The Ancient One had left Stephen to his own devices, vanishing with the same quiet grace she always carried. He didn't know where she had gone, nor did he ask. A part of him was grateful. She had given him something precious—space—and he wasn't sure he was ready to fill it with questions or conversations just yet.
For now, he was alone.
The rain had stopped by the time he ventured out of the small hole he had claimed as his shelter. His fur, still damp, clung to his body in patches, but he didn't bother drying himself with magic. He let the cold linger on his skin, a tangible discomfort to distract from the storm brewing inside his mind.
The first thing he did was climb. His cat instincts made it easy, and within minutes he was perched atop a crumbling stone wall, his sharp eyes surveying the world around him. The morning mist hung low over the horizon, shrouding the mountains in a ghostly haze. The streets below were lively but unhurried, filled with people going about their day with a sense of quiet purpose. The sound of bells and distant chants floated through the air, mingling with the hum of conversations in a language Stephen only half-remembered from his time in Kamar-Taj.
It was Nepal.
Not that it surprised him. The familiar energy of the Kathmandu Sanctum had been a constant, faint and unassuming, yet still present in the distance. But something about the city itself felt… different. The web of energy that tied this place to the rest of the world was still there, still pulsing with life and magic, but its threads were thinner, more frayed. This world was missing something, though he couldn't quite place what.
.
For the first few days, Stephen wandered the city in his cat form, keeping to the shadows and staying away from prying eyes. It wasn't difficult. Cats were invisible in a place like this, their presence so mundane that no one bothered to question it. He spent his time blending in, observing the world with a quiet intensity.
At first, he focused on the physical differences. The streets were less crowded than he remembered, the air more choked with smog. Technology was everywhere, of course—cell phones, cars, televisions in shop windows—but it was more primitive than what he'd grown used to in his own universe. People didn't swipe through holographic screens or fly in electric drones. Here, technology still hummed instead of buzzing, still felt tangible instead of untouchable.
But it was the people he was most interested in. He spent hours following conversations, eavesdropping on strangers, letting his senses soak in the little details that made this world tick. People seemed… lighter, somehow. Less burdened. There were no whispers of alien invasions or interdimensional threats. No one spoke of Sokovia or the Avengers or the blip. It was as if this world had yet to be scarred by the things Stephen had taken for granted in his own.
When he wasn't walking the streets, Stephen meditated. He would find quiet rooftops or secluded corners, places where the city's energy felt distant, and sink into the web of magic that connected this world. His cat form made it easier to blend in, to go unnoticed, but his mind was still sharp, still human, and it reached out with practiced precision.
The Earth's magical energy felt familiar yet strange, like an old melody played in a different key. The Sanctums were still in place, their protective wards holding strong, but they felt… quieter. Dormant, almost. As if the forces of this world had yet to be tested in the ways his own had been.
It was during one of these meditative sessions that Stephen first felt the pull of something different. Something new. A ripple in the energy, faint but distinct, coming from far away. He followed it with his mind, his senses stretching across continents, until he found the source.
The Middle East.
He focused, his mind sharpening as the threads of energy coalesced into something clearer. He felt conflict, fire, the cold steel of weapons. And at the center of it all, a bright, pulsing beacon made of genius and defiance.
The miniaturized Arc Reactor had been created.
And who could have done it but Tony Stark.
The name struck him like a bolt of lightning, and for a moment, his concentration faltered. He tried to pull back, to distance himself from the vision, but the energy clung to him, vivid and unrelenting. He saw flashes of a desert, a cave, the dim glow of machinery being cobbled together in desperation. He felt the spark of invention, the flicker of hope, and then the weight of something heavier: captivity.
Stephen's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew what this meant. The Ancient One had said Tony was missing, and now Stephen had confirmation. This was that moment, the event that would turn Tony Stark into Iron Man. The timeline was falling into place, and it was… disorienting, to say the least.
.
Stephen spent the next few days piecing together what he could. He was limited in his resources—reading over people's shoulders, pawing through discarded newspapers, and listening to conversations in cafes. Technology was still mostly out of reach; even if he had the nerve to break into an internet cafe, he doubted his paws would do him much good on a keyboard.
The newspapers were the most revealing. The Jericho missile test had made headlines, though most articles framed it as a sudden change for Stark Industries with its missing heir rather than the beginning of Tony Stark's transformation. There were no mentions of superheroes, no whispers of SHIELD or the Avengers. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to begin.
Stephen wasn't sure how he felt about that. On one hand, it was a relief to know that this universe wasn't as chaotic as his own—yet. But on the other hand, it left him feeling adrift. The world he had known, the people he had known, were all different here. Some might not even exist yet. Some might not exist at all.
.
One evening, as he perched on the edge of a rooftop overlooking the city, Stephen let his mind wander. He thought about the Ancient One's words, about her offer to let him rest, to let her carry the weight for a while. And he thought about this world, this strange, unfamiliar world that was both a second chance and a painful reminder of everything he had lost.
He sighed, his tail flicking lazily behind him as he watched the sun dip below the horizon. For now, he would take her advice. He would rest. He would watch. And maybe, just maybe, he would find a place for himself in this new, fractured timeline.
But the question remained, gnawing at the edges of his mind: Why was he here? And who—or what—had brought him to this place?
The answers, he knew, would come in time. For now, all he could do was wait.
The Ancient One's words lingered in Stephen's mind, as persistent as the hum of energy that had drawn him to Tony Stark's captivity. Her cryptic reference to Stark had been deliberate; she could have spoken of anyone or anything to ground him in this unfamiliar universe, but she had chosen him. Whether it was meant as a gentle nudge toward some greater truth or simply her way of challenging him to face what lay ahead, Stephen couldn't say. She was like that—always giving just enough to spark thought but never enough to provide clarity.
And now, her voice played in his mind as if on an endless loop.
"Here, Tony Stark has been missing for a while."
At first, Stephen had brushed it off. This was a different world, a different timeline. What happened to Tony Stark here was no more his concern than the fate of anyone else. He'd come to this universe to rest, to untangle himself from the threads of duty and responsibility that had strangled him for centuries. And yet… he couldn't stop thinking about it.
Damn his curious nature.
The energy he'd sensed while meditating had only made things worse. The ripple in the web of time, the faint but unmistakable pulse of Stark's presence in the Middle East—it had awakened something in him, something that refused to be ignored. He could feel the timeline shifting, reshaping itself around Stark, and while he didn't have the Time Stone to show him the future, his years as its guardian had left their mark. He was attuned to the flow of time, and he knew this moment was significant.
He also knew he shouldn't get involved. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I'll just watch, he told himself. That's all.
.
Stephen hadn't flown in centuries. Not like this, anyway. The magic came to him easily, his body shifting and compressing into a smaller form as black feathers sprouted from his fur. His paws became talons, his vision sharpened, and the world stretched out beneath him, a tapestry of colors and shapes far more vivid than it had been as a man or a cat.
The transformation was second nature, a spell he'd perfected long ago during his early days as Sorcerer Supreme. As a raven, he was faster, quieter, harder to detect. It was a practical form, and one he had used countless times in his travels. But now, as he took flight from the rooftops of Kathmandu, there was something almost exhilarating about it, something that made him feel… free.
The wind rushed against him as he soared higher, the city shrinking below him until it was little more than a collection of lights and shadows. He didn't need to think about direction; the pulse of Tony Stark's energy in the timeline was like a beacon, guiding him eastward with unwavering precision. He felt it thrumming in the back of his mind, pulling him closer with every beat of his wings.
.
The journey was long, but Stephen hardly noticed. Time seemed to blur when he was in this form, the rhythmic beating of his wings lulling him into a meditative state. He flew over mountains and deserts, past villages and cities, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the world below.
It was a beautiful world, untouched by the chaos and devastation that had marked his own. The skies were clearer, the air fresher, and the people… the people were blissfully unaware of the threats that loomed beyond their understanding. It was a world on the cusp of change, and Stephen couldn't help but wonder what role he was meant to play in it—or if he was meant to play one at all.
When he finally neared the Middle East, the energy he'd been following grew stronger, more concentrated. He could feel it now like a thread pulling him forward, guiding him to a specific point in the vast desert. He adjusted his flight, his keen eyes scanning the sands below for any sign of life.
It didn't take long. A small cluster of makeshift structures came into view, hidden among the rocky terrain. Stephen circled overhead, his sharp eyes picking out details: armed guards patrolling the perimeter, crude fortifications built to keep intruders out, and, at the center of it all, a cave. The energy was strongest there, radiating outward like a beacon.
Stephen landed on a nearby outcropping, his black feathers blending seamlessly with the shadows. He folded his wings and tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing as he focused on the cave entrance. He could sense Stark's presence inside, bright and chaotic, a storm of genius and confidence that burned against the oppressive energy of the men who held him captive.
The guards were talking, their voices carrying faintly on the wind. Stephen focused, letting his magic enhance his hearing until their words became clear.
"They say he's almost done," one of them muttered in a mix of Arabic and English. "The boss is getting impatient."
Stephen's feathers ruffled. He knew what they were talking about—the Jericho missile. This was the moment that would define Stark's path, the moment that would lead to his escape and the birth of Iron Man. It was a fixed point in the timeline, one that had to happen exactly as it did in his own universe.
Don't interfere, he reminded himself. Just watch.
And so he waited.