Year One — Chapter 3: First Duel of Wills
Durmstrang did not coddle its students. On the third week of Ivar's first year, the instructors gathered the newcomers into the training yard — a wide ring of packed snow that glittered beneath torchlight. The older students lined the edges, hungry for spectacle.
"Duels," announced Professor Makarov, his voice carrying like an axe across the circle. "We find the weak quickly. Better here than when death watches."
The words were not metaphor. The carved walls of the yard bore names and runes of students who had not lived to graduate.
Ivar stepped forward when called, his green eyes calm, his posture loose but deliberate. He wore no arrogance, only intent.
His opponent: a fourth-year boy named Viktor Roskov, broad-shouldered and smug, already notorious for tormenting first-years. He sneered when he saw Ivar — the English boy, the Malfoy.
"Try not to faint," Roskov jeered, his Russian accent thick as smoke. "Your kind prefer tea to combat."
Ivar tilted his head. "My kind prefers results." He said it in flawless Russian. Then in French. Then in German. The older students murmured, some laughing. Roskov's smirk faltered.
---
The Duel
The circle lit with runes at the professor's command. Wands raised.
"Begin!"
Roskov struck first, a Confringo curse hot and fast. Ivar didn't block. He angled. A flick of battle transfiguration turned a shard of ice into a reflective plane. The curse ricocheted, searing a nearby target dummy. Gasps followed.
"Too slow," Ivar said, in Parseltongue this time, a hiss that made the crowd shiver.
Roskov snarled and lashed a chain of curses: Stunners, a Blasting Hex, a bone-breaking jinx. Ivar flowed through them, shield charms unfolding like glass petals, each cast silently. His wand moved with precision, not flourish.
Then he countered. A whip of green-black fire — hellfire, threaded through a simple lash charm — snapped across the snow. It did not touch Roskov, but the heat singed his coat and scorched the packed ice at his feet. The smell of brimstone rose.
Roskov stumbled back, fear breaking through his bravado. "What—what magic is that?"
"Mine," Ivar said simply.
He ended the duel not with fire, but with elegance: a disarming charm wrapped in a binding hex, snapping Roskov's wand from his hand and tangling his arms in one seamless strike. The older boy fell hard into the snow, beaten and humiliated.
The circle's runes flared green. Victory.
---
Aftermath
The yard was silent for three breaths. Then whispers spread like wildfire.
"The Black heir—"
"Hellfire—did you see—"
"Spoke Russian—French—what else does he know?"
Professor Makarov's eyes narrowed, studying him. Then, a single nod. "Competent."
In Durmstrang, that was as high as praise ever came.
---
That Night
In the dorms, Jannik — the straw-haired boy from before — leaned against Ivar's bunk. "Roskov won't forget. He'll come back for you."
"I expect he will," Ivar replied, calmly folding parchment. "The question is whether he'll improve before then."
Jannik barked a laugh. "Saints, you're colder than the fjords. I think I like it."
Klara, the scar-knuckled girl, dropped onto a bench nearby. "You frightened half the yard with that fire."
"Good," Ivar said. "Better they learn now than later."
When the dorm fell quiet, he lit a small circle in candle flame and whispered again in Parseltongue, testing the resonance of his wand. The elderwood glowed faintly in his grip, and for a moment he thought he felt something else — not just fire, but wings in the dark, the memory of death's passage.
He closed the ritual softly, careful not to draw more than he had given. Rule one, always.
---
Durmstrang had tested him. He had answered.
Not with noise. With inevitability.
---
⚡ End of Chapter 3
Do you want Chapter 4 to expand on Ivar's growing reputation at Durmstrang — his allies, rivals, and professors noticing his ritual talent — or shift focus to his first private ritual attempt to deepen the Helheim bloodline's power?