The Sorcerer’s War

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The Morning After the Battle

The Stormlands were eerily silent in the early morning light. Smoke curled from the remains of battle, the scent of burned flesh and steel lingering in the air. The survivors moved among the fallen, gathering their wounded and burning the bodies of the Shadowborn to ensure they did not rise again.

Harry stood on the battlefield, his wand in hand, still feeling the echoes of the magic he had unleashed the night before. His body ached with exhaustion, but something deeper gnawed at him—a sense that this was only the beginning.

Jon Snow approached, his armor still bearing the stains of battle. His expression was grim. "We won this fight, but the war isn't over."

Harry turned to him, his green eyes sharp. "They retreated… but why? They had the numbers."

Jon's jaw clenched. "Because they didn't need to win. They only needed to test us."

Before Harry could respond, the sound of horns echoed through the valley.

From the eastern hills, a messenger rode at full speed, his face pale with terror. He barely had time to dismount before collapsing before the assembled commanders.

"King's Landing…" he gasped, clutching his chest. "An envoy has arrived… a message from the enemy."

Tyrion Lannister, who had been watching from a distance, narrowed his eyes. "A message?"

The messenger swallowed hard and handed him a sealed scroll. "It bears the mark of the Shadow Wyrm."

Silence fell over the camp.

Tyrion broke the seal and read. As his eyes moved across the words, his face darkened.

"They're offering a parley," he murmured.

Jon frowned. "A parley? Now?"

Tyrion exhaled sharply. "They want to negotiate terms… before the final war begins."

---

The Envoy of Shadows

The Red Keep's throne room had seen many rulers, but none had faced an audience like this.

Seated upon the Iron Throne, Daenerys Targaryen listened as the doors opened and the enemy envoy stepped inside.

Harry, Jon, Tyrion, and Sansa stood beside her, each watching carefully.

The envoy was unlike any messenger they had seen before. A tall, gaunt figure wrapped in dark robes, his skin like cracked stone, his eyes gleaming with unnatural light.

He bowed with slow, deliberate grace. "I am Vaelor the Hollow, First Speaker of the Shadow Wyrm."

His voice was a whisper, but it filled the room as if carried by unseen winds.

Daenerys straightened. "State your purpose."

Vaelor's lips curled into a smile. "My master offers you a choice, Dragon Queen."

Harry's grip on his wand tightened. He didn't like the way this creature spoke, the way its presence warped the very air around them.

Vaelor continued. "Surrender King's Landing and the North to us. Lay down your banners, and we will spare the rest of Westeros."

The silence in the throne room was absolute.

Then Daenerys laughed.

"You expect me to hand over my kingdom without a fight?" she said coldly.

Vaelor's smile did not falter. "A fight, yes… but not the kind you imagine."

He lifted a black crystal, its surface pulsing with faint red energy.

"Your world is already breaking," he whispered. "And the longer you resist, the deeper the cracks will run."

The crystal pulsed once—and suddenly, the torches in the room flickered.

Harry felt it instantly—a wave of dark magic surging outward, crawling through the walls, the floors, the very air itself.

He stepped forward, his wand raised. "What did you just do?"

Vaelor turned his gaze toward him. "Ah… the Sorcerer from another world."

Harry ignored the mocking tone. "What did you do?" he repeated.

Vaelor chuckled. "I only opened a door. Soon, you will see what lies beyond it."

Jon stepped forward, his hand gripping Longclaw. "Enough of this. Take your message and leave."

Vaelor tilted his head, then bowed once more. "Very well. You have three days to decide. If you do not surrender, then… the skies will burn."

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

The moment he left, Harry turned to Daenerys. "We can't give them three days."

Tyrion nodded. "He wasn't just stalling. He was activating something."

Sansa crossed her arms. "So what do we do?"

Jon exhaled. "We fight."

Daenerys stood. "And we win."

---

The Storm Before the War

That night, as the war council gathered, Arya Stark returned from her journey to the ruins of Valyria.

She entered the room silently, her face unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was cold.

"They're not just raising an army," she said. "They're summoning something worse."

Jon looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"

Arya pulled out an ancient scroll, its surface covered in faded runes. "I found this in Valyria. It speaks of a ritual… a way to bring something into this world. Something that has been sealed away for centuries."

Harry stepped forward. "The Shadow Wyrm."

Arya nodded. "If they complete the ritual, we won't be fighting an army. We'll be fighting a god."

Silence fell over the room.

Then Daenerys clenched her fists. "Then we don't wait. We take the fight to them."

Tyrion exhaled. "Then we prepare for war."

Harry met Jon's gaze. There was no turning back now.

Three days.

That was all the time they had before the greatest battle in history began.

And Harry knew—this war was about more than just Westeros.

It was about the fate of magic itself.