“Not exactly the answer I wanted!” Strange yelps back, catching his balance. Despite all the trepidation, the suspicions, Tony’s warnings to not get too close to the potential spirits just in case, it still feels like the rug’s been yanked out from under him. The bottom dropping out, upon receiving that sheer objective confirmation. This is not Wong.

They are not home. This is not the Sanctum Sanctorum.

Because the Sanctum has always protected Stephen Strange, has been a literal safe haven, has folded him into its rooms when he needed a safe landing spot, and he’d been its lone defender when Kaecilius attacked,

but now the floorboards buck beneath them, like a disgruntled beast trying to heave them off its back. Mobius yanks him by the cloak and Strange skitter-steps backward before he can fall right through to the floor below.

He drops all his scrying accessories, because fuck it, they have bigger problems now, and he flings a shield between them and the other sorcerers. That golden mandala shimmers into existence and the novice’s flame whip crashes harmlessly against the shield, those fiery tendrils reaching out for them, hungry. They’re the intruders now. He and Mobius have been classified as intruders. Christ. Strange moves further back, backpedalling them out of the lounge, but —

They pass through the door, and the hallway tips sideways.