I was safe.
For now.
Which, in my experience, usually meant the universe was just taking a running start.
I swallowed.
"Master Abel," she said, voice gentle again, "tell me about the wand you are trying to craft."
Of course she went right for it.
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was inevitable.
I kept my request simple on purpose.
Simple requests are harder to weaponize.
"I'm looking for an item," I said, keeping my voice level as I held my teacup like it was normal to negotiate mystical contraband over jasmine tea. "Specifically… a feather, hair, or nerve tissue from a magical creature."
The moment the words left my mouth, my brain started doing that thing it always did lately—running risk assessments like my life was a spreadsheet.
Because I wasn't naïve. The Ancient One felt… safe, in the way a loaded gun feels safe when it's pointed away from you. But Kamar-Taj wasn't a single person. It was an institution. An ecosystem. And ecosystems had predators.
Mordo existed. Kaecilius existed. People with conviction sharp enough to cut and ambition sharp enough to stab. If I dumped everything I knew onto the table, it wouldn't be "trust." It would be a donation to someone else's future betrayal.
So I aimed low.
Step one: get a real wand core.
With a functional wand—even a flawed one—I could stabilize my casting, stop spraying spells like a broken fire hydrant, and actually defend myself if S.H.I.E.L.D. decided "recruitment" was optional. Then I could start making bigger trades, on my terms, with leverage.
Also… I couldn't deny it.
Curiosity was gnawing at me like a rat with teeth made of questions.
This world's magic was insane. Not "turn a match into a needle" insane. More like "fold reality like paper and argue with time" insane. Half the things I'd witnessed in the last few days would've made every Hogwarts professor collectively faint into their own robes.
The Ancient One set her cup down with that unhurried grace that made even tea-drinking look like an ancient ritual. She didn't seem surprised by my request—more like she'd been waiting to see what kind of question I'd ask first.
"We have had these items before," she said. "But they are difficult to preserve. Many have already been crafted into artifacts. Especially nerve tissue—highly perishable and prone to damage."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes bright with that mild, knowing amusement that always made me feel like a chess piece she could already see ten moves ahead.
"Currently," she continued, "I have three items that meet your requirements."
A beat.
"A mane from a Nightmare Beast," she said.
Another beat.
"A feather from a Valkyrie Pegasus."
Then, casually, like she was offering me a menu option:
"And a tusk from a Hellhound."
Her gaze settled on me, not aggressive, just… measuring.
"Which one do you need?"
My mind sprinted.
Hellhound tusk was out immediately. Wrong category. Tusks weren't cores. They were ingredients for weapons, wards, talismans—things that wanted to bite.
Nightmare Beast mane was tempting in the way a live grenade is tempting when you're young and stupid. Raw, chaotic, powerful, probably capable of producing a wand that could do terrifying things… and also terrifyingly unpredictable things. I didn't need "unpredictable" right now. I needed something I could trust when my life depended on it.
That left the feather.
Valkyrie Pegasus.
Asgard. Myth. Courage and protection in the same way certain words feel like armor. If that feather carried even half the symbolism it should, it would align naturally with defensive magic, stabilization, utility spells—exactly what I needed to survive long enough to become something more.
I met the Ancient One's eyes and made myself sound calm.
"I want the Valkyrie Pegasus feather."
Her expression didn't change much—she wasn't the type to show excitement—but I saw a faint spark of approval, like I'd passed a test I hadn't known I was taking.
"Then," she said gently, "in exchange, I would like an introduction to the system of magic you have learned. Is that possible?"
I blinked.
That was… it?
I'd braced for something sharper. A spell. A technique. A binding oath. Some immediate extraction of value. I'd even prepared myself to give up something small and practical—an incantation, a charm, a method of channeling.
But she only wanted a framework. An overview. A foundation.
Which told me two things at once.
One: she wasn't trying to rob me blind.
Two: she was laying groundwork like a strategist who intended future negotiations to go smoothly.
Smart. And honestly? Fair.
If she didn't understand my system, then any future "equivalent exchange" could go wrong fast. I could accidentally trade a priceless principle for something she considered trivial. Or she could offer me something I didn't understand the cost of. Establishing a baseline now meant fewer misunderstandings later.
"I'm willing," I said. "But it will take time. I'll need to organize it properly."
"Of course," she said, as if time was a tool she kept in her sleeve. "Even organizing what you know takes effort. Take your time. When it is complete, send it here and give it to Daniel."
She lifted her hand slightly.
Points of light gathered from the air—tiny glowing motes that swirled together and solidified into a slender wooden box. Polished. Elegant. The kind of container that didn't just hold an object; it respected it.
She placed it on the table in front of me.
"Inside is the Pegasus feather," she said. "I hope it will be of use."
I didn't hesitate. I slid the box into my backpack carefully, like it was glass. The moment it settled against my books and notebooks, I felt a faint pressure—subtle, but real. Like stored potential.
"I'll deliver the introduction soon," I said. "After school Wednesday, probably."
"Good." She leaned back, serene again. "Now that business is done, we can properly enjoy our tea."
I lifted my cup and inhaled. Jasmine, herbs, something floral I couldn't name. Warmth spread through my chest, and for a moment I remembered what it felt like to be a person instead of a problem-solving machine.
Daniel Drumm escorted me to the front door. Up close, his calm felt even more solid—quiet strength, the kind that didn't need theatrics. The Guardian of the Sanctum, in every sense.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded once. "Be careful, Abel."
I stepped out onto Bleecker Street.
New York noise rushed in immediately—cars, vendors, footsteps, the constant city hum like the world refusing to stop spinning. The late afternoon sun made me squint, and for half a second I felt disoriented, like I'd just climbed out of a dream.
I checked my phone, found the nearest subway station, and merged into the crowd.
I wasn't alone anymore.
Not entirely.