"Does that mean he's invincible?" Erwin asked.
Ravenclaw replied in his mind, "No, no matter the power, it needs fuel. The Power of Death is formidable, but it consumes resources. Just like my Astral Magic, which draws from the stars—it's potent but finite. The same applies here. Your opponent can't wield much of it, and he'll pay dearly for trying. Handling forces beyond your level isn't simple."
Erwin glanced at Soren. The man's face had gone ashen, confirming her words.
"Now," Ravenclaw continued, "to win, you have two paths. First, keep pressing until you've drained every bit of his Power of Death—then it'll fizzle out. Second, I lend you some Astral Magic. But it's mine, so you'll only borrow it briefly. Daytime weakens the stars; you get one shot. Make it count."
Erwin nodded. "Your Majesty, lend me your power when the moment's right."
"Choose wisely," she warned. "Too much, and it'll overwhelm you."
Their exchange via thoughts took mere seconds.
Black mist coiled around Soren like a living ribbon. His eyes gleamed with a reddish hue.
"Erwin Cavendish, you've pushed me too far," Soren snarled. "Your reserves must be thinning. My turn now."
Erwin smirked. "This is just warming up."
He channeled his magic. Arcane had faded, but he still had plenty left. He unleashed another barrage of Killing Curses—high-impact, low-cost, lightning-fast. No wonder You-Know-Who favored them.
But without Arcane, his rhythm slowed. Each curse demanded a mental recalibration of his magic, costing precious fractions of a second. It was like a cooldown; effective, but not relentless.
Purple beams lanced through the sky once more. Soren's eyes widened. He hadn't anticipated another round so soon. No time for counters—the curses could arc unpredictably.
Instead, he slammed his wand down. Chunks of rubble levitated, forming a crude barrier around him. The spells slammed into stone, deflected harmlessly.
Erwin's eyes lit up. Ravenclaw was spot on: raw power, but at a steep cost. Soren had been rushed before, forced into desperate defense. Now, with breathing room, he could improvise.
Erwin's year at Hogwarts—and endless private lessons—had honed his edge. He'd watched the Heads of House duel Voldemort; blind charges were a thing of the past.
He flicked his wand. Soren's stones morphed into a flock of stone birds, screeching toward him. A Transfiguration trick straight from Professor McGonagall's playbook.
Soren yelped, conjuring a Protego shield. The birds shattered against it, harmless.
Erwin pressed on, firing more purple curses. Soren summoned fresh stones, but Erwin was faster—another wave of Transfiguration turned them into snarling stone beasts mid-air, lunging at their summoner.
The curses closed in. Soren had no choice. Black mist surged anew, shrouding him. Each impact dimmed it slightly, sapping his magic in waves.
Erwin tapped his reserve magical source, while enchanted crystals materialized in his free hand. He siphoned their energy, flooding his veins. Magic replenished in a rush.
They were deadlocked in a brutal exchange. Erwin's assault hammered on; the mist guzzled Power of Death.
Inside the shroud, Soren paled further, eyes bloodshot. This couldn't last. Either the curses would break through, or the power would consume him from within. Even Erwin's sliver of Death's essence—gifted by the magical voice—had nearly broken him. Soren was channeling far more, raw and unchecked.
Desperation flickered. He commanded the dragon at his feet. It beat its leathery wings, lunging with jaws agape, belching a torrent of dragonfire at Erwin.
Erwin Apparated aside in a swirl, evading the blaze.
Soren raised his wand for the kill.
But Erwin's voice rang out: "Fiendfyre Dragon, clear the way!"
The flames didn't dissipate. They twisted mid-air, reversing course and forging into a roaring Fiendfyre serpent that barreled toward Soren's unguarded flank.
The real dragon wheeled to evade, wings straining.
Then—a piercing cry split the air. A phoenix, Fawkes' spitting image, materialized in a burst of flame. Its talons slashed for the dragon's eyes.
In the tower, Grindelwald's face twisted. "Fawkes?" He shook his head—no, Dumbledore's absence ruled that out. His gaze shifted skyward to Erwin, suspicion brewing. Another phoenix in this world?
It was Ebony, Erwin's secret weapon. From the battle's outset, he'd kept the phoenix close, biding time.
The dragon recoiled, panic flashing in its massive eyes as claws neared its vulnerable gaze. Soren hadn't seen this coming. He brandished his wand, but purple curses streaked in, forcing him to defend.
Ebony dove, a streak of fire and fury, turning the tide in an instant.
...
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