The Ancient One was gone.
Because of this, all of Kamar-Taj sank into a funk for a while.
After all, she'd led them for so many years—people are emotional creatures; no way it wouldn't hit them.
Plenty of folks who'd once been riddled with terminal illnesses or untreatable injuries, only to find new life at Kamar-Taj, came on their own to lay flowers for her when they heard the news.
Back then, it was the Ancient One who'd pulled them out of their misery.
They could wallow in grief, but Ronan couldn't.
With her gone, he felt the weight on his shoulders for the first time—like, really felt it.
From this moment on, it wasn't just about his own safety anymore. He had to think about all of Kamar-Taj's safety.
And Earth's too.
That's the Sorcerer Supreme's gig—the last mission the Ancient One handed him before she split.
The deadline for this job? Might be forever.
So, first thing, Ronan tracked down his dearest "right and left arms"—his best bros starting today.
Mordo and Wong.
In their little three-man powwow, Ronan laid out his sadness over the Ancient One's exit.
Then he told them: others can mope, but not them.
For Kamar-Taj to keep running smooth, whether it was Ronan, Mordo, or Wong, they had to buck up.
They needed to team up to keep Kamar-Taj—and Earth—safe!
So, brushing off their slightly judgy looks, Ronan rolled out his plan.
Same as before: Mordo's on newbie training and Kamar-Taj security.
Wong's in charge of the three Sanctums—handling their safety and assigning guardian sorcerers.
As for the library gig, Ronan tapped someone else for that.
So, Mordo's rank didn't climb, but he scored the honorary "Deputy Sorcerer Supreme" title.
Wong, though? He went from a lowly librarian to the "puppet master" running the three Sanctums.
Yeah, different words, but Ronan's vibe was spot-on.
In his pitch, with the three of them steering the ship, Kamar-Taj could hit new heights.
Maybe even branch out—like, Kamar-Taj franchises across the cosmos.
Okay, none of them bought that last bit.
As for what Ronan's main job was, Mordo and Wong—tacitly—didn't ask.
Why bother?
With all the work divvied up, Ronan's gig was obvious.
He'd just chill at the New York Sanctum, Hong Kong Sanctum, London Sanctum, or Kamar-Taj—perched in the Sorcerer Supreme's seat, sipping tea, flipping through papers or briefings.
Oh, and of course, Ronan had one other tiny task.
Namely…
Working hard for Kamar-Taj's next generation!
—
With Loki out of the picture, Thor—Odin's sole heir—had no choice but to step up for the throne.
No other "contenders" in the mix meant Thor was the Asgardians' one and only king pick.
To be fair, that was true even before.
Big-hearted, larger-than-life Thor? Way more Asgard's vibe than brooding, shady Loki.
So, Thor had to suck it up and take the palace's next-king crash course.
Even if he hated it, no dodging it.
That left him with just two outlets: popping back to Earth for a few days with Jane Foster or hitting up Ronan for drinks.
New York.
"Man, drinking with you is still the best!"
Thor smashed his glass again—classic move—and Ronan rolled his eyes, flicking his hand.
The shattered glass pieced itself back together and landed in Thor's grip.
Full of beer again.
"I've seen it tons of times, but it still blows my mind every time," Thor said.
"No chance I can learn that spell? Just that one!"
He eyed the refilled glass, envy dripping from his stare.
Ronan shook his head.
Nah, you ain't learning it!
"With your aptitude and personality, I'd stick to being a charge-in warrior."
"Me, with this frail frame? Better suited hanging back as a mobile turret."
Ronan shot him down with peak emotional intelligence.
Yup, nailed it.
High EQ: "Stick to warrior mode."
Low EQ: "Why's your intelligence stat at zero?"
Thor glanced at Ronan's "frail" build and smirked.
Frail?
Who hauled me—hammered—down a whole street that night, then flexed me like a dumbbell in front of Jane?
You put on Tony Stark's mask, and I, the next king of Asgard, ended up trending!
"But real talk, I've already snagged Sorcerer Supreme at Kamar-Taj. How're you still not king of Asgard?"
"You not cutting it or what?"
Ronan gave Thor a once-over, his face saying it all.
Back in the day, Thor strutted around as "Odin's son"—thought it was badass.
Older now, it felt a bit cringe, like he was coasting on his dad's rep across the Nine Realms.
So he switched it to "Asgard's next king."
No lie, he cribbed that from Ronan.
But all this "studying" in Asgard lately had him allergic to the king title.
Now he was rocking "Thor, God of Thunder."
"I've been qualified for the throne forever!"
"Soon—couple days, tops—my dad's going into his Odin-sleep."
"When that hits, I'm running Asgard."
He said it, but a flicker of unease crossed his eyes.
Because once Odin clocked out, that prophecy—Ragnarok—would rear up.
Could he steer Asgard through Ragnarok? Thor was dead certain he could.
He's that confident.
Didn't stop the nerves, though.
"Then I'll be waiting for your big coronation day."
"When it happens, don't forget to invite me—hit me up on Earth for drinks."
Ronan smirked, something clicking.
Per their old deal, he was supposed to help Thor and Asgard dodge the Ragnarok bullet.
But he knew Ragnarok was just Hela showing up, everyone getting wrecked, and Asgard biting the dust to stop her.
Hela's power's tied to Asgard—no blowing it up, no killing her.
Old Ronan might've let that script play out.
Now? He kinda wanted to tango with Hela.
The Death Goddess—lady who could crush Mjölnir one-handed.
Sounds like a real beast.
His mind started wandering.
How strong is Hela?
Her versus Captain Marvel—who's taking it?
Hela's got a Phase One and Phase Two—wild hair versus receding hairline.
If they went all-out, who'd win?
Ronan sipped his "beer"—mango juice in disguise.
"Hey, what's on your mind?"
"You didn't prophesy something, did you?"
Thor clapped Ronan's shoulder.
He'd heard from Odin that Ronan—no, the Sorcerer Supreme of Kamar-Taj—could see the future.
And he knew one of the six Infinity Stones, the Time Stone, was in the Sorcerer Supreme's hands.
Right now, in Ronan's.
"Nah, just mulling some stuff over."
"My old promise still stands—don't forget to holler when the time comes."
Ronan circled back to that deal.
He had to test himself against Hela—how else would he gauge his strength now?
Earth's heroes? No one's a match anymore—not even Hulk.
Okay, maybe a rage-mode Hulk could trade a few blows, but that's a stretch these days.
Hulk's a good boy now.
As for the rest, maybe—maybe—Scarlet Witch has a shot down the line.
Her potential's nuts—Chaos Magic's no joke.
But at her current pace, she'd need a millennium to square up with Ronan.
"I know, I won't forget you, bro."
"Once this is over, I'll treat you to Asgard's finest brew."
Thor grinned—that's the biggest thank-you in his world.
Ronan didn't turn it down.
"Oh, any word on Loki lately?"
Ronan suddenly remembered Ragnarok's "puppet master"—Loki.
Though in this universe, Loki's pretty much off the hook for that rap.
"Nope."
"You got something?"
Thor blinked, then shook his head.
After Loki rolled in with the Chitauri to invade Earth, Thor hadn't seen him since.
Not a whisper of him either.
The Avengers scoured Earth for him back then, but zip—nada.
Thor figured he'd bounced to some off-world spot.
"Me neither."
That's what he said, but Ronan held back a bit.
Besides that TVA run-in with Loki a while back, he'd recently clocked something else.
Sylvie. She'd popped up on Earth.
Not this timeline, though—way back in the past.
With the Time Stone in hand, Ronan had skimmed past and future—it's a Sorcerer Supreme must-do.
Old Ronan could roll with challenges no sweat, but now Earth's safety was priority one.
That's how, in the '80s timeline, he spotted Sylvie.
Coincidence, sure.
But Ronan wasn't big on coincidences.
So he wondered: if Sylvie's here, in this universe, on this timeline…
Does that mean Loki's coming back eventually?
An idea hit him.
Head to Sylvie's era, ask what's up.
She had to know some TVA dirt she hadn't spilled.
And get this: the day after he traced Sylvie, that TVA-control gizmo Kang left him? It twitched for the first time.
What that meant, Ronan had no clue.
To figure it out, he'd probably need another TVA trip.
Might as well pencil that in.
"Come on, one more!"
Thor's voice snapped Ronan out of it.
Screw it—he stopped thinking, clinked glasses with Thor, and downed his juice.
Overthinking's a hairline killer. His was safe for now, but he wasn't aiming for Wong's look.
Bang!
This time, Thor didn't smash his glass—just set it down.
"Gotta bounce."
"Otherwise Jane'll chew me out for missing dinner."
He stood, glancing at the sunset, figuring it was time.
Ronan smirked.
If anyone else heard that, their jaw would drop.
The Norse God of Thunder—thousand-year-old Thor—scared of his girl?
A Norse god and a mortal chick? Straight out of some Eastern novel site's playbook.
What, is the "overbearing CEO" trope universal?
"Alright, Jane's lucky to have a family-man boyfriend like you."
Ronan shot Thor a look, a mix of feelings in his eyes.
These days Thor "dreaded"? They wouldn't last long.
That palace training he loathed would soon just be a memory he'd pull out to reminisce.
As for Jane Foster…
Their ending was set in stone ages ago.
To quote the big bad Jade Emperor from a ton of immortal-mortal romance dramas:
"Immortal-mortal love? It's doomed."
Fits here, no notes.
Thor's got 5,000 years; Jane's got 100, tops. No matter how you slice it, it's a tragedy waiting to drop.
When her beauty fades and Thor's still this guy?
Brutal for her.
Watching Thor jet off like a chopper, Ronan shook his head.
Then he turned and headed inside.
Right then, his phone pinged with a text.
From Stephen Strange.
He was getting married tomorrow.