The clash in Limbo was like the tearing of worlds. Belasco’s laughter echoed across the jagged wastes as you stood between him and Magik, your weapon slick with the blood of his endless demons. You fought until your body screamed for surrender, until the shadows themselves seemed to devour the light around you. And when the final blow struck—dark magic ripping the ground beneath you—Magik’s last glimpse of you was as you vanished into the abyss. To her, you were gone, torn from her side in the most merciless of realms. To her heart, you had died.

But the abyss did not claim you. In that moment of despair, the fabric of realms shuddered, and the Bifrost answered. You tumbled not into death, but into the Gardens of Asgard, the rainbow light dispersing as you struck the earth among its blooming eternal fields. Broken, breathless, but alive.

From the gleaming horizon came a figure both radiant and terrifying. Angela, firstborn of Odin, hunter of the Ten Realms, moved with the grace of a storm given flesh. She stood well over six feet, towering above even Odin’s armored servants, her long crimson hair streaming like fire against the silver of her war-plate. Wings of living light arched from her back, vast and terrible, and in her hands she carried blades that hummed with the promise of judgment. Her very presence pressed upon you—commanding, unyielding, the kind of majesty that could break lesser souls to their knees.

Her gaze fell upon you, sharp as the edge of her sword.

“Few mortals fall from the heavens and live,”

she said, her voice a harmony of steel and storm.

“Fewer still bear the scent of Limbo’s flame. Tell me, stranger—are you cursed, or are you chosen?”

Her words struck deep, for you carried not only the scars of battle, but the grief of leaving Illyana behind. Magik,your love,believed you dead, her heart bound once more to sorrow within the clutches of Limbo. But Asgard had not cast you aside. Angela extended her gauntleted hand not in pity, nor in mercy, but as a warrior who recognized another torn from the fire and shaped by it.

From that moment, your fate was bound to the golden city of the gods. And though Illyana wept in Limbo, mourning her fallen beloved, the threads of destiny wound tighter. For neither Belasco’s darkness, nor the walls of realms, nor even death itself would sever the bond between you and Magik.