The Sorcerer’s War

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

The Drums of War

The valley was bathed in torchlight, the flickering flames stretching for miles as the enemy's vast army assembled beyond the ridgeline. Drums pounded, their rhythm slow and deliberate, like the heartbeat of a beast awakening from slumber.

Harry Potter stood at the western ridge, his wand clenched tightly in his hand. The cold night air was thick with tension, every breath he took laced with the scent of damp earth and burning wood. Beside him, Jon Snow gripped the hilt of Longclaw, his eyes locked on the approaching forces.

Below them, the banners of the Northern and Targaryen forces fluttered in the wind. Soldiers adjusted their armor, whispered prayers to old gods and new, and exchanged solemn nods with comrades. The war had been inevitable, but now—now it had finally come.

"Any sign of their necromancers?" Jon asked, his voice low.

Harry shook his head. "Not yet. But they'll come."

Tyrion Lannister and Davos Seaworth approached, their expressions grim.

"Our scouts report their vanguard is mostly human soldiers," Tyrion said. "Heavy infantry in the center, cavalry flanking both sides. They're holding their dark mages back."

Davos spat onto the ground. "Aye. They want to see how we fight before they unleash whatever horrors they have in store."

Harry turned his gaze back to the battlefield. He could feel it—the dark magic humming beneath the surface. The enemy wasn't just relying on steel and numbers. There was something lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike.

"We don't let them dictate the battle," Jon said. "We force them to move on our terms."

Davos nodded. "Then let's give the signal."

---

The First Arrows Fly

A horn blast rang through the night.

From the ridges above, archers released their first volley. Hundreds of arrows whistled through the air, descending like a black rain upon the enemy ranks.

The front lines of Vaelor's army lifted their shields, but it wasn't enough. Screams erupted as men fell, clutching at arrows lodged in their throats, eyes, and joints. The initial impact staggered them, but they quickly reformed, marching forward with deadly precision.

The second volley followed immediately, cutting down more soldiers. But the enemy continued, undeterred.

Then, from their ranks, the first sorcerers emerged.

Draped in robes of black and crimson, they raised their staffs and began chanting. The air crackled with malevolent energy, and suddenly, the fallen soldiers began to rise.

Harry's stomach twisted.

"The dead are moving," Arya muttered beside him, her grip on Needle tightening.

Jon clenched his jaw. "Then we burn them."

---

The Flames of the Dragon

Daenerys soared overhead on Drogon, her silver hair flowing behind her like a comet's tail. Below, the battlefield was already shifting, the enemy advancing despite the rain of arrows.

With a single command, she sent Drogon into a steep dive.

"Dracarys."

The roar of fire erupted as Drogon unleashed a torrent of flames. The front lines of Vaelor's army ignited instantly, soldiers screaming as they were reduced to charred husks.

The risen dead burned as well, collapsing into ash.

But the enemy sorcerers did not falter.

Instead, they lifted their staffs, their eyes glowing an unnatural white. A dark wind howled through the battlefield, and from the depths of their army, something massive stirred.

A creature—born of shadow and flame—began to rise.

---

Harry's Reckoning

Harry could feel it now.

The magic.

It seeped through the ground, coiling like a snake, corrupting everything it touched. This was not the same magic he had faced in Hogwarts—not the Dark Arts, not even Voldemort's power.

This was something older. Something worse.

And it was looking right at him.

The creature—twenty feet tall, its form shifting like living smoke—let out a deep, guttural growl. Its eyes burned with violet fire, and from its chest, dark tendrils lashed outward, striking down anything in their path.

It was no ordinary summon.

It was a manifestation of the Shadowborn's will.

And it had sensed him.

"Harry!" Jon called. "What the hell is that?!"

Harry didn't answer. Instead, he raised his wand.

The runes along its length flared bright blue, responding to the ancient power awakening within him.

The time for hesitation was over.

He took a step forward and whispered the incantation.

"Ignis Tempestas."

A massive firestorm erupted from his wand, spiraling toward the creature with the force of a dragon's breath. The sheer heat of it melted the ground beneath it, causing some of Vaelor's own soldiers to stumble back in terror.

The beast howled as the flames wrapped around it, searing its smoky form.

But it did not fall.

Instead, it lashed out with a clawed hand, sending a wave of darkness in response.

Harry barely had time to react before the force slammed into him, sending him flying backward. He crashed into the dirt, pain flaring across his body.

"Harry!" Arya was at his side in an instant, helping him up.

He gritted his teeth. The spell had hurt the beast—but not enough.

He would need more.

He would need everything.

---

The War Rages On

The battlefield was now a maelstrom of chaos.

The front lines clashed, steel meeting steel, soldiers crying out in fury and agony.

Drogon continued his assault from above, but the enemy's dark mages had begun summoning storm clouds, obscuring the sky.

Ghost, Jon's direwolf, had already leapt into the fray, tearing through enemy soldiers with primal ferocity.

And at the heart of it all, Harry stood once more, his wand glowing with raw power.

This battle was far from over.

And he would not let darkness win.