The ancient malice in 'Gram''s reptilian eyes flickered with newfound interest as the words hung in the frigid air between them. The massive frost dragon's scarred head tilted slightly, steam rising from his nostrils as he considered the proposition. Ice crystals formed and shattered with each breath, creating a crystalline symphony of temptation.
"But if I agree," Smaug's voice rumbled with uncertainty, each word carefully weighed like precious gold, "my current master will discover my betrayal. The oath that binds meit will turn upon me like a serpent, consuming me from within before I can even act."
A cold smile spread across 'Gram''s draconic features, revealing teeth like frozen daggers. "That presents no obstacle worth considering! Do not resist what I offer, I shall now inject a portion of my master's power into your very essence. This dark gift will temporarily shield you from the oath's vengeful influence, and when we return triumphant to the Dunland of Mordor, I will completely sever the Oath Curse that chains you. You will be free, Smaug the Mighty, free to choose your own path among the gold-laden peaks."
The promise hung between them like a web of shadows. 'Gram' moved with predatory grace, his massive form gliding through the air with deceptive silence. The iron crown, that cursed diadem of blackened metal, rooted deep into his skull began to pulse with malevolent energy. Dark veins of power coursed through the twisted metal, and the very essence of the Dark Lord Sauron contained within it prepared to leap forth the moment contact was made.
The air itself seemed to thicken with anticipation as 'Gram' extended his clawed appendage toward the legendary dragon of Erebor.
But Smaug the had not survived the long ages by being a fool.
Just as 'Gram'm's claw was mere inches from contact, Smaug's great maw opened wide, revealing the infernal furnace within. Without warning or hesitation, he unleashed the full fury of his Dragon Fire, not the casual flames he might use to roast hapless treasure-seekers, but the primal, world-scorching fire that had once laid waste to the great city of Dale.
The torrent of searing flame engulfed 'Gram' entirely, turning the frost dragon's head into a writhing beacon of agony. The Dragon Fire was more than mere flame, it was the concentrated rage and greed of millennia, the burning essence of dragonkind made manifest. Where it touched 'Gram''s scales, they began to melt and bubble like wax beneath a forge, streams of molten metal dripping to the earth below.
'Gram''s shriek of agony pierced the heavens, a sound that would have driven lesser beings mad with terror. The iron crown, that artifact of ultimate dominion, glowed white-hot under the assault, the very metal seeming to scream as it was transformed into an instrument of torment rather than power.
The proud frost dragon writhed in absolute agony, his great body contorting as the Dragon Fire spread across his form like a living thing. In desperation, he summoned forth his own power, breathing out arctic winds so cold they could freeze flame itself. Steam rose in great billowing clouds as fire met ice, creating a chaotic maelstrom of opposing elements.
When the steam finally cleared, 'Gram''s form was revealed in all its wounded majesty, scales blackened and scarred, patches of exposed flesh weeping frozen blood, and eyes burning with a hatred that could melt mountains. He fixed his vengeful gaze upon the rapidly retreating form of Smaug and roared with voice like breaking glaciers:
"Accursed worm! False-hearted betrayer! You dare mock me? I will hunt you to the ends of Arda! I will make you beg for the sweet release of death!"
But Smaug was already winging his way toward the distant spire of Isengard, his laughter rolling across the landscape like thunder. Around his great neck, coiled like a living necklace of death, the basilisk Herpo raised his ancient head and seemed to nod in serpentine approval.
"It seems our self-proclaimed Dark Lord isn't quite as cunning as his reputation suggests," Smaug chuckled, his voice carrying the satisfaction of a predator who has just escaped a well-laid trap. "Did he truly believe that I, who have gazed upon the Arkenstone and made the Lonely Mountain my fortress, would be swayed by such transparent promises? What manner of fool does he take me for?"
Herpo's response was a sibilant hiss that seemed to carry the weight of ancient wisdom, and Smaug nodded in agreement. "Precisely, my scaled friend. Why would any creature of sense abandon a life of leisure, sleeping upon beds of gold, feasting upon the finest livestock, with not a care in all the world, to serve a spirit who cannot even maintain his own physical form? The very notion insults our intelligence!"
As the great dragon approached the fortress of Isengard, the scene below was one of orchestrated menace. The Nine Ringwraiths sat astride their fell-beasts in perfect formation, their black robes rippling in winds that seemed to emanate from the void itself. The creatures beneath them, once great birds of prey, now corrupted into something far more terrible, stretched wings that blocked out patches of sky like torn banners of despair.
Saruman stood at the center of this dark assembly, his pristine robes a stark contrast to the corruption surrounding him. His staff gleamed with eldritch power, and his voice carried the authority of one who had walked in the light before choosing the shadow.
Without preamble or warning cry, Smaug descended like a falling star made of flame and fury. His Dragon Fire erupted in great gouts of destruction, turning the air itself into a weapon. The carefully maintained formation of fell-beasts scattered like leaves before a hurricane, their riders struggling to maintain control as their mounts screamed in primal terror.
Herpo played his part with deadly precision. The ancient basilisk's eyes opened wide, and wherever his gaze fell, death followed. It was not merely the act of looking, it was the weight of millennia of malice concentrated into a single, world-ending stare. Fell-beasts struck by that terrible gaze simply ceased, their great bodies tumbling from the sky like broken dolls.
From above came Sulond, Luke's magnificent eagle, his wingspan now grown to truly mythical proportions. Where Smaug was fire and rage, Sulond was wind and talon, his great form diving and wheeling through the chaos with predatory grace. His razor-sharp talons found purchase in fell-beast flesh, tearing and rending with surgical precision before launching skyward again.
Bodies, both draconic and demonic, began to rain down upon Isengard's courtyard like a grotesque hail. Even several of the Ringwraiths found their mounts slain beneath them, leaving these once-great kings of Men to watch helplessly as their ethereal forms struggled to maintain coherence without their anchoring steeds.
But Smaug had not come to linger in battle like some common warrior. After his initial devastating assault, he folded his wings and dove like a golden arrow toward the shimmering dome of protection that surrounded Isengard's tower. The other fire dragons followed in his wake, their smaller forms creating a stream of living flame that disappeared into the sanctuary.
Sulond snatched one final fell-beast in his mighty talons and carried it through the dome's barrier. The corrupted creature writhed in agony as the protective magic tore at its very essence, weakening it beyond recovery. Sulond ended its suffering with a precise strike of his beak before casting the corpse aside.
"Master," Smaug announced as he settled onto the courtyard stones with earth-shaking force, his great head turning upward toward the tower where Luke stood, "I trust we have not arrived late to this particular gathering?"
Herpo uncoiled slightly from around the dragon's neck, his forked tongue tasting the air as he added his own sibilant commentary to his companion's greeting.
Sulond took up a defensive position, circling the tower like a feathered fortress, his keen eyes watching for any threat that might penetrate their defenses.
Luke gazed down at his assembled guardians, and despite the gravity of their situation, he couldn't suppress a smile of genuine affection. "Your timing is impeccable." Then, with the hint of curiosity that marked all great wizards, he asked, "Tell me, Smaug, Sauron's emissary just offered to release you from your binding oath. Many would consider such freedom worth any price. Why did you choose to honor our compact instead?"
The question hung in the air, and Luke's enhanced senses, sharpened by years of magical study, had indeed caught every word of the conversation between dragon and would-be tempter.
Smaug's great eye fixed upon his master, searching for any sign of anger or suspicion. Finding none, the dragon's entire posture relaxed, and he let out a rumbling sigh that spoke of relief and absolute honesty.
"Master, my loyalty to you is not born of chains or magical compulsion, it springs from simple, practical wisdom! Under your protection, I live as a dragon should live: my belly is always full of the finest meats, my sleep is undisturbed by treasure-seekers or heroes, and I rest each night upon a mountain of gold that grows larger with each passing day. I would have to be the greatest fool in all of Middle-earth to abandon such perfection to serve a master who cannot even maintain his own physical form! Besides," and here Smaug's voice took on a note of pure greed that was somehow endearing in its honesty, "you possess that most wondrous of artifacts, the stone that transforms base metal into pure gold. With such a treasure at my disposal, why would I ever want for riches again?"
Luke's expression shifted to one of fond exasperation as his Legilimency talent laid bare the dragon's thoughts like an open book. The creature's mind was indeed filled with visions of gold, precious gems, and an eternity of leisure. "I suspect," Luke said dryly, "that the promise of unlimited gold was perhaps the most persuasive argument of all?"
Caught in his transparency, Smaug's fearsome visage somehow managed to look sheepish. "Hehe, you know me too well, Master! But the result remains the same, I, Smaug the Mighty, will never betray you. This I swear upon my hoard!"
The moment of levity was shattered as the very air around them began to crystallize with supernatural cold. 'Gram', his fury now beyond all measure, exhaled an aura of such intense frost that the protective dome began to accumulate layers of ice thick as castle walls. The temperature plummeted so drastically that the breath of every defender became visible clouds of vapor.
Saruman raised his staff high, and lightning answered his call. Not the clean, bright lightning of natural storms, but the twisted, corrupted energy that came from bargains made with dark powers. Bolt after bolt crashed down upon the dome, each strike accompanied by thunder that shook the very foundations of Isengard.
The Nine Ringwraiths raised their hands in unison. The Rings of Power upon their fingers blazed with malevolent light as they channeled their collective will against the barrier. Where their dark magic touched the dome, it began to crack like glass subjected to extreme temperature changes.
Luke poured every ounce of his considerable power into maintaining the protection, sweat beading on his forehead despite the supernatural cold. But even his formidable abilities had limits, and those limits were being tested to their breaking point.
The dome developed hairline fractures that spread like a spider's web across its surface. The cracks widened, multiplied, and finally, with a sound like the world's largest mirror shattering, the barrier collapsed entirely. Fragments of crystallized magic fell like snow, dissolving before they could touch the ground.
"Black Wizard Luke,"'Gram''s voice carried across the battlefield with the authority of winter itself, "surrender the Philosopher's Stone, and perhaps your death will be swift. I am well aware of your Apparition abilities, so do not entertain thoughts of escape or calling for aid. Even now, my master's armies press against Gondor and Rohan, while elvish realms of Lothlórien and Rivendell find themselves... occupied with unexpected visitors. No help will come, you stand alone."
The news struck Luke like a physical blow. The thought of those ancient strongholds under attack filled him with dread, but his tactical mind quickly reasserted itself. Galadriel and Celeborn were powers beyond mortal understanding, while Elrond and Glorfindel commanded forces that had faced the darkness before and emerged victorious. Still, the implications of Sauron's coordinated assault sent chills down his spine that had nothing to do with Gram's supernatural cold.
Luke reached into his robes and withdrew the Philosopher's Stone, that legendary artifact that had caused so much strife in both his worlds. The red crystal caught what little light filtered through the battle-darkened sky, pulsing with inner fire like a captured star.
"So," Luke said, his voice carrying clearly across the battlefield, "the great Sauron requires my Stone to reclaim his physical form? How... limiting for one who claims dominion over all Middle-earth."
At the sight of the Stone, 'Gram''s eyes blazed with avarice so intense it seemed to heat the very air around his massive head. "Your defiance serves no purpose save to delay the inevitable. Surrender the Stone willingly, and I might yet be persuaded to grant you the mercy of a clean death!"
But even as 'Gram' spoke, Luke was weaving magic with subtle precision. The Portkey Charm settled over the Stone like an invisible net, and with a gesture so swift it might have been missed by mortal eyes, he sent the artifact away to a destination known only to himself.
The Stone vanished with a soft pop of displaced air.
'Gram''s roar of fury could have been heard from the shores of the Grey Havens to the borders of Rhûn. "TREACHEROUS WIZARD! WHERE HAVE YOU HIDDEN IT? WHERE IS MY MASTER'S PRIZE?"
Luke's response was not words but action, direct, lethal, and uncompromising.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The Killing Curse erupted from Luke's wand like a bolt of sickly green lightning, its passage through the air accompanied by the sound of tearing reality itself. 'Gram' reacted with the instincts of a creature that had survived countless battles, exhaling a wall of ice so thick and cold that it seemed solid as stone.
The Unforgivable Curse met the barrier and shattered it into countless fragments, the ice exploding outward in a shower of deadly shards. But the wall had served its purpose, the curse's power was spent, dissipated harmlessly into the frigid air.
"Luke,"'Gram' snarled, his voice now carrying the promise of torments beyond imagination, "you have just sealed your fate most thoroughly. I had intended to make you my most trusted lieutenant, to grant you power beyond your wildest ambitions. But now? Now I will kill you slowly, trap your soul in an artifact of my own making, and subject you to the burning of hellfire for all eternity!"
The frost dragon's maw opened wide, and from it came not mere cold, but the very essence of winter's heart, an exhalation that could freeze flame itself and turn living flesh into brittle crystal.
Luke's response was instantaneous Apparition, his form disappearing just as the killing cold swept through the space he had occupied. He reappeared atop one of the circling fell-beasts, his sudden weight causing the creature to dip dangerously low.
Before the fell-beast could react, Luke summoned forth Glamdring. The weapon swept down in a perfect arc, severing the creature's neck. The wind blades and searing flames that followed in the sword's wake carved deep into the wound, cauterizing it instantly.
The fell-beast's death cry was cut short as its head tumbled away from its body, and both parts began their final descent toward the stone courtyard below.
But Luke was already gone, apparating to another target before his previous victim had even begun to fall. This time, however, 'Gram' was ready. The frost dragon twisted in mid-air with impossible agility for something so massive, positioning himself beneath Luke and snapping upward with jaws that could crush castle walls.
Luke vanished again, reappearing safely on the ground just as those terrible jaws snapped shut on empty air. The fell-beast he had been about to attack was not so fortunate, 'Gram''s misdirected cold breath turned it into a sculpture of ice that shattered against the courtyard stones.
Luke would appear, strike, and vanish again before 'Gram' could bring his overwhelming power to bear. The frost dragon wheeled and dove, breathed ice and flame, but could never quite catch the elusive wizard who danced between dimensions with practiced ease.
Meanwhile, the greater battle raged on multiple fronts. Smaug had engaged Saruman in a duel that was part aerial combat, part magical contest. The White Wizard dared not look directly at Herpo, giving the dragon-basilisk partnership a significant advantage. Smaug's flames met Saruman's lightning in spectacular displays that lit up the darkened sky.
Sulond dominated the aerial battlefield. His massive wingspan, now grown to fully fifty meters, dwarfed even the largest fell-beasts. He moved through their formations like a scythe through wheat, his talons finding vital points with predatory precision.
Aslan, smaller but infinitely more agile, darted between opponents like a golden missile. His lion's courage combined with his eagle's grace made him a terror to face in single combat, while his size allowed him to slip through defenses that would stop larger creatures.
On the ground, Cerberus lived up to his mythological reputation. The three-headed hound breathed flames from one maw, poison from another, and tore at his enemies with the third. The dismounted Ringwraiths found him a particularly challenging opponent, as their spiritual nature provided little protection against his hellish nature.
The other fire dragons, Luke's growing collection of draconic allies, formed a defensive perimeter around the tower, breathing coordinated gouts of flame that kept the enemy forces at bay.
But for all their skill and ferocity, the tide of battle began to turn against them. 'Gram''s power was simply too vast, too overwhelming to be contained indefinitely. His breath attacks had transformed the entire area around Isengard into a frozen wasteland, ice coating every surface and making movement treacherous.
The Tower of Orthanc itself had become a pillar of ice, its black stone encased in layers of frost thick as armor. The temperature had dropped so low that even breathing had become painful, each exhalation creating clouds of vapor that froze and fell like snow.
It was at this moment of greatest peril that salvation arrived from an unexpected quarter. The sound came first, a chorus of cries that was part eagle's shriek, part horse's whinny, carried on winds that spoke of vast distances traveled at desperate speed.
The Dunlendings had returned, mounted on their hippogriffs and accompanied by riders whose presence sent a thrill of hope through Luke's heart. King Éomer of Rohan sat astride a magnificent hippogriff, his golden hair streaming behind him like a banner, his face grim with determination.
But as they crested the horizon and took in the scene below, dragons breathing fire, Ringwraiths wielding dark sorcery, and a battle that seemed torn from the pages of the most fantastic legends, even these hardened warriors felt their courage waver. The scale of the conflict was beyond anything they had imagined, a clash of powers that belonged to the first age rather than the current age.
Yet they had not traveled so far and so fast only to turn back at the moment of truth. Brog, the stalwart leader of the Dunlending, raised his voice in a battle cry that echoed across the frozen battlefield:
"For Isengard! For Lord Luke! For the freedom of all free peoples!"
The response was immediate and heartening. Warriors poured from the spatial containers that Luke had provided, their numbers swelling the defensive force significantly. But even as they deployed with admirable speed and precision, Luke felt a chill of foreboding that had nothing to do with 'Gram''s ice magic.
These brave souls, for all their courage and skill, were still mortal men facing powers that belonged to legend. They were not just reinforcements, they were potential victims, and Luke's protective instincts flared to life even as he continued his deadly dance with the frost dragon.
The Dunlending warriors, demonstrating the discipline that had made them Luke's first and most reliable allies, immediately began coordinating their attacks. Arrows filled the air in disciplined volleys, their points seeking gaps in scales and armor. But reality asserted itself with cruel efficiency, their weapons, simply could not penetrate draconic hide or ghostly Ringwraith armor.
'Gram' noticed the new arrivals with the casual interest a man might show toward ants at a picnic. His great head swiveled toward them, and contempt dripped from his voice like venom:
"More insects come to die? How... tedious."
The frost dragon drew in a breath that seemed to steal warmth from the very air around him, preparing to release an exhalation that would turn the brave reinforcements into frozen statues in the span of heartbeats.
But Luke Potter had not survived the trials of two worlds by allowing others to sacrifice themselves in his place. Even as 'Gram''s breath attack began to form, Luke Apparated directly between the dragon and his intended victims. His hands rose, magic flowing through him like a river, and a barrier of pure force materialized between the mortals and certain death.
'Gram''s breath, cold enough to freeze flame itself, met Luke's shield in a explosion of opposing energies. Steam rose in billowing clouds as the two forces struggled for dominance, ice and fire and magic all twisted together in a display that painted the sky in impossible colors.
Luke held the barrier firm, but the effort cost him dearly. Every second of protection drained his magical reserves, and he could feel the cold seeping through even his strongest defenses. The Dunlending warriors and Rohirrim behind him still felt the killing chill, their breath forming clouds of vapor even though the worst of the attack was being deflected.
But they lived. And in that moment, as Luke stood between them and annihilation, they understood exactly why they had chosen to follow this remarkable wizard who had come from another world to make their own a better place.
The Ring of Power upon Luke's finger blazed as he channeled its strength into a barrier of pure force. Behind this protective wall, the Dunland warriors and Rohirrim huddled together, their breath forming clouds of vapor in the supernatural cold that still emanated from 'Gram''s previous assault.
Even as he maintained the barrier against the lingering effects of the frost dragon's attack, Luke's emerald eyes sought out the familiar face of his most trusted ally. "Brog," he called, his voice carrying both relief and curiosity, "why have you returned? I thought you were securing the victory at the Fords of Entwash."
The weathered leader of the Dunland immediately straightened, though shame colored his weathered features like a shadow. His calloused hands twisted around his weapon's grip as he struggled with words that felt inadequate to the moment.
"Lord Luke," Brog began, his voice rough with emotion and the bitter cold, "we had indeed routed Mordor's forces at the Fords, scattered them like leaves before a storm. But then we saw it, a great dragon silhouetted against the sky, flying with terrible purpose toward Isengard. How could we celebrate victory while our home faced such peril?" His gaze dropped to the frost-covered stones at his feet. "King Éomer brought half his cavalry without hesitation when we explained the situation. But now... now I fear we have not come as aid, but as additional burdens for you to protect."
The realization of their tactical limitations hung heavy in the air between them. These were warriors who had faced orcs and Easterlings with courage and skill, yet here they stood powerless before enemies that belonged to legend. Their finest arrows could not even scratch the scales of the weakest fell-beast, much less pose a threat to creatures like 'Gram' or the Ringwraiths.
But Luke's response was swift and filled with warmth that cut through both the physical and emotional chill. The young wizard's face broke into a smile, genuine, appreciative, and utterly free of reproach.
"Brog, my friend, you could never be a burden to me. The fact that you and King Éomer chose to ride to our aid, knowing full well the dangers you would face, that speaks to a courage that transcends mere martial skill." Luke's voice carried the conviction of someone who had learned hard lessons about the value of loyalty. "And you are far from useless. Even the mightiest fortress can fall to a determined swarm of ants, and you command nearly ten thousand elite warriors whose hearts burn with righteous purpose."
Without hesitation, Luke reached into his enchanted robes and withdrew an artifact that gleamed like captured sunlight. The Golden Bow was a thing of beauty, its limbs carved from wood that had grown in the light of the Two Trees of Valinor, its string woven from the hair of the Valar themselves. As he tossed it through the air to Brog, it seemed to sing with anticipation.
Following the bow came a quiver that clinked with the distinctive sound of mithril upon mithril. "This bow will never fail to find its target, no matter how swift or elusive," Luke explained as Brog caught the artifacts with reverent hands. "The quiver contains hundreds of mithril arrows capable of piercing even dragon scales. I've inscribed each one with explosive runes, they are imitations of those gifted to me by Morinehtar the Blue, though I fear the originals have all been expended in previous battles."
The memory of those three precious arrows flickered through Luke's mind: one used to seemingly destroy Saruman in their first encounter, another to bring down a Ringwraith's fell-beast in aerial combat, and the third absorbed harmlessly by 'Gram''s supernatural cold. But these replicas, while not quite matching the originals' power, would serve their purpose well.
Brog's weathered hands trembled slightly as he accepted the legendary weapon and its deadly ammunition. "My lord, I... such treasures should not be entrusted to a simple soldier..."
"You are no simple soldier, Brog," Luke interrupted firmly. "You are the leader of people who chose freedom over servitude, who stood against the darkness when others would have surrendered to despair. There is no one I would rather have at my side in this fight."
Turning to the King of Rohan, Luke produced another artifact, a horn of pristine white that seemed to glow with inner light. King Éomer accepted it with the solemnity befitting a royal ceremony, though his blue eyes burned with the fire of battle.
"Your Majesty," Luke said, his formal address carrying deep respect, "I am more grateful than words can express for your aid in this desperate hour. This is the Horn of Victory, when sounded, it will fill our allies with unshakeable courage while striking fear and discord into the hearts of our enemies. Use it to disrupt their coordination when the moment is right."
King Éomer nodded gravely, understanding the tactical implications immediately. "It shall be my honor to sound the call that aids in Isengard's defense."
But Luke was not finished. Raising his wand high above his head, he began to weave magic that drew gasps of wonder and alarm from the assembled warriors. Fire burst to life around the tip of his wand, but this was no ordinary flame. The fire burned with ethereal blue-white radiance that seemed to contain the fury of stars themselves.
With a gesture that sent the magical flames dancing through the air like living things, Luke spread the fire throughout the ranks of his mortal allies. Warriors cried out in terror as the supernatural flames engulfed them, certain that their lord had somehow made a terrible mistake.
But the flames, though they crackled and danced with obvious power, brought no heat, no pain, no harm whatsoever. Instead, they seemed to whisper promises of protection and strength.
"Warriors of Dunland and noble riders of Rohan!" Luke's voice resonated with authority and power, reaching every ear despite the chaos of battle that still raged around them. "These flames will shield you from harm and carry your intent to our enemies' destruction. Dip your arrows in the fire, let each shaft become a harbinger of justice!"
The warriors, still bewildered but trusting in their leader's wisdom, hesitantly extended their arrowheads toward the dancing flames. The moment arrow met fire, the fire spread along each shaft like liquid lightning, transforming ordinary projectiles into blazing missiles of supernatural power. Yet still, the warriors felt no heat, only a strange sense of righteous purpose.
King Éomer raised the Horn of Victory to his lips and blew a blast that seemed to shake the very foundations of Isengard. Every warrior who heard it felt their hearts swell with unbreakable determination, while across the battlefield, their enemies faltered as doubt and fear crept into their minds.
As if that horn blast had been a signal, ten thousand bows bent as one. Ten thousand blazing arrows took flight, streaking through the air like fallen stars returning to the heavens. The sight was breathtaking, a constellation of deadly light arcing through the darkened sky toward their monstrous foes.
'Gram', for all his immense power and ancient cunning, could not dismiss this display of coordinated magical warfare. His serpentine neck craned back as he assessed the approaching swarm of blazing projectiles, and for the first time since the battle began, genuine concern flickered in his primordial eyes.
The frost dragon's response was immediate and overwhelming. Drawing upon reserves of power that had been accumulating for millennia, he exhaled not mere cold, but the very essence of absolute zero, air so frigid it could extinguish volcanic eruptions and turn molten metal into brittle crystal.
The collision between fyendfire and primordial cold created a spectacle. Where 'Gram''s breath met the flaming arrows, reality itself seemed to strain under the contradiction. Steam billowed upward in massive clouds, ice crystals formed and shattered in the same instant, and the air itself crackled with competing energies.
For a moment that stretched like eternity, the two forces remained locked in perfect opposition, neither advancing nor retreating, neither conquering nor surrendering. Then, gradually, 'Gram''s sheer power began to tell. The volume of his breath attack was simply too great, the cold too absolute. One by one, the blazing arrows were overwhelmed and extinguished.
But while 'Gram' had been forced to commit his full attention to this defense, the other fell-beasts possessed no such supernatural protection. The arrows that escaped the frost dragon's breath found their marks with devastating effect.
The moment a blazing arrow struck corrupted flesh, the result was spectacular. The Blazing Fire spread across each fell-beast's form like oil meeting flame, but far more terrible. These were not natural fires that could be smothered or doused, they were magical flames that fed on the very essence of corruption itself.
One by one, the fell-beasts were transformed into shrieking meteors of blue-white fire. They thrashed and wheeled through the sky, their agonized cries echoing across the battlefield as they desperately sought relief that would never come. Some plunged toward the river Isen, hoping that water might quench the supernatural flames, but the Blazing Fire continued to burn even beneath the surface.
In minutes, what had been a formidable aerial force was reduced to falling embers. Even the fell-beasts that served as mounts for the Ringwraiths were not spared, the ancient kings found themselves forced to abandon their steeds as the creatures burned beneath them.
Meanwhile, Brog had found his rhythm with the Golden Bow. Each mithril arrow he drew sang through the air with perfect accuracy, guided by the bow's enchantment toward the most vulnerable points of their targets. When Ringwraiths attempted to intercept the arrows, the explosive runes Luke had inscribed detonated with tremendous force, sending even those ancient specters reeling.
But Brog's true skill showed when his arrows found their intended marks. Fell-beast eyes, wing joints, the base of necks, every shot was placed and landed true. The mithril points pierced even the toughest scales, and then the runic explosions completed their grisly work. Headless dragons tumbled from the sky one after another.
King Éomer continued his steady rhythm on the Horn of Victory, each blast sapping the enemy's will to fight while bolstering his own forces.
The White Wizard's pristine robes were now singed and dirty, his perfect appearance marred by the chaos of battle. Saruman had watched his carefully cultivated force of fell-beasts and dragons, creatures that had taken months to corrupt and train, reduced to ashes in a matter of minutes.
He raised his staff, calling upon the storm-power that was his birthright as one of the Istari, but Smaug gave him no opportunity to complete his devastating spells. The great dragon danced through the air just beyond the reach of Saruman's magic, breathing calculated gouts of flame that forced the wizard to maintain constant defensive measures.
Meanwhile, the incessant sound of the Horn of Victory created a maddening distraction that made complex spellcasting nearly impossible. And whenever Saruman did manage to begin weaving a particularly dangerous enchantment, one of Brog's mithril arrows would streak toward him, forcing him to break his concentration to avoid being blown apart.
"Enough of this farce!" Saruman snarled, his cultured voice finally cracking under the strain of frustration and fury.
It was then that 'Gram' made his decision. The frost dragon's eyes blazed with killing rage as he surveyed the destruction of his aerial forces. These mortals, these insignificant specks that he had dismissed as beneath notice, had dared to inflict serious casualties upon his army.
"Luke!"'Gram''s voice boomed across the battlefield with the authority of avalanches and breaking glaciers. "You treasure these mortal insects? Then watch as I crush them all beneath the weight of the sky!"
The frost dragon shot skyward with impossible speed, his massive form disappearing into the roiling storm clouds that perpetually shrouded Isengard's upper atmosphere. Luke watched with growing dread as those clouds began to churn and thicken, taking on an ominous quality that spoke of power being gathered far above.
The temperature plummeted even further as 'Gram' wove dragon-magic of terrible potency. This was not the quick, instinctive breath weapon he had used before, this was a carefully constructed working of ancient sorcery that drew upon the fundamental forces of winter itself.
The first warning came as a distant whistling sound, like the wind through mountain peaks. Then the sky began to fall.
Hailstones the size of boulders plummeted from the churning clouds above, each one carrying the impact force of a catapult stone. They struck the earth with tremendous crashes, carving craters in the frozen ground and shattering anything unfortunate enough to be in their path.
"Protego Maxima!"
Luke's voice cracked with strain as he threw every ounce of his magical strength into the most powerful protective charm he could manage. The barrier that materialized above his allies was like a giant umbrella made of crystallized light, but even this formidable defense groaned under the relentless bombardment.
Each impact sent ripples of force through the magical construct, and Luke felt every blow like a physical hammer striking his own body. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the supernatural cold as he poured more and more power into maintaining their protection.
Around them, the landscape was being systematically destroyed. Stone walls crumbled, ancient trees were smashed to splinters, and the very ground was scarred with impact craters. Even Luke's draconic allies, creatures of immense size and power, found themselves battered by the falling ice. Several of the smaller fire dragons had their wings broken or were knocked unconscious entirely.
The indiscriminate nature of the attack meant that Saruman and the surviving Ringwraiths were also forced to seek shelter, their own assault on Luke's forces temporarily abandoned as they focused on mere survival.
Only the Tower of Orthanc, that indestructible pillar of Númenórean architecture, remained unmarked by the devastation. Its black walls seemed to absorb the impacts without even quivering.
"Everyone!" Luke shouted over the thunderous chaos, "Get to the Tower! Orthanc will protect us!"
Led by their lord, the mortal warriors began a desperate sprint toward the only safe haven available. But as they ran, one of the Rohirrim happened to glance upward, and his face went white with terror.
"L-Look... above us!" the soldier stammered, his voice barely audible over the continuing bombardment.
Every eye turned skyward, and what they saw there defied rational comprehension. 'Gram' had emerged from the storm clouds, but clutched in his massive talons was something that should not have been possible to lift, a complete iceberg, torn from some northern glacier and transported here through dragon-magic.
The berg was the size of a small mountain, its crystalline surface gleaming with deadly beauty. Massive icicles hung from its fractured edges like the fangs of some prehistoric beast, and the very air around it shimmered with intense cold.
Even 'Gram''s tremendous strength was strained by the weight of his burden. His wings beat furiously to maintain altitude, and Luke could see the frost dragon's muscles bunching with the effort of keeping the colossal ice mass airborne.
A smile of pure malevolence spread across 'Gram''s reptilian features as he looked down upon the tiny figures scurrying below. Then, with deliberate ceremony, he opened his talons.
The iceberg fell from his grasp, the air screamed as it was torn apart by the massive projectile's passage, creating sonic booms that shattered what few windows had survived the hailstorm. If that mountain of ice struck the earth, it would not merely kill everyone at Isengard, it would erase them so completely that not even their names would survive in memory.
Saruman took one look at the falling berg and made the only rational decision available to him. "Madman!" he snarled, then threw himself onto his last surviving fell-beast and fled for the horizon, abandoning the battle entirely rather than face annihilation.
Luke stared up at the approaching doom. His evolved mind automatically calculated trajectories and impact forces, confirming what his heart already knew, no shield he could conjure would withstand such an impact for more than seconds.
The logical choice was obvious: Apparate away immediately, save himself to fight another day. But as he prepared to vanish, his gaze fell upon the faces surrounding him. Warriors who had followed him and have come to save him, who had chosen to stand against the darkness because they believed in him. Men who looked at him now not with blame for bringing this catastrophe upon them, but with hope that somehow, impossibly, he might yet save them all.
The Crown of Wisdom upon his brow began to spin with desperate speed, he began searching for any solution to their seemingly hopeless situation. And in that moment of perfect clarity, Luke made his choice.
He Apparated, but not away from the danger. Instead, he materialized high above the battlefield, standing upon Smaug's broad back as the great dragon hovered in the path of the falling iceberg.
"Master!" Smaug called out, his usual bravado replaced by genuine concern. "What are you, "
Luke raised his staff with both hands, feeling the ancient wood thrum with power as he channeled every scrap of magical energy he possessed. This would be the most powerful spell he had ever attempted, pushing his abilities far beyond their tested limits.
"Bombarda Maxima!"
The spell struck the bottom of the falling iceberg with perfect precision. For a heartbeat that lasted an eternity, there was only silence, the profound quiet that precedes catastrophic change.
Then the iceberg exploded.
The shockwave that followed was tremendous, a sphere of displaced air that swept outward in all directions. Storm clouds were torn apart and scattered, the very sky seeming to ring like a struck bell.
On the ground below, Luke's allies stared upward in wonder and disbelief. Their lord stood silhouetted against the clearing sky, staff still raised in triumph, having literally moved heaven and earth to preserve their lives.
A deafening roar split the heavens, a blinding nova of pure magical force that momentarily eclipsed the sun. Below, every eye, from the grimiest Dunland warrior to the noble Rohan rider, lifted in a shared moment of desperate hope. The explosion was so powerful it shook the very foundations of the earth, and for an instant, they believed.
But the hope was a fleeting dream. From the heart of the expanding cloud of light and dust, the monstrous iceberg reappeared, vast and terrifying. Luke's all-out attack, a last-ditch effort born of desperation, had only splintered the lower half. The explosive force had met a resilience forged by 'Gram''s ancient aura of extreme cold, making the ice impossibly solid.
The massive upper half, scarred but unbroken, paused for only a fleeting second before continuing its descent, a silent, world-ending projectile hurtling toward the heart of Isengard. On the ground, the collective despair was a tangible weight, crushing the spirit of every warrior who watched.
Upon Smaug's back, Luke refused to yield to the crushing inevitability. His mind raced, a blur of frantic incantations. "Cushioning Charm! Arresto Momentum! Protego Maxima! Invincibility Charm!…" His voice, strained and hoarse, unleashed a torrent of defensive spells, each one a whisper of resistance against the coming doom.
At the same time, he channeled the full, unbridled power of the Ring of Power. It was a searing torrent of magical energy that flowed through him, an almost unbearable pressure. With a guttural roar, he raised his hand, and from the ring, an unprecedentedly huge shield erupted, a shimmering dome of golden-white light that enveloped the Dunlending warriors, the Rohan riders, and every magical creature below, Sulond, Aslan the Gryphon, the three-headed wolf Cerberus, and the rest. In a single, final moment, every ounce of magical power stored within the Ring of Power was unleashed to maintain the barrier's integrity.
Luke, standing at the very apex of this shimmering shield, became the first point of contact, a solitary figure bearing the brunt of the apocalypse. Under his power, the iceberg's descent seemed to falter, its world-ending speed slightly checked.
But 'Gram', a black speck in the heavens, would not allow it. It swooped down like a ravenous god, continuously spewing a torrent of freezing air at the iceberg, accelerating its fall and adding to its already immeasurable weight. Luke's protective barriers, woven from pure magic, were shattered one after another, cracking and dissolving like fragile glass under a blacksmith's hammer.
As the iceberg slammed into the shield, ice shards swept across the land for several kilometers like a blizzard of razors. The air itself shrieked, instantly flash-freezing into a biting, razor-sharp mist filled with an endless cold. The violent, circular shockwave formed a cataclysmic storm, spreading outwards, scouring the distant mountains, and turning trees and boulders into splinters and dust.
Under the tremendous impact, Luke was thrown back, a raw groan ripped from his throat as a great shock passed through the barrier and into his bones. Beneath him, Smaug seemed burdened with a billion tons of weight. His massive wings, which had soared through storms, could no longer hold him.
He plunged from the sky, a meteor of scales and fire, plummeting with Luke toward the ground. The gigantic shield, under the horrific impact of the iceberg, began to fracture. Cracks spread across its surface like a shattered windshield, a dome of light severely deforming under the strain.
In the end, the shield could no longer withstand the strain and completely shattered in a blinding flash. The iceberg, its speed only slightly delayed, slammed into the ground, determined to level all of Isengard. The top of the Tower of Orthanc, a pillar of ancient stone, was the first to meet its fate.
The moment the iceberg touched it, the stone pillars crumbled to dust, the top of the tower collapsing in a cloud of shattered rubble. Ice shards and rock filled the sky, like a doomsday countdown. Sulond, Aslan the Gryphon, the hippogriffs, the fire dragons, and every other creature flying above let out cries of sorrow as they fell under the immense impact and pressure.
"Is today the end for us the Dunlendings?" Brog, the great leader of the Dunland, looked at the impending iceberg in a moment of utter despair, his mind flashing with a final, mournful thought. And King Sengel of Rohan, after his initial shock, found an unexpected calm. He looked at the Rohan soldiers he had brought with an apologetic expression, then looked back in the direction of his kingdom, his eyes filled with sorrow.
Just as everyone closed their eyes, awaiting death, a terrifying power suddenly burst forth from the back of the falling Smaug. Under the impact of that power, the entire world seemed to fall silent.
The warriors, who had closed their eyes to die, waited and waited, but death did not come. They reopened their eyes in disbelief. Then they stared, dumbfounded, at everything around them.
All things seemed to have lost their gravity. Ice shards and rubble floated in mid-air, slowly turning like a cosmic dance. The falling Great Eagles, fire dragons, hippogriffs, and others were all suspended in the sky, their wings frozen in mid-flap.
Even the gigantic iceberg, as if captured in amber, was suspended high in the air, its momentum vanished, having just grazed the top of Orthanc and smashed its four multifaceted stone pillars.
Everyone looked at what was happening before their eyes in disbelief. Then, as if on cue, they all noticed a huge, raging black energy mass above Smaug. It looked like a storm of black diamond dust, an unstable cloud of mist that emitted a terrifying aura of pure chaos and death.
The black mist continuously surged, floating in the air like an unstable mass of energy. It rapidly expanded, growing bigger and filled with immense destructive power. It rushed toward the iceberg above, not just with speed, but with an insatiable hunger.
Then it directly transformed into a black veil of mist, enveloping the titanic ice chunk and instantly tearing it into countless tiny fragments, turning it into a swirling sky of snow and dust. The iceberg wasn't just shattered; it was unmade.
'Gram' in the sky saw this scene, its pupils constricting. It looked at the black energy mass with an ancient suspicion and surprise. "Is it you, wizard!?" it hissed, its voice a grating growl of ice and stone.
The black energy mass did not answer. After shredding the iceberg, it turned directly into a black wind and rushed toward the dragon. 'Gram', without a second thought, spewed a gale of frigid air at the black wind.
But the black wind was incredibly fast and could even scatter like a cloud, dodging 'Gram''s cold attack. It rushed directly to 'Gram' and transformed into a black cloak-like shape, quickly wrapping around the dragon and wreaking havoc on its body.
The dragon's scales, as hard and black as ancient obsidian, cracked one by one under the black energy's powerful destructive force, each snap echoing across the battlefield. The dragon's skin was torn, and icy cold dragon blood, like shattered glass, flowed out.
'Gram' was in immense pain and enraged. It tried to tear the black energy mass from its body, but the black energy mass was like a cloud or quicksand, flowing through its huge talons without being harmed.
Out of desperation, 'Gram' decided to spew cold air at itself, hoping to freeze the black energy mass. This trick did have some effect, successfully freezing a portion of the black energy and forming chunks of black ice. But this still did not affect the black energy mass, as if losing that part did not stop it from continuing its destruction and movement.
In retaliation, the black energy mass quickly spread to the base of 'Gram''s wing, instantly tearing one of the dragon's wings from its root with a sickening, bone-snapping crunch. 'Gram' let out a miserable wail of pain, a sound that ripped from the very fabric of reality.
With one wing gone, it could no longer fly and plummeted from the sky, crashing heavily onto a hill between Isengard and Fangorn Forest. The mountain groaned and collapsed under its weight, a cascade of dirt and stone.
The fall from the sky did not kill 'Gram'. It climbed out of the huge pit and let out an angry, guttural roar. Hearing their lord's call, the Nazgûl quickly surrounded the black energy mass and attacked it. The black energy mass showed no fear, dividing into eight black tentacles to tangle with the Nazgûl. The Nazgûl' Morgul-blades, which could sever a soul, passed through it without causing any harm.
And at that moment, the sky suddenly changed color. A lightning bolt, summoned from a clear sky, without any warning, quickly struck down, landing directly on the black energy mass. The black energy mass shuddered and let out a terrifying, inhuman roar.
Then a pained human face emerged from the black mist of energy, it was Luke's face, contorted in agony. In the distance, on the back of his fell-beast, Saruman, who had summoned the lightning, now wore a triumphant, sinister grin on his face. "Hmph, boy, no matter what you do, you'll die today!"
At the same time, 'Gram' also spewed an aura of extreme cold at the black energy mass. The two attacks combined, a pincer of lightning and ice, determined to kill Luke. Under their joint assault, the black energy mass grew smaller, and Luke's face became more pained and weak, the agony etched into the swirling mist.
Just then, a loud horn blast, like a rising red sun or a spring thunderclap, rang out. Simultaneously, two mithril arrows, threads of purest starlight, were shot, one at Saruman and one at 'Gram'. It turned out that Brog, the leader of Dunland, and King Sengel of Rohan, seeing Luke in peril, had acted at the same time.
King Sengel forcefully blew the Horn of Victory. The sound of the horn struck the ears of 'Gram' and Saruman with a heavy blow and also revitalized the black energy mass that Luke had transformed into. And the two mithril arrows, while not successfully hitting their targets, did distract 'Gram' and Saruman. At the same time, countless arrows rained down on them.
This brief interruption gave the black energy mass a chance to breathe. It seized the opportunity to rush toward the fell-beast beneath Saruman, directly tearing and killing it. The fell-beast could not even make a sound before it fell with Saruman on its back.
The black energy mass did not bother with Saruman and instead rushed toward 'Gram', dodging another cold attack and climbing directly onto 'Gram''s head. It began to tear at the iron crown rooted on the dragon's head.
The iron crown seemed to have grown onto the dragon's skull, and as it was being torn away, the dragon let out a pained shriek filled with unimaginable fury. 'Gram' looked panicked and tried to violently shake off the black energy mass that was trying to pull off the iron crown.
But the black energy mass was like chewing gum that had stuck to it; no matter how much the dragon struggled, it clung tightly to the dragon's head, tearing at the iron crown. The Ringwraiths also surrounded them, trying to stop it.
Finally, with a roar of unwillingness from Gram that was more of a defeated sob than a battle cry, the iron crown was forcibly pulled from its head and fell to the ground, a crown of rust and malice. As the iron crown left Gram, the demonic aura in its eyes disappeared, and its mind gradually became clear.
The battlefield suddenly fell into an eerie silence. The Nazgûlwho had come to help seemed to hesitate, unsure whether to continue. It was then that Gram's eyes, no longer shadowed by darkness, filled with an endless rage and hatred that was purely his own. It roared, "Sauron, you vile and shameless wretch! A mere servant of my former master, yet you dare to humiliate me!"
"Revenge! I will have my revenge! I will turn Mordor into a glacier, and I will destroy everything of yours, Sauron!" Then, seeing the Ringwraiths in front of it, its rage turned to them. It immediately spewed an endless stream of cold air, a freezing maelstrom of death. The Ringwraiths were unprepared and were instantly frozen solid, their ethereal forms trapped in columns of black ice.
Only the Witch-king of Angmar, reacting with the speed of a serpent, managed to escape. The frozen Ringwraiths were then crushed by Gram's foot, their bodies dissolving into icy dust. At the same time, it looked at the iron crown that had controlled it and, in a fit of pure, unadulterated rage, stomped on it as well, crushing it into a useless lump of metal.
Gram's gaze then locked onto Saruman, who was scrambling to his feet. Old enemies meeting again, their eyes were red with fury, a bitter, icy fire in the dragon's eyes, a sickly green malevolence in the wizard's.
"You vile wizard! If you hadn't disturbed my slumber and poisoned me with Ungoliant's venom, I wouldn't have been reduced to a tool controlled by Sauron! And you dare to use my blood to create those filthy, lowly mongrels? I will make you pay the price!"
Gram's ancient hatred for Saruman was a cold, consuming fire, no less intense than his animosity toward Sauron. With a guttural roar that shook the air, the dragon lunged, a living mountain of scales and ice.
A torrent of extreme cold erupted from its maw, a blistering blizzard aimed at freezing the White Wizard solid, a slow, agonizing fate to vent centuries of pent-up rage.
Saruman, stripped of his mount and facing the raw fury of an ancient foe, could only desperately fight for his life on the ground. He held his staff, a single, brilliant point of light against the encroaching darkness and cold. A shimmering shield of magical light sprang forth, a desperate barrier as he shouted, "Dragon, we can talk!"
Gram's cold aura was blocked by the shield, but the biting frigidness still penetrated, covering Saruman's eyebrows and beard in an instant rime of frost and snow. Saruman tried to make peace, to talk his way out of a fate he knew was coming.
But Gram had no desire for negotiation; he only wanted to unleash his fury and hatred, a maelstrom of ancient pain. With a lunge, he snapped his immense jaws, trying to tear the wizard from his precarious shield.
Seeing Gram's madness, Saruman's expression turned grim, a mask of cold fury. With a flick of his staff, he released a colossal fireball directly into the dragon's gaping maw. The fierce collision of elemental ice and fire produced a blinding flash of light and a deafening explosion. A torrent of scorching steam and water vapor erupted from the dragon's mouth, completely clogging the ancient beast's throat and making him cough violently.
After getting the worst of it, Gram became even more enraged and continued to attack Saruman wildly, his claws scything through the air and his breath freezing the very ground. But Saruman was not to be outdone.
With a primal roar, he released a massive shockwave that sent the gigantic, mountain-sized Frost Dragon reeling back. He also summoned jagged bolts of lightning from the sky, a searing counterpoint to Gram's freezing aura. The two fought fiercely, and for a time, a stalemate existed, a perfect storm of opposing forces.
In the midst of the epic battle between the man and the dragon, the world itself groaned under the assault. Countless trees were splintered, ancient rocks were pulverized, and hills were leveled by the sheer aftershocks of their fight.
The wide, turbulent River Isen was flash-frozen into a sheet of solid ice by Gram's chilling aura. It was the hot season of early summer, but the landscape now felt like the North Pole in midwinter, with a howling blizzard and a biting cold that gnawed at the bone.
Faced with the infighting between Saruman and Gram, the Black Lands warriors, Rohan riders, Smaug, and all the others became utterly transfixed spectators. The black energy mass, like a formless mist, also converged and reformed, coalescing into Luke's human body.
Seeing Luke regain his form, Brog, the leader of the Black Lands, rode up to him, his expression a mix of awe and concern. "Lord Luke, are you alright?"
Luke smiled faintly, the physical strain not showing on his face. He shook his head. "I'm fine. I've even had some unexpected gains!"
As he willed it, the fingers of his hand gradually dematerialized, turning into a swirling black energy like mist. Seeing this, Brog, King Sengel, and the warriors around them all widened their eyes, watching the change with a sense of utter disbelief and awe. The black energy then flowed and solidified, reforming into his flesh and bone once more.
Luke's mouth curved upwards in a satisfied smirk. When he had faced this life-and-death situation, he had unexpectedly activated his Obscurial form, a magical transformation he hadn't known he was capable of, which allowed him to escape the crisis.
Back when he had signed in and obtained the Obscurial talent at the birthplace of humans, Hildorien, Luke had only felt his magic grow rapidly and noticed no other changes, so he had put the matter out of his mind.
He never expected that in such an extreme situation, he would successfully transform into an Obscurial. It was a chaotic, last-ditch effort, and it had worked.
According to the explanation in the magical world, an Obscurus is a dark magical force produced when a young wizard excessively represses their magic. It manifests as a formless black mist. A wizard possessed by an Obscurus is called an Obscurial. Almost all Obscurials live in the world of ordinary people.
They desperately try to suppress the magic within their bodies to avoid it being exposed, due to the rejection of magic by those around them and their own fear of it. As a result, the repressed magic eventually transforms into an extremely unstable and powerful dark magical force, the Obscurus.
The Obscurus not only causes severe damage to the surrounding environment and threatens the lives of those around it, but it also continuously erodes the life of the host. Therefore, most Obscurials rarely live past the age of ten. The magical world is thus very wary of the emergence of Obscurials.
However, Luke had a different perspective on the Obscurus. In his view, the Obscurus was more like a direction for a wizard to evolve to a higher level: the elementalization of the body. When he transformed into his Obscurial form, Luke could feel his body becoming a form of pure magical energy.
He had no physical form, so physical attacks were useless against him. Ordinary spells had little effect on him, and he could even survive fatal magical damage. Just like Credence, an Obscurial who lived to adulthood, even after causing massive destruction in New York and being attacked by numerous elite Aurors from the American magical ministry, he was still able to resurrect with just a remnant of his Obscurus energy. This shows how powerful an Obscurus is, even attracting the covetousness of the first Dark Lord, Grindelwald, who tried to control it.
However, there is a serious problem with Obscurials: their magic is extremely unstable. Once their emotions are stimulated, they lose their sanity and explode, causing indiscriminate attacks and destruction to their surroundings. At the same time, the Obscurus within them continuously erodes their bodies until their life force is exhausted and they die.
However, Luke found that after transforming into his Obscurial form, he did not lose his sanity, nor did his magic become unstable. Aside from the difficulty of controlling the massive magical energy, he was not out of control.
This was very different from the legends of Obscurials. Luke speculated that this must be determined by the Obscurial's own emotions. The Obscurials who had appeared in the magical world almost all lived in the world of Muggles.
In order to escape misfortune or due to abuse and imprisonment, they suppressed their magical power. Most were lonely, lacked love, were sensitive, and filled with negative emotions.
This is why the Obscurus within them was inclined to darkness and was uncontrollable. Therefore, the Obscurus itself has no attribute; it is determined by the Obscurial's own personality, emotions, and other factors.
As for the reason why most Obscurials do not live past the age of ten, Luke guessed that it was because the wizard's body could not bear the power of the Obscurus, which eventually led to the collapse of the body.
The Obscurus is more like a form of energy that has undergone a qualitative change in magic. Most wizards do not develop an Obscurus because young wizards often have magical outbursts, which vent the magic inside their bodies. This is especially true for young wizards living in the magical world, who have tools like wands and toys to manage the magic within their bodies, as well as potions like Magic Stabilizers to ease magical outbursts.
Therefore, it is almost impossible for an Obscurial to appear. Those who do become Obscurials are in an environment that is not friendly to magical phenomena, so they can only desperately suppress the magic inside their bodies and prevent it from erupting. Over time, the magic inside their bodies accumulates more and more, eventually undergoing a qualitative change, creating the magical force known as the Obscurus.
As the Obscurial gets older, the Obscurus within them becomes more powerful. But the Obscurial's own body is fragile and cannot bear the power of the Obscurus, becoming increasingly weak. This is like blowing up a balloon. When the Obscurus becomes stronger and stronger, it eventually reaches a critical point where it bursts the "balloon," directly killing the Obscurial.
Luke, however, did not have this feeling because his body, nourished by the Ent drink, already had the same physical quality as an elf. And in the process of refining the Philosopher's Stone, he had further completed the transformation of his body.
Therefore, the Obscurus inside him was now within his tolerance range and did not cause him any harm. In addition, Luke had a magical artifact like the Golden Cup, which could continuously nourish his body. His physical quality would also become stronger and stronger, so there was no need to worry that the Obscurus inside him would pose a threat in the short term.
Of course, the premise is that he does not overuse the Obscurial form. The longer the Obscurial form is maintained, the more the power of the Obscurus will erode the body, until his body can no longer bear it.
Therefore, Luke cannot do whatever he wants and maintain the Obscurial form for as long as he wants. But the existence of the Obscurial form has also brought about a dramatic change in Luke's strength.
On another note, Luke looked at the scene of the fierce battle between Gram and Saruman, especially the latter's desperate state, and couldn't help but feel a sense of schadenfreude. Gram, worthy of being an ancient dragon who survived the first age, was incredibly powerful.
Even after Luke transformed into his Obscurial form, he only managed to break one of its wings and did not inflict any fatal damage. And now, facing Saruman, he was able to use his massive, thousand-meter-long body to put physical pressure on him. Not to mention, he could also spew a terrifying cold aura, which could freeze magical power and even extinguish fiendfyre. The fireballs and lightning that Saruman released could be directly frozen by Gram, which was incredibly powerful.
Saruman, who was currently at a disadvantage, was not actually unable to deal with Gram. He was just wary of the watching Luke and was diverting half of his energy to guard against a sneak attack.
Saruman now had the idea of retreating. He knew that this mission could be considered a failure. All of the fell-beasts he had cultivated were lost, Gram had escaped Sauron's control, and the Ringwraiths had been sent back to Sauron's lair.
He alone could not retake Isengard. But Gram was biting at him like a madman, and there was a watchful Luke on the side. Saruman was temporarily on the defensive.
Indeed, when Saruman once again cast a light shield to block Gram's cold attack, Luke Apparated behind him in a flash of black mist and instantly cast a spell.
"Avada Kedavra!" Saruman was already on guard against the Killing Curse shot from behind. With a frantic wave of his hand, he used a piece of ice frozen by Gram's cold air to block it.
The curse hit the ice with a sickening green glow and harmlessly disintegrated. Faced with the pincer attack from Gram and Luke, Saruman's expression was grim and serious. He gave Luke a deep, burning look, then chanted a spell, summoning a fierce wind.
The wind grew stronger and stronger, forming a roaring tornado that raged on the ground, sucking up countless rocks, ice shards, and trees. Luke was wary, thinking that Saruman wanted to use the tornado to attack.
But he never expected that in the next second, Saruman would walk into the tornado himself and be swept up into the sky. Without giving Luke a chance to intercept him, the tornado quickly took Saruman eastward, leaving only Luke and Gram behind.
Seeing his enemy, Saruman, escape, Gram roared in anger, a sound of frustration and rage, and tried to spread its wings to give chase. But it quickly realized that one of its wings was broken, a bloody, tattered mess hanging at its side. Gram then stared at Luke menacingly.
"Even though you helped me get rid of Sauron's control, you made me lose the ability to fly. You will die anyway!" With that, it spewed a blast of cold air at Luke.
(T/N : Please point out mistakes. I noticed I had Theoden and Faramir as characters by mistake in the last 12 chapter release, I also still don't know if Gram is an OC because he's not in the wiki)