The Throne of the Last Guardian
Einar sat patiently in his office, his gaze lost in the void. His eyes, still and serene, concealed a vast abyss of memories. For a moment, his mind drifted back to that one battle… the last time he truly felt his blood burn.
Miraak.
The First Dragonborn.
Immortal. Relentless.
For twenty days and twenty nights, they fought without rest. Even though time didn't flow normally in Apocrypha, both of them were certain that was the approximate duration.
Their war cries echoed through the dark realm as their Thu'um shattered the air and their blades clashed with fury. Amid the chaos, Einar felt more alive than ever before.
Finally, a worthy rival.
He remembered how Miraak, before being impaled by Hermaeus Mora's betrayal, handed over his mask and weapons—a final gesture of respect—just before being consumed by a blast of dark power.
Since then, everything had been... too peaceful.
Almost disappointing.
At one point, Einar had even considered confronting one of the Daedric Princes, just to feel that fire again. But even that idea faded in the face of reality: in this new world, his power was simply too destructive.
No battle had ever forced him to unleash more than a fraction of it.
Sure, some fights had been amusing—a fleeting form of entertainment. But nothing more.
Still… teaching.
Training the next generation…
Maybe that was what he needed.
Maybe that's why Akatosh—his father—sent him here.
And now, sitting in silence, he could feel it.
War was approaching.
Even so, he remained calm.
After all, his students were ready.
They had been trained by him.
A faint smile tugged at his lips as he looked toward one of the walls, as if seeing beyond the stone. Slowly, he rose to his feet.
He no longer wore one of the Dragon Priest masks. He had stopped using them long ago. Perhaps at the very moment he accepted who he truly was.
With each step, his cloak billowed softly, as if the very wind honored his presence.
Down the halls, the returning students—now reunited with their families—watched him with admiration and relief. Hogwarts had become a bastion of defense. The ancient school still had room to protect those in need.
Many parents had once doubted their children's warnings…
Until the wizarding village was destroyed by a horde of undead.
A dark act, likely the work of a mage who had mastered death itself, with one purpose: to bring Voldemort back.
It was still unconfirmed whether the Dark Lord had returned, but everyone knew one thing:
Einar was here.
And as long as he stood guard… Hogwarts would not fall.
He kept walking, silent and composed.
And then, from the deepest shadows of the forest, creatures began to emerge. They were not enemies, but ancient presences tied to this world—beasts that didn't truly belong here, yet were somehow connected to Einar. Reflections of his very essence.
When he stepped through the castle's main gates, the air seemed to hold its breath.
From the shadows, Dren appeared.
Upon his shoulders, he carried a colossal throne—forged from the molten weapons of Einar's defeated enemies. The backrest was covered in the hardened hides of the fiercest beasts he had slain.
Einar sat calmly, as if the land belonged to him.
As if he were the Jarl of this domain.
And then… the skies roared.
Dragons soared across the heavens in a majestic uproar. They landed on the towers and rooftops of Hogwarts, encircling the castle like winged sentinels. Among them, one descended with solemn grace, landing by Einar's side: a massive red titan, the largest of them all.
Odahviing.
Together, they stood as the final line of defense.
Einar looked toward the horizon.
A faint, mocking smile crossed his lips.
A warning.
To anyone foolish enough to attack Hogwarts...
He took a deep breath.
And then, in a firm voice that once shook mountains, he unleashed the words:
"FUS... RO... DAH."
Everything before him was obliterated. Trees, rocks, structures—nothing remained. The path ahead was cleared, as if the gods themselves had stepped aside.
The entrance stood open.
And those who dared walk through it…
would perish.
…
Meanwhile…
In the outskirts of the forest, the shadows trembled.
Death Eaters.
Dark wizards.
Werewolves.
Vampires.
And among them… Voldemort.
All of them watched in silence as the storm of power unfolded.
A cold shiver ran down their spines.
Approaching Hogwarts…
was no longer a plan.
It was a death sentence.
"What should we do, my lord?" asked a Death Eater nervously.
Voldemort closed his eyes for a brief moment, hand over his chest, remembering the time when Einar had struck him so hard it cost him one of his lives.
"We attack the Ministry first," he finally said, bitterness in his voice.
At his side, another man grinned with madness—his body scarred, his eyes burning with the thirst for battle.
His name was Herpo.
The creator of the Horcruxes.
The First Madman.
A wizard who had long since stopped feeling anything…
Until now.
Because now, he had seen Einar.
And Herpo needed to fight him.
Even if it meant his own death.
"Let's go," Voldemort commanded, beginning the march.
Herpo followed…
for now.
He wanted to savor every moment.
To see what war would bring.
Because ever since they arrived, Einar had sensed them all.
Every dark soul.
Every murderous intent.
And he hadn't destroyed them.
Not yet.
Because Hogwarts needed change.
Because its current rulers were incompetent.
Because his students would build something better.
And sometimes… growth demands fire.
Einar would protect the innocent.
Those who did not wish to fight.
But to the fools who did…
All that awaited them was the roar of a god.
…
Author's Note:
Sorry, I know this chapter was shorter than usual. Compared to the others, it feels a bit brief—but I ran out of time and wanted to make sure it was posted on this exact day.
Don't worry: as an apology, I promise the next one will be much longer than normal.