The rift tore open above the frozen plains of Antarctica, a jagged wound in the sky pulsing with crimson light. From it stepped the Scarlet King, and the world shifted.
The winds, once howling with indifference, fell silent. Glaciers cracked under unseen pressure, and the auroras above twisted into streaks of blood and shadow. Time itself stuttered in that moment, unsure how to proceed with the ancient horror now standing on Earth's surface.
The Scarlet King took in his surroundings. An empty, lifeless wasteland. Cold. Isolated. Perfect.
He raised a hand, and the ice responded. Black spires jutted from the ground in an unnatural spiral, forming a jagged throne as red crystal bled upward through the earth's crust. The cold did not touch him; it bent around him, warped by the gravity of his presence.
"This place will serve," he murmured.
He sat upon the throne, and the land responded. A pulse spread through the magical leylines buried beneath the continent—lines older than humanity's memory. The pulse was not felt, but known. Creatures sleeping in the deepest, frozen pits stirred. Forgotten spells cracked. The Scarlet King had made landfall.
His eyes closed. His essence unfurled.
Across the world, magic recoiled. And one soul felt the tremor stronger than most.
---
Sokovia. Midnight.
Wanda Maximoff awoke with a cry, red energy flaring from her hands. Her heart pounded, her breath ragged. Again, the same vision. Again, the throne of red. Again, those eyes.
She sat at the edge of her bed, trembling.
Since that day when the Hex collapsed, she'd known her chaos magic was shifting. Evolving. Becoming something... older. Now, it was more than magic. It was instinct. And that instinct was telling her: something terrible had arrived.
She reached for a book of dark prophecies, flipping through pages of forbidden texts, ancient rituals. Her fingers paused on a half-burned page. The Crimson Sovereign. The Devourer of Law. The Broken Crown.
Her eyes narrowed.
She lit a circle of candles and knelt in the center. With a whisper of chaos magic, the world around her twisted. Symbols of power hovered in the air. She searched through the ether for the source of the call—the presence that haunted her.
The vision came swiftly.
A frozen land. A black throne. A figure cloaked in red flame and shadow.
And he was watching her.
---
Antarctica.
The Scarlet King opened his eyes. A tendril of chaos brushed against his mind.
He did not resist.
Instead, he reached back.
---
Wanda gasped. The ritual room disappeared. She stood not in Sokovia, but in a dreamlike realm where ice cracked underfoot and the sky bled red. The throne stood before her, massive, cruel, beautiful. And upon it—
"You found me," the Scarlet King said.
His voice echoed through her bones.
Wanda took a step forward, unsure whether she was dreaming or projecting. "Who are you?"
"You already know," he replied. "Your power called to mine. And I answered."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you here?"
He chuckled. It was not cruel. It was ancient.
"To take back what was stolen. To reshape this world. To burn false gods."
"You're a threat."
"So are you, Wanda Maximoff."
The world shifted, and she was back in her ritual chamber, on her knees, gasping for air. The candles were out. The room was cold.
But the throne—he—lingered in her mind.
She stood, filled with dread—and curiosity.
She had to find him.
---
The Scarlet King stood at the edge of his throne, gazing out over the endless snow. The wind returned, but it bent around his form.
He could feel her now—closer. Searching. Pulled.
She was chaos incarnate. Potential unrefined. Dangerous.
She would either break upon his presence—or rise with him.
And so he waited, the Red King upon his frozen throne, as the world slowly turned toward the inevitable.
And in the distance, aboard a transport headed for Antarctica, Wanda Maximoff stared through a window at the storm ahead.
The pull was irresistible.
Destiny awaited in the ice.