Chapter 8: Weaving the Doom Net
Fifteen years. A decade and a half until Valyria would be consumed. Aerion, now twenty-five, felt the temporal vise tighten, each passing day a grain of sand slipping through the hourglass of the Freehold's existence. The vision of the Long Night, a chilling counterpoint to Valyria's fiery end, lent a desperate urgency to his machinations. He was no longer merely securing a future for his lineage; he was, however reluctantly, preparing a bastion against a far greater, colder oblivion.
The time had come for one of his most audacious and perilous undertakings: the placement of the runic anchors for his spiritual accumulator. These spires of Umbral Steel and obsidian, each a complex nexus of enchantments designed to channel the cataclysmic release of soul-energy into his Philosopher's Stone, needed to be strategically positioned throughout the Valyrian peninsula, particularly near the Fourteen Flames and other major geothermal vents that would become epicenters of the Doom.
This was not a task for constructs or intermediaries. It required his personal touch, his mastery of stealth, and the unique capabilities of his dragons. For weeks, he meticulously planned each placement, using his warged eagles and Glacies's unparalleled ability to sense magical currents and geological stresses to identify the precise locations. He mapped magical blind spots, patrol routes of other Dragonlords (who were increasingly erratic and aggressive in their territoriality), and ancient, forgotten tunnels beneath the city that only his research had uncovered.
His first target was a lesser vent near the volatile Mount Gelaerys, one of the southern peaks of the Fourteen Flames. Under the cloak of a magically enhanced thunderstorm he'd subtly nudged into existence, Aerion, clad in his light-absorbing Umbral Steel armor and shielded by the Cloak of Invisibility, rode Umbrax. The shadow dragon, his scales like a patch of night sky, moved with liquid silence through the storm-lashed darkness, his senses, augmented by Aerion's warging link, piercing the gloom.
They landed in a desolate, ash-strewn valley, the ground trembling beneath them. Aerion dismounted, the first obsidian anchor already levitating beside him, humming with contained power. With the Elder Wand, he carved a precise cylindrical hole deep into the volcanic rock, the spells silent, leaving no trace of disturbance. Then, guiding the anchor with telekinesis, he slid it into the earth, driving it down until only its topmost runic capstone was flush with the ground, which he then disguised with illusionary rock and ash. As he completed the binding ritual, linking the anchor to the ambient geothermal energy and the conceptual framework of his accumulator matrix, he felt a subtle thrum, a resonance. The first node of his Doom Net was active.
Over the next few months, this clandestine operation was repeated a dozen times. Each placement was a razor's edge of risk. Once, while planting an anchor near the ruins of an ancient, pre-Valyrian temple on the coast, he and Veridian (chosen for her speed and ability to manipulate sea mists for cover) were nearly discovered by a hunting party from House Belaerys, their dragons sweeping unexpectedly low. Only Veridian's swift dive into a narrow, wave-lashed ravine and Aerion's rapid deployment of powerful confusion charms on the riders saved them from detection.
Another time, deep within a lava tube network beneath the city of Oros, where he intended to place an anchor that would tap into the very heart of its volcanic furnace, he encountered unexpected wards – ancient, potent, and decidedly not Valyrian in origin, perhaps remnants of the very beings the Valyrians had enslaved or destroyed to claim the land. Glacies, his sapphire eyes glowing intensely in the oppressive heat, was instrumental here. The ice dragon could 'see' the ward's structure, its 'cold' points of weakness. Aerion, guided by Glacies's unique perception, meticulously unwove the ancient enchantments rather than break them, a process that took hours of intense magical concentration, the Elder Wand a precise scalpel in his hand. The anchor was planted, and the ancient ward, slightly modified, was then rewoven to incorporate his device, making it even more undetectable.
The most dangerous placement was an anchor intended for the caldera of Valyria, the largest of the Fourteen Flames, the symbolic and actual heart of the Freehold's power. This was the domain of the most powerful Dragonlord families, patrolled relentlessly. For this, he chose Glacies, not just for his silent flight and cold aura which was less likely to trigger fire-aspected Valyrian wards, but also for his unnerving ability to project an aura of profound stillness and emptiness, a natural cloaking field that seemed to make reality itself slide past him.
Under the oppressive heat haze of the great caldera, with dragons wheeling far above like distant vultures, Aerion, riding Glacies, descended like a phantom. He worked with frantic speed, the Elder Wand a blur, driving the anchor deep into a fissure near the molten heart of the volcano. The sheer magical pressure here was immense, and he felt the anchor resonate powerfully, almost painfully, as it locked into the planet's fiery pulse. As they ascended, a gout of lava erupted unexpectedly nearby, and for a terrifying moment, Aerion thought they were discovered. But it was merely the volcano's restless stirring. They slipped away, unseen, unheard, leaving behind another silent sentinel awaiting the cataclysm.
While this grim work progressed in Valyria, Aerion also oversaw a significant milestone on Skagos. His animated constructs, directed by his warging and occasional, brief portkey visits, had completed the primary excavation of his mountain stronghold. He named it 'Winterspire,' for its intended resilience against the prophesied Long Night and its soaring, hidden towers. Now, it was time to activate its core magical defenses and power systems.
He made one such carefully planned visit, taking not Glacies this time, but Umbrax, whose ability to navigate tight, dark spaces was useful for inspecting the newly carved tunnel network. The portkey shimmered, and they stepped out into the crisp, frigid air of Winterspire's main hall. The constructs stood silent along the walls, their task of basic excavation done. The air hummed with latent magic from the wards he had previously laid.
Aerion moved to the heart of the fortress, a vast geothermal chamber where he had instructed the constructs to bore deep into the island's crust, tapping into a stable volcanic vent he had identified. Here, he had designed a unique power core – not reliant on Valyrian blood magic, but on a fusion of elemental binding and Flamel's advanced alchemy. Using the Elder Wand, he initiated a complex ritual, drawing raw geothermal energy, filtering it through massive crystals he had grown and shaped using Harry Potter world magic, and binding it to a series of Umbral Steel regulators. With a final surge of power, the core ignited, not with fire, but with a steady, cool blue-white luminescence, casting intricate patterns on the chamber walls. Winterspire now had its own self-sustaining, virtually inexhaustible power source, independent of any external Valyrian or even conventional magical fuel. This would power its internal lights, climate controls, defensive systems, and future laboratories. It was a marvel of magical engineering, a testament to his unique synthesis of knowledge.
His seven dragons continued to thrive in their hidden Valyrian lair, which was now a sprawling subterranean complex. Ignis Regis and Caelus were young adults, their power formidable. Marina, the sapphire water dragon, had developed an astonishing control over liquids, able to shape water into hardened shields or whip-like tendrils, and even exhibited a rudimentary ability to communicate empathically over short distances, her thoughts like cool currents in Aerion's mind. Terrax, the bronze earth dragon, was a walking bulwark, his hide incredibly thick, his strength prodigious. He had even learned to cause localized tremors by stomping his great feet, a useful offensive and defensive capability. Glacies remained Aerion's most unique asset, his cryomantic abilities growing in sophistication, his sensory perception of magic becoming almost clairvoyant. Managing their feeding and the sheer space they required was a constant challenge, met with increasingly complex magical solutions – expanded caverns transfigured to mimic their ideal habitats, magically sustained food chains, and powerful sanitation spells.
Aerion had also begun to use his Umbral Steel for more than just anchors and structural components. He forged himself a new sword – a long, elegant blade with a subtle, smoky hue, incredibly light yet preternaturally sharp. He quenched it not in water, but in a mixture of dragon's blood (willingly given by Veridian) and his own, then imbued it with runes of severing, deflection, and loyalty, making it an extension of his will, almost as responsive as the Elder Wand. He named it 'Animus,' for the soul-force he felt it contained. It was a weapon no Valyrian smith could have conceived.
The political situation in Valyria continued its predictable, bloody decline. A plague, born of the unsanitary conditions in the overcrowded slave quarters and the general neglect of civic infrastructure due to the Dragonlords' infighting, swept through the lower city, causing widespread panic. The ruling families responded with callous indifference or brutal suppression, further alienating the populace. Maelys Vaelaros, guided by Aerion's subtle counsel, managed to implement stricter sanitation measures within their own territories and offer some aid, actions which shored up House Vaelaros's local support but also drew suspicious glares from more hardline Dragonlords who saw compassion as weakness. Aerion watched his father age, the stress carving deep lines into his face. He felt a distant pity, but no real affection. Maelys was a relic of a dying age; Aerion was the harbinger of a new one. He was already ensuring that House Vaelaros's key assets, its liquid wealth and important documents, were being discreetly transferred to secure locations he controlled, ready for transport to Skagos.
The foresight of the Long Night drove Aerion to seek out any knowledge that might pertain to it. He tasked his network with acquiring texts not just of Valyrian or Ghiscari origin, but from the farthest reaches of Essos – legends from Yi Ti, whispers from the Shadow Lands, tales from the nomadic horse lords. Most were fragmented, mythical. But he found a recurring motif: an enemy of ice and shadow, a darkness that consumed life, and heroes who wielded weapons of "frozen fire" or "dragon steel." This resonated with his Valyrian steel research and Glacies's unique nature. He began to theorize that a fusion of fire and ice magic, of the kind perhaps only Glacies could produce or that his Umbral Steel hinted at, might be key. This became a new, long-term research avenue for Winterspire's future libraries.
The strain of his multifaceted existence was immense. He was a Dragonlord of Valyria, a secret sorcerer, the architect of a hidden sanctuary, the master of a clandestine dragon flock, and now, a reluctant preparer for a distant, global apocalypse. Sleep was a luxury, his nights often spent in magical labor, his days in careful deception. The Voldemort aspect thrived on the power and the grand scale of his plans, the constant intellectual challenge. The Flamel aspect meticulously managed the intricate details, the long-term resource allocation, and the pursuit of profound magical understanding. Aerion, the conductor, ensured the symphony played his tune. Loneliness was an abstract concept; his dragons were his companions, his purpose his driving force.
With the final runic anchor for his spiritual accumulator successfully planted deep within a forgotten mine shaft beneath the smoking ruins of a minor house destroyed in the recent infighting, Aerion felt a grim sense of accomplishment. The Doom Net was woven. Now, all that remained was to refine the central focusing device, which would be directly linked to his Philosopher's Stone, and to finalize his personal extraction plan for the Day of Fire. He had identified a deep, isolated cavern system, accessible from his main lair but also with a hidden emergency exit to a remote, unpopulated stretch of coast. This cavern was now his primary bolt-hole, stocked with emergency supplies, Elixir, a dedicated portkey to Winterspire, and a secondary, smaller one to a temporary, uninhabited island in the Summer Sea.
The Elder Wand felt like a living thing in his hand as he worked on the focusing array for the Philosopher's Stone – a complex sphere of interlocked Umbral Steel rings and precisely cut Valyrian crystals, designed to draw in the monumental surge of spiritual energy from the anchors and funnel it into the Stone without shattering either the Stone or himself in the process. The Cloak of Invisibility was his constant shield during his nocturnal activities. The Resurrection Stone, however, began to exert a subtle pull. As he delved deeper into the mechanics of soul energy, he found himself idly tracing its outline through the lead box. He still resisted using it, but the academic curiosity, the desire to understand its workings, grew stronger. What is a soul, truly? Flamel's ancient query echoed. What remains when life is extinguished? Voldemort's hunger to master death itself listened intently.
Fifteen years. The sands were running out. But Aerion Vaelaros was more prepared than any being in Valyria. He had woven his nets, built his ark, and gathered his strength. When the Obsidian City finally cracked and burned, he would be ready to rise from its ashes, not just as a survivor, but as a inheritor, poised to face a future far darker and more challenging than any Valyrian could have ever conceived. His great work was far from over; it was merely entering its most critical phase.