Scarlet Witch: Arcane Fury by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Scarlet-Witch-Arcane-Fury-1251028053

Scarlet Witch: Arcane Fury ANIMATION

The Crimson Masquerade of Ashenhall

Wanda Maximoff had always known that her powers threaded perilously close to things older than scripture—rivers of thought twisting beneath the waking world, currents of chaos whispering through her blood like midnight wind. But she had not come to Ashenhall Manor to summon anything. She had come to escape.

A storm had washed out half the countryside, leaving the manor perched like a wounded bird atop a cliff of jagged stone. Wanda rented the place under an assumed name, hoping for a week of silence. Instead, she found a house full of whispers.

The great windows seemed to watch her; the portraits changed expression when she passed; cold spaces coiled between her footsteps as if something moved slightly out of sight.

When she lit candles in the parlor, their flames shivered like frightened things.

Still, she told herself: Peace. I only want peace.

Yet the chaos in her veins stirred, restless, as if sensing prey.

I

The first night, she dreamed she was crowned in rusted metal leaves, their serrated edges glittering with frost. A colossal shape knelt before her—armor forged from silver that had lost all shine, joints crusted with ancient runes. The figure bowed low and murmured, voice like rolling boulders:

“My goddess… the curse fades. Command, and I shall rise.”

Wanda gasped awake, heart hammering. The candles had burned down. Every flame had died—except one. A single taper flickered bright crimson, the exact shade of her magic.

And the storm outside had stopped. Entirely. Too suddenly.

She rose from bed and crossed to the window.

The sea lay black beneath a moon more full than she remembered. But something else moved along the beach—huge, gleaming faintly. Metal reflecting moonlight.

She blinked. It was gone.

II

By morning, she could feel the presence more sharply. Something huge and sorrowful, ancient beyond comprehension, drifting close like a half-remembered grief.

She made tea, trying to ignore the sensation. That was when she heard a slow metallic scraping from somewhere deep below.

Wanda froze.

“Old houses settle,” she whispered to herself.

But the sound repeated. Scrape. Pause. Scrape. As though something dragged massive limbs across stone.

She descended the spiral stair into the grand foyer. The portraits watched her with unsettling intensity—particularly one at the landing: a severe woman in dark robes, eyes the same red-brown shade as Wanda’s.

She studied it.

The woman’s name was engraved beneath in tiny letters:

Lady Ysoria of Ashenhall.

Wanda whispered, “You could almost be family.”

The portrait’s lips seemed—only for a heartbeat—to curl.

III

That afternoon she found the library. Dust lay thick across ancient tomes bound in leather hardened like old bark. Something about the place felt familiar—like a memory not her own.

On a pedestal rested a book whose title Wanda didn’t recognize. Something old. Something forbidden.

She reached for it. The instant her fingers brushed the cover, a ringing sounded throughout the manor—resonant, metallic, like the clash of distant armor.

The air thickened. Candles flared red.

And she heard again the enormous voice:

“You have awakened me.”

The polished floor trembled. Books fell. Wanda’s breath turned to frost. She stepped back, gathering her magic instinctively, threads of crimson energy coiling around her like serpents.

Then—silence, terribly complete.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, voice steady though her heart beat wild.

The answer was everywhere at once:

“The Forged. Bound by her curse. Freed by your flame.”

IV

Night gathered quickly, swallowing Ashenhall in a velvet darkness that tasted of iron. Wanda sat by the dying fire, every nerve attuned.

At last she heard it: the heavy tread of co
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