Beneath the night sky, the Carpathian Mountains resembled a primordial beast crouching upon the earth, arcing eastward from the Danube Gorge on the border of Austria and Slovakia, passing through Poland and Ukraine until reaching Romania's Iron Gate Gorge.
In the dense forests of the mountains' southeastern region, near the border of Latveria, a Gypsy tribe had made camp. In the quiet night, tents stood in the shelter of the foothills beside a clear, shallow stream. A few dying campfire embers still gave off scattered pinpricks of light.
More than a dozen battered old pickup trucks encircled the tents, forming a crude temporary camp. This was how the Gypsies lived: never settling permanently in one place. They drifted between towns on the fringes, deliberately or inadvertently avoiding censuses and the like, keeping themselves apart from the world.
Among them were coppersmiths from Romania, skilled mechanics, and, more famously, acrobatic troupes and girls talented at dancing. Yet the most mysterious of all were the Gypsy witches who could tell fortunes and commune with spirits.
Whenever they arrived in a town, these Gypsy witches, holding crystal balls and wearing painted faces, could often draw plenty of business—especially in backward, remote rural settlements.
A thick mass of fog suddenly rose from the forest and spread toward the Gypsies' temporary camp at incredible speed. Like rolling waves, it swallowed tent after tent in an instant.
Kaecilius emerged from the gray fog, his entire body shrouded in black robes. This Fallen Sorcerer, who had betrayed Kamar-Taj, bore a red brand upon his forehead—the mark of Dormammu's gaze. His eyes had been corroded by the energy of the Dark Dimension, while his cracked, ruined skin exposed dark purple veins.
He had stolen a forbidden ritual from Kamar-Taj's library, one capable of reaching the Dark Dimension and