The storm's rage faded with the dawn, but its memory lingered in the valley below. The coven's circle lay shattered, runes scorched into the earth, their power bled dry by the encounter with the one they had tried—and failed—to control.
The witch leader, Isolde, knelt amid the ruins, her hands trembling as she traced the remnants of the sealing sigil. Around her, the other witches whispered and wept, their fear a living thing that curled through the morning mist.
"We should leave this place," one whispered. "He is still here. I can feel it."
Isolde shook her head. "He's gone. For now." She looked up at the sky, where the last traces of storm clouds drifted away. "But we have seen what happens when we try to bind chaos. He is not a demon, nor a god. He is… something else."
A younger witch, her eyes wide with awe and terror, asked, "What will we do?"
Isolde's gaze hardened. "We will remember. In secret. We will write his name where only the bravest will look. We will warn those who come after us: never try to control what cannot be caged."
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, Sagar watched the witches scatter. He perched on the crumbling parapet of a forgotten tower, the wind tugging at his cloak. The taste of fear lingered on his tongue—a flavor he had come to savor over the centuries.
He closed his eyes, feeling the world shift beneath him. Threads of fate twisted and tangled, some snapping, others binding tighter. He could sense the ripple his presence had caused, the way magic itself recoiled and surged in his wake.
For a moment, he considered leaving. There were other lands, other legends to create. But something held him here—a whisper of prophecy, a promise of entertainment. The world was young, and he was in no hurry.
Sagar rose, stretching like a cat in the sun. He let his mind wander, touching the thoughts of kings and monsters, heroes and fools. There was so much chaos yet to sow, so many stories waiting to be written in blood and shadow.
He smiled, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Let them fear me. Let them try to forget. I will be the secret in their bones, the shadow in every legend."
As he vanished into the morning mist, the world seemed to sigh—a breath held, a future uncertain. And somewhere, in a language that would soon be lost, a warning was carved into stone:
Beware the one who walks in storms. Beware the name that cannot be spoken.