The Sorcerer’s War

A shockwave of blue light tore through the cavern, knocking Harry and the others off their feet.

The ice beneath them cracked apart, revealing jagged chasms that plunged into endless darkness. The pulsing glow of the First King's eyes bathed the chamber in an eerie, unnatural radiance. The air itself became heavy, suffocating, as if the very presence of this ancient being was rewriting the laws of existence.

Harry coughed, struggling to his knees. His wand trembled in his grip, his magic flickering wildly in the overwhelming presence of the First King.

Beside him, Jon Snow groaned, gripping Longclaw as he pulled himself up. His face was pale, but his expression was set in grim determination.

Daenerys, her hands still wreathed in fire, took a step back, her breath misting in the freezing air. Even her flames seemed to dim in the presence of this being.

Tormund cursed. "By the gods… what in the bloody hell is that?"

The First King moved.

His chains of ice shattered completely, the sound like thunder cracking across the heavens. The ancient being rose to its full height, towering over them all, his armor shifting as if it were part of his very flesh.

His face—if it could even be called that—was masked in shattered obsidian, and from within, veins of blue fire pulsed like molten ice.

And then he spoke.

His voice wasn't a sound. It was a presence. It filled the cavern, filled their minds, echoing with the weight of a thousand years.

"You… are dust."

The ground erupted beneath them.

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A Battle Against a God

Harry barely had time to react before spikes of black ice speared from the ground. He twisted his wand, throwing up a Protego Maxima, but the sheer force of the attack sent him flying backward.

Jon dodged to the side, barely avoiding an explosion of frozen magic. He rolled, coming up with Longclaw ready, his breath ragged.

Daenerys unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, her hands glowing with golden flame. The fire surged toward the First King, colliding with his massive form.

But it did nothing.

The flames licked at his body and vanished into the void of his presence.

Harry's heart pounded. "Fire isn't working."

The First King raised his hand—and a storm of black frost spiraled outward, slamming into Daenerys and throwing her into the ice. She cried out, her flames flickering dangerously low.

Jon lunged, Longclaw slicing downward. The Valyrian steel blade met the King's frozen armor—and for a moment, the black ice cracked.

The First King's head snapped toward Jon, and with a simple flick of his hand, Jon was sent flying across the cavern, smashing into an ice pillar.

Tormund roared, swinging his axe—but the First King didn't even acknowledge him.

Arya Stark moved like a shadow, darting between the battlefield, her dagger of dragonglass flashing in her hand. She leaped onto the First King's back, aiming for his throat—

And the moment her blade struck, the ice repaired itself instantly.

The First King turned his head toward her.

Arya's eyes widened.

Then a wave of frozen force exploded outward, hurling her across the cavern. She crashed against the wall and fell still.

Harry snapped.

His magic erupted outward, his wand sparking violently. He threw every spell he had—Reducto, Confringo, Bombarda Maxima—but the moment his spells struck the First King, they were absorbed, twisted into nothing.

He's consuming the magic.

Harry's stomach turned. We can't beat him.

Then the First King moved toward him.

His towering figure cast a shadow of death, his very presence distorting reality. His hand reached for Harry—a slow, inevitable motion, like time itself was bending toward oblivion.

Harry couldn't move.

The cold wrapped around him, pressing into his bones, his magic flickering as if something greater than him was suppressing it.

The First King's voice filled his mind.

"Magic bends to me."

Harry's heartbeat slowed.

His vision blurred.

The First King's fingers were an inch from his chest.

And then—

The cavern exploded.

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The Wrath of the Last Dragon

A roar of fire and fury shattered the frozen air.

Drogon.

The great black dragon tore through the ceiling, his massive wings scattering ice and stone. His eyes burned with fire, his mouth already open—

And then he unleashed hell.

A torrent of white-hot dragonfire slammed into the First King, enveloping him in a blaze brighter than the sun. The entire cavern shook, ice pillars melting under the sheer force of the flames.

Harry gasped, stumbling backward, the heat burning against his skin.

Jon pulled himself from the rubble, coughing, eyes wide. "Drogon—"

Daenerys stood, her eyes glowing with rage, her hand raised high. She had called her dragon, and he had answered.

The fire raged for what felt like eternity.

Then, silence.

The cavern settled. The fire died down.

The First King was still standing.

But… something was different.

His armor, once impenetrable, was now cracked. Molten black ice dripped from his form.

And he was watching Drogon.

For the first time, the First King's voice did not echo with contempt.

It echoed with recognition.

"The last child of fire."

Daenerys stepped forward, her breath shaking. "What…?"

The First King tilted his head, his mask shifting, as if he was seeing something familiar.

Then he raised his hand.

Drogon roared—but this time, something strange happened.

The dragon staggered. His wings trembled. His flames dimmed.

And then, against all reason… Drogon bowed.

Harry's heart stopped.

Daenerys took a step back, her face pale. "No… Drogon?"

The First King's voice rumbled like a dying star.

"Even fire bends to me."

Harry's blood ran cold.

They weren't just fighting an enemy.

They were fighting a god.

And they were losing.