Zafira looked up.
Serena Strange stepped into the light, robes of midnight, eyes half-glowing with realms unseen. A disciple of mystic paradox, her presence always bent the air.
> "And yet here you are," Zafira said with a smirk.
> "Only because I heard your name spoken in three dimensions at once. You're echoing. You're not supposed to echo."
> "I'm expanding."
Serena raised an eyebrow.
> "Or unraveling."
They stood facing each other now—two paths of mysticism and might.
> "Why are you really here, Serena?"
> "Because you're about to become a myth. And myths attract heroes. Or worse—Avengers."
Zafira's eyes narrowed.
> "Then let them come."
A silence passed between them, heavy with years of history.
> "You've built something terrifying," Serena finally said.
"But maybe... necessary."
> "You taught me well," Zafira said, voice softer now.
"I won't let the world rot just because its rulers fear change."
Serena nodded.
> "Then know this. When the moment comes—when you cross the threshold—someone will have to stand against you."
> "Will it be you?"
Serena vanished in a flicker of violet flame, but her voice lingered in the chamber like a warning:
> "It will be me."
And for the first time in a long time, Zafira was alone again.
But not uncertain.
The pact was sealed. The age of Doom had begun.
---
To be continued...