Soren had his hands full fending off Erwin's relentless assault. He couldn't spare a moment to aid his dragon. But the beast was in peril; Ebony, though freshly hatched, was no ordinary fledgling. Its true gift was transformation—shapeshifting into any creature whose blood it had tasted, wielding that form's full might. Ebony's magic reserves limited how long it could sustain the change, but even a brief burst proved devastating.
This was Fawkes at his prime. Unlike the mythical phoenix of wizarding lore, Fawkes relied not on cataclysmic flames but on searing talons and bursts of fire. Ebony's mimicry captured that essence perfectly. The dragon's armored scales offered no defense against those razor-sharp claws.
Soren couldn't let his prized mount fall. Taming a wild dragon was a feat few accomplished, especially one as rare as this. Grimacing, he channeled his divine power—a shimmering barrier enveloping both himself and the beast.
Ebony let out a triumphant cry from the skies, then wheeled away, breaking off the assault.
Erwin's eyes gleamed. Just as he'd anticipated, Soren's attachment to the dragon was his undoing. The creature hadn't tipped the scales in battle, but its raw power was undeniable. The real issue? Erwin's brutal, unyielding style overwhelmed any defense. To shield himself and his ally, Soren had to draw on his divine aura.
Rowena Ravenclaw's voice echoed in Erwin's mind: Don't overextend—it's draining.
Soren could only sustain the barrier he already held. Protecting the dragon meant thinning it further, like stretching a fixed shield over greater ground. Simple physics.
Now, Your Majesty! Erwin thought back.
A rush of power surged from his forehead, channeling into his wand. Instinct took over—Erwin slashed forward. A lance of starlight erupted, slamming into the black mist. It stalled for a heartbeat, then pierced clean through like a needle through cloth.
Inside the roiling darkness, Soren howled in agony.
The mist shattered in an instant.
Soren's eyes bulged, disbelief twisting his features as he stared at the bloody crater in his chest. Crimson trickled from his lips. "How... how is this possible?"
Erwin's voice was ice. "You're one of the lucky ones—heart on the right side, like something out of a tall tale. But luck won't save you."
He flicked his wrist, unleashing a streak of green death straight at Soren's heart.
The wounded wizard raised his scepter in desperation, but exhaustion and injury sapped his strength. He could only watch the curse hurtle toward him.
Erwin exhaled, tension easing. With Soren gone, his draconic bloodline would evolve, absorbing the fallen rival's essence. Victory felt certain.
Then Ravenclaw's warning pierced his thoughts: Erwin, move!
He Apparated sideways on reflex—but too late. Agony flared in his arm as a black bolt grazed past, singeing flesh. His Invisibility Cloak shimmered, absorbing most of the blast, but the residual force left a deep gash.
A low, amused voice cut the air. "Intriguing."
Erwin whirled, scanning for the source. Beside Soren, a shadowy form coalesced from the gloom—featureless mist, save for glowing crimson eyes that sent ice through his veins.
Before he could react, a vortex swirled open at his side. Grindelwald emerged, clad in tattered prison robes, his face a mask of grim resolve. Faint magical energy rippled from him like a gathering storm.
He extended a hand. Vinda's wand leaped from her grasp into his, the wood humming with reluctant obedience.
"You've crossed a line," Grindelwald said flatly.
The shadow laughed, a hollow rasp. "Grindelwald? Fancy challenging a god?"
"A god?" Grindelwald sneered. "You're no deity—just a parasite leeching stolen power. A false idol, too cowardly to show its true face."
The shadow's eyes flared red, black tendrils coiling like vipers. But restraint won out; the aura ebbed. "Time's short, old man. You can't stop the tide. The endgame approaches—savor these fleeting moments. And you, Erwin Cavendish... the deadlock breaker, the prophesied key. We'll cross paths again. Next time, grasp the weight of your destiny."
With that, the mist swallowed Soren whole, vanishing into the ether.
Grindelwald sagged, relief washing over him. "Erwin, clean up the loose ends." He Disapparated back to his tower cell.
Once alone, he slumped against the wall, sweat beading on his brow. "Still not enough," he muttered, sinking onto his bunk. "Even a pretender's might outstrips mere magic." He closed his eyes, steadying his ragged breaths.
Erwin stood frozen, mind reeling. What was that apparition? And Grindelwald—had the old revolutionary truly intimidated such a horror with mere presence?
Questions swirled, but action came first. Soren had escaped—rescued by whatever dark force lurked in the shadows. "Bloody hell," Erwin growled, frustration boiling over. All his cunning, all those spells, and still no kill?
It galled him. Why did the "chosen one" always get the last-minute bailout? If anyone deserved that role, it was him.
...
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