The vibrant chaos of Kathmandu swirled around them, a dizzying symphony of sights, sounds, and smells. For the better part of the day, Mordo had been leading Celeste through the city's labyrinthine streets, not as tourists, but as guardians. He initiated her into the art of creating mystical barriers, unseen shields woven into the fabric of reality.
With a flick of his wrist, he would tear open shimmering, circular portals, shortcuts, as he called them, allowing them to cross entire city blocks in a single step to reach the optimal anchor points for their protective spells.
Celeste proved to be a quick study. The Force gave her an innate understanding of the energy Mordo manipulated, and soon she was weaving the intricate patterns of light herself, her hands moving with a fluid grace that complemented his rigid precision. He remained close, a watchful and approving mentor.
As she sealed a ward near a bustling marketplace, her concentration was broken by a single, desperate word cutting through the noise.
"Kamar-Taj."
Celeste's head snapped up, her senses reaching for the source. Mordo had heard it too, his expression instantly sharpening. Not far from them, a man who looked utterly broken was navigating the crowd. His clothes were ragged, his face shadowed by a wild beard, but it was the desperate hope in his eyes that truly stood out.
He clutched a small piece of paper, showing it to passersby, only to be met with confused shrugs or dismissive waves. An old man shook his head sympathetically before pointing him in a random direction, a kind but useless gesture.
A shared, silent understanding passed between Celeste and Mordo. They melted into the shadows of the crowd, following the stranger from a distance. They watched as he was turned away time and again, his shoulders slumping further with each rejection.
The man's desperation made him careless. He didn't notice the predatory eyes that had also taken an interest in him, a trio of thugs who saw not a man at the end of his rope, but an easy target. They shadowed him patiently, finally making their move when he wandered down a deserted alleyway.
The trap snapped shut. The stranger spun around, his eyes widening as he found himself surrounded, the alley's entrance and exit now blocked.
"Look, I don't have any money," he pleaded, his voice raspy with exhaustion.
"Your watch," one of the thugs grunted, his eyes fixed on the expensive-looking timepiece on the man's wrist.
The stranger's expression collapsed into one of pure anguish. "No, please. It's all I have left."
"The watch," another repeated, taking a menacing step forward. The others closed in.
A flicker of his old, defiant self ignited in the ragged man's eyes. With a frustrated sigh, he said, "Okay."
He threw a punch, a clumsy, telegraphed motion that ended with a sickening crunch. But the sound wasn't from his target; it was from his own hand. He recoiled instantly, clutching his trembling fingers, a gasp of agony escaping his lips.
From her vantage point, Celeste frowned. Through the Force, she sensed the ghost of old wounds, of shattered bones and severed nerves, an injury that had crippled not just his body, but his spirit. This man wasn't weak; he was broken.
The thugs showed no pity. They descended on him, their fists and feet a brutal storm of violence. One of them ripped the watch from his wrist as he lay crumpled on the ground.
Celeste had seen enough. She moved, a silent blur of motion, with Mordo a half-step behind her.
The fight was over before it truly began. Mordo's movements were brutally efficient, each strike precise and disabling. Celeste flowed around the attackers like water, her Force-aided attacks sending them sprawling before they even knew what hit them. The two thugs who were still conscious scrambled to their feet and fled in terror.
The stranger watched from the ground, his face a mask of shocked relief. Celeste plucked the stolen watch from an unconscious mugger's hand and knelt, holding it out to him.
"Your watch," she said softly.
He took it, his gaze falling on the spiderweb of cracks that now marred the glass face. He cradled it as if it were the most precious thing in the world, his body shaking with silent, wracking sobs. He had hit rock bottom.
"You are looking for Kamar-Taj," Mordo stated. It wasn't a question. The man gave a slow, defeated nod. Mordo gave a single, sharp gesture. Follow us.
As they walked, Celeste reached out with the Force, sensing the storm of emotions inside the stranger. Beneath the fear and confusion, there was a bizarre paradox: the faint glimmer of hope warring with the crushing weight of absolute defeat. It was a combination she recognized. It reminded her of a man with a metal arm, lost for decades in the ice. Who was she to judge?
Their destination was a simple, unassuming doorway on a quiet street. The man stopped, his skepticism plain on his face. "Really? Are you sure this is the right place?"
"Appearances can be deceiving," Celeste replied, her voice even.
Mordo looked at the broken man, his usually stern features softened by a flicker of understanding. "What is your name?"
"Stephen," the man answered after a moment. "Stephen Strange."
Mordo placed a hand over his own chest. "I am Karl Mordo. This is Celeste Morn, a new initiate to our order."
Stephen Strange managed a polite, if weary, nod in Celeste's direction.
"I once stood in your shoes," Mordo said, his voice low and resonant. "Many of us have. So, may I offer you a piece of advice?" Strange just nodded, too tired to speak. "Forget everything you think you know."
Strange blinked, the words clearly meaning nothing to him. Celeste pushed open the heavy wooden door, revealing the warm, incense-scented sanctuary within. "Okay," he mumbled, following them inside, his confusion warring with the last shred of his hope.
They led him through the halls of Kamar-Taj in relative silence. "The sanctuary of our teacher. The Ancient One," Mordo explained in a reverent tone.
"The Ancient One?" Strange asked. "What's his real name?"
The only reply was the soft echo of their footsteps.
"Right. Forget everything I think I know. My apologies," he muttered.
Celeste's gaze drifted to an elderly man with a shaved head, Master Hamir, who was engrossed in a thick tome at a nearby table. She saw a flicker of recognition and relief on Strange's face. He had clearly made an assumption.
Two acolytes appeared and gently took Strange's tattered coat, leaving him in his worn button-down shirt. Another offered him a simple clay cup. "Uh, thanks," he said, startled by the quiet efficiency. Celeste stepped forward and poured hot, steaming tea into the cup just as the Ancient One herself entered the room.
"Ah, thank you, Ancient One… for seeing me," Strange began, bowing his head respectfully toward Master Hamir.
"You are welcome," a calm, female voice replied.
Strange looked up, his eyes widening as he saw the Celtic woman with the serene smile. He watched, flustered and embarrassed, as she gestured for Master Hamir to leave.
"Thank you, Master Hamir. Thank you, Master Mordo. And thank you, Celeste. That will be all," the Ancient One said, her voice gentle but firm. Mordo gave Strange a look that was almost a smirk before turning to leave with Celeste, the two of them waiting just out of sight in the adjoining hallway.
"Mr. Stephen Strange," the Ancient One greeted him.
"Uh... it's Doctor, actually."
"Not anymore, is it?" she pointed out, her gaze knowing and direct. "That's why you've come all this way, isn't it?"
Dr. Strange froze, the cup halfway to his lips. He stared at the bald woman before him, his scientific mind struggling to process the situation. "You've been through many procedures," she continued.
"...Yes," he said awkwardly, taking a sip of tea to deflect. "This is good tea."
The Ancient One moved to pour her own cup. Strange glanced nervously toward the hallway where Mordo and Celeste had disappeared, silently pleading for some kind of explanation.
"Did you heal a man named Pangborn?" Strange asked, getting to the point. "A paraplegic."
From the hall, Celeste saw Mordo's expression shift, a flicker of recognition at the name.
"In a manner of speaking," the Ancient One replied casually.
"You helped him walk again."
"Yes."