The dragon landed atop the city wall, its broad wings drooping low enough to brush the ground. Its grim, towering head was on par with the gatehouse watchtower. Every phrase of Dragon Tongue that rolled from its maw triggered a magical effect.
"Dovahkiin—the Dragonborn!"
It hadn't come to plunder food, nor to enslave living things. It had come to challenge the Dragonborn. A Dragonborn was a humanoid dragon, kin in the eyes of dragons themselves—and dragon disputes always ended with one crushing the other.
In this age, Alduin, leader of the dragonflight, had returned. His order to his followers was simple: kill the Dragonborn. And none of the dragons dared disobey Alduin's command.
The Dragonborn really was in Winterhold. He'd been a guest of the College for quite some time.
He was a sturdy, blond Nord man with a handsome, square-jawed face. When asked his name, he said he didn't know, so everyone just called him the Dragonborn. The moment Skyl saw him, he thought of that default face you get in the original The Elder Scrolls V opening character creator.
The Dragonborn wore a mishmash set of armor—like one of those gamers who chased stats and didn't care what it looked like. At a glance, it was a gaudy riot of colors, almost painful to look at. He didn't care in the slightest.
The instant he heard the dragon calling out, the Dragonborn stepped forward. He gripped two longswords—a very standard dual-wield warrior—and looked ready to go up there and throw down with a dragon.
"Wait." Brelyna hurriedly stopped him. "Don't fight inside the city. You'll damage public property. Let us handle it."
She ordered the mages around her, "Everyone, take to the air. Lure it out of town."
Skyl asked the Dragonborn, "You learn the flight spell yet?"
"Of course." The Dragonborn nodded confidently, cast flight on himself, and immediately rose off the ground.
"Good. Let's go slaughter that blind, arrogant dragon." Skyl dipped his chin, then glanced at Dumbledore. The old man Apparated once and was already standing on a rooftop.
A mage's high mobility was the key to why they could crush melee fighters.
Wizards in the Harry Potter world often used Apparition—teleportation magic—absurdly convenient. A skilled wizard could be everywhere and nowhere; before a fight even began, they were already standing on unshakable ground.
Of course, Apparition wasn't perfect. First, it demanded intense focus; get distracted and you risk "splinching," leaving part of your body behind. Second, it could be blocked by space-sealing magic—Hogwarts didn't allow Apparition for a reason.
Skyl had both flight and Apparition—two efficient movement spells—and that was the backbone of his confidence in battle. A magic shield alone wasn't always reliable; a sudden heavy impact could crack it if you weren't careful. This body of his wasn't Superman's steel—getting hurt actually hurt.
The mages all rose into the sky.
Kliman stood on the ground and shouted, "Mage Brelyna, any orders?!"
"Protect the civilians."
Kliman shrugged. That was the guard's job. Beside him was a tall Nord woman—the Dragonborn's guard—from Whiterun Hold: Lydia. She sprinted toward the battlements, chasing after the Dragonborn's path, and charged straight at the dragon's position without a moment's hesitation.
"Brave Nord blood, too." Kliman sighed enviously. "Shame I've got duties—I can't go fight a dragon." Then his tone hardened, and he ordered Winterhold's guards to push back and evacuate the citizens near the walls.
The dragon's roar on the ramparts stirred up terror in many refugees—memories of watching a dragon circle overhead, then dive and breathe, destroying an entire street in one pass. A sweep of its long tail could smash through stone walls. A beat of its wings could whip up a gale strong enough to toss cattle and sheep into the air.
A real dragon was absolutely not the kind of weakling you fought in a game. They didn't willingly land to brawl on the ground. Even if one stood perfectly still and let you hack at it, breaking through that resilient dragonhide wasn't something ordinary weapons could manage. And any magical effects were largely negated by dragon scales, which made casters grind their teeth.
Every dragon was a fragment of the Dragon God. Their language resonated with the Earthbones—the laws of Nirn—power that made words become reality. With Dragon Shouts, they could spew annihilating flame, frost, and lightning, or lace their prey with curses. Ancient, powerful dragons could call storms, thunderbolts, meteors—could even slow time.
Against an enemy like that—
Skyl raised a hand and fired off [Langlock], a delightful little jinx from the Harry Potter world—entry-level magic that plenty of younger students could manage.
The dragon's jaws snapped shut at once, clamped tight, unable to form a single sound. A dragon without magic was nothing more than a powerful beast. Dragons had extremely high resistance to abnormal conditions, and [Langlock] couldn't bind its tongue for long. Almost immediately, it launched into the air, trying to flee the battlefield—exactly what everyone wanted.
"After it!"
"Bury it in Winterhold Hold!"
Out beyond the city, among the rolling mountain range, the mages pursued the dragon like dragonflies chasing a bird. Bolts of lightning, spears of ice, and fireballs streaked after it, but most were dodged with uncanny agility. If you didn't see it with your own eyes, it would be hard to believe such a massive creature could move so lightly through the air.
The dragon displayed superb aerial combat skill—diving, looping, using mountain peaks as cover. It shook the mages off quickly; a moment of inattention and you'd lose sight of it, and everyone would be spinning around, disoriented.
"Climb higher," Brelyna ordered the mages keeping pace with her. "It won't escape. Mage Skyl and the Dragonborn have it locked."
Dumbledore flickered into view on a mountain peak. The old wizard carried himself with calm composure. He'd also realized how troublesome the dragon was and immediately claimed the high ground. On a towering mountain with an excellent view, Dumbledore stood atop the white snow and looked down. In a narrow cleft between the mountains to the northeast, chaotic magical effects were erupting.
He was about to Apparate again to continue the pursuit when a woman's voice called out behind him, stopping him.
Dumbledore turned. The woman who'd hailed him was a Dark Elf priestess, standing before the magnificent statue of Azura (a Daedric Prince), calling out at full voice.
With the language barrier, the two couldn't establish any direct communication.
Dumbledore unhurriedly took out his phone, opened an automatic translation app, and asked, "What is it, ma'am?"
The phone converted her speech on-screen: "Traveler from another world, if you have a moment, please allow me to introduce to you the great Daedric Lord, Azura…"
Dumbledore's heart sank. Oh no—he'd run into a missionary.
At the same time, in the mountain pass several miles away, the dragon tore free of the binding of Langlock. It drew in its wings, flipped its body sharply, faced the sky, and rapidly chanted three segments of Dragon Tongue—then blasted an arctic stream of frost at Skyl and the Dragonborn as they closed in.
The freezing breath surged straight upward, spreading like a pale, ominous cloud. Frozen vapor poured down between the mountains as a sudden blizzard.
Skyl seized the Dragonborn beside him and Apparated onto the dragon's spine, completely slipping the dragonbreath's trajectory.
"Playtime ends here." The High Tower Eye pinned to Skyl's chest erupted with brilliant light, and violent magical energy gathered into his hands.
[Supreme Spell · Thunderbolt]
A blazing blue bolt split the heavens like a branching spear of lightning. A vast flood of pure magical power poured into it, giving a simple lightning strike the grandeur of master-level Destruction magic. Even dragonhide magic resistance couldn't fully withstand it. The current surged into the dragon's body, rapidly collapsing tough muscle and neural tissue. The sheer discharge even made the dragon's body turn half-transparent.
"Roaaar—!" The dragon screamed in agony.
"Watch out!"
The Dragonborn threw himself at Skyl and slammed him aside. At that moment, the long dragon tail whipping in from behind kicked up a gale and struck the Dragonborn like a ball being swatted away. The Nord man crashed into the mountainside with a thunderous boom, shattering ancient rock strata and embedding into the cliff face—his fate unknown in the rolling dust.
A last desperate strike, wrung from its remaining strength—yet it hit the Dragonborn all the same. The attacking dragon lost power and plummeted downward, smashing into the slope. Its majestic body tumbled again and again as it rolled toward the foot of the mountain.
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