The Sorcerer’s War

Hey Guys You can support me at : buymeacoffee.com/scoldeyjod

The Aftershock

The ruins of Summerhall lay in eerie silence, the shattered remains of the black crystal still glowing faintly with dying embers of dark magic. The air was thick with the stench of burnt stone and something more unnatural—the lingering remnants of the Shadowborn's power.

Harry stood among the rubble, his breath heavy, his wand still gripped tightly in his bloodstained hand. His side throbbed where the assassin's blade had cut him earlier, but he ignored it.

The ritual had been stopped, but the cost had been high.

Brienne wiped soot from her face, surveying the wreckage. "That was no ordinary summoning," she muttered. "This magic… it feels wrong."

Arya kicked over a fallen cultist's mask, revealing a face twisted in agony, its flesh marked by strange black veins. "They were offering their own lives to fuel the spell." She frowned. "But for what?"

Harry's fingers clenched around his wand. "This wasn't their final move. It was a test—a warning."

Something inside him, an instinct he had honed from years of battle, told him they had only delayed the inevitable.

And as if to confirm his worst fears, the ground shuddered beneath them.

A distant horn blast echoed through the ruins. Then another.

Arya's eyes narrowed. "That's not one of ours."

Brienne turned toward the treeline, scanning the darkness beyond the ruins. "That's coming from the valley. The enemy must have seen the ritual fail and decided to act."

Harry felt the hairs on his arms rise. "We need to move. Now."

---

The Enemy's Next Move

They rode hard through the night, their horses kicking up dust as they tore across the fields toward Jon and Daenerys' army. Every shadow in the forest felt like it was watching them.

By the time they reached the main camp, the sky had turned the dull gray of dawn. The war tents stretched across the landscape, banners fluttering in the cold wind. Fires burned low as soldiers sharpened their swords, their faces drawn with exhaustion and determination.

Jon Snow was already awake, standing near a strategy table with Daenerys, Tyrion, and Ser Davos. The map before them was marked with red sigils, showing enemy movements near the Stormlands.

Jon looked up as they entered, his expression dark. "What happened?"

"We stopped the ritual," Arya said, tossing a cultist's mask onto the table. "But they weren't trying to summon an army. They were preparing for something worse."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. "Worse?"

Harry exhaled. "They wanted to open a permanent rift—a gate to bring something into this world. We destroyed the crystal before they could finish, but the magic is still there. It's still... festering."

Tyrion rubbed his chin. "Which means they'll try again."

Brienne crossed her arms. "And we just heard war horns near the valley. The enemy isn't waiting anymore."

Jon leaned over the map, his jaw tight. "We received a message while you were gone. The enemy commander, Lord Vaelor the Hollow, has sent a formal demand."

Davos scoffed. "Let me guess—surrender or die?"

Jon nodded. "More or less. They want us to lay down our weapons and submit before sundown. If we refuse, they march at dawn."

Daenerys's violet eyes burned with quiet fury. "Then let them come."

Harry, however, frowned. "It's too soon."

Jon looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"The ritual failed. That should have set them back. Instead, they're pushing forward. Either they have another plan, or they don't actually need the ritual to win." Harry's voice was firm. "Which means they still hold the advantage."

Arya tapped her fingers against the table. "So what do we do?"

Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We don't have time to gather more forces. We either face them head-on or find a way to strike before they do."

Tyrion smirked slightly. "You know, most battles are won before the first sword is drawn." He turned to Daenerys. "A show of strength might be enough to shake them."

Daenerys's expression didn't change. "Drogon and I could burn their forward lines before the battle even begins."

Davos shook his head. "Risky. If they have countermeasures, you could be flying into a trap."

Harry's mind worked quickly. "Then we don't let them know what we're planning. We let them think we're considering surrender while we prepare an ambush."

Jon exchanged a glance with Daenerys. "A trap within a trap."

Tyrion grinned. "I like it."

---

The Final Preparations

The rest of the day was spent preparing the battlefield.

Scouts were sent to track the enemy's movements.

Traps and hidden defenses were laid in the valley where the enemy would march.

Ravens were dispatched to allied houses, warning them of the coming battle.

Harry, meanwhile, took time to gather his strength. He could feel the magic inside him surging more wildly than ever, the power of this world fusing with his own. He had never pushed himself this far before, and he knew the coming battle would test him in ways he hadn't imagined.

As he walked through the camp, he found Jon standing alone, staring at the distant hills where the enemy would soon arrive.

"You think this will work?" Jon asked, not looking away from the horizon.

Harry sighed. "I don't know. But we don't have another choice."

Jon finally turned to him. "This magic… you think it's the same as what we faced beyond the Wall?"

Harry hesitated before answering. "No. The White Walkers wanted to end life itself. These people…" He looked toward the darkening sky. "They want something worse. They want control."

Jon nodded slowly. "Then we stop them."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the camp in twilight, a single rider appeared on the far ridge.

An enemy messenger—clad in dark silver armor, carrying the banner of Lord Vaelor the Hollow.

Harry and Jon exchanged a look before stepping forward.

The time for words was nearly over.

The war was about to begin.