The night was thick with the perfume of moss and rain as Sagar wandered the ruins of his chosen domain. The world, so recently trembling at his touch, was now alive with the faintest threads of magic—subtle, secret, and stubborn.
He paused atop a crumbling archway, closing his eyes, letting the wind carry him whispers from deep within the forest. There, beneath the ancient oaks, the witches had gathered again. Their circle was small but fierce, their voices woven with fear and defiance. He could taste their magic on the air—salt and smoke, bread and blood, memory and warning.
Sagar's lips curled in a slow, amused smile. "They adapt," he murmured, admiration threading through his words. "They remember, even when the world would rather forget."
He reached out—not with hands, but with will. The land itself was a tapestry, and he could pluck at its threads. He followed the echo of their chant, the pulse of their protection, until he found the heart of their circle. He lingered at the edge, unseen, a shadow among shadows.
He watched Maelis, the youngest, as she pressed her palm to the earth, her eyes closed in concentration. The black feather lay beside her, humming with a fraction of his power. She was different, this one—curiosity burning brighter than fear. Sagar wondered what she might become, given time and the right nudge.
He let his presence brush the edge of her senses—a chill, a flicker of wild possibility. Maelis shivered, her breath catching, but she did not flinch away. Instead, she opened her eyes and looked straight into the night, as if daring the darkness to answer.
Sagar laughed softly, the sound echoing through the trees. "Brave little witch," he whispered, approval in his tone. "You may yet surprise me."
He withdrew, content for now to watch their struggle. Every rune they carved, every story they whispered, every secret they passed on in the dark—each was a thread in the web he wove around the world. They thought themselves guardians against chaos, but in truth, they were its heralds.
The game was unfolding beautifully. The witches would spread their warnings, and fear would take root. In time, others would come—hunters, heroes, monsters. All would play their part. And Sagar, chaotic and eternal, would be waiting for them all.
With a final glance at the glowing circle in the woods, Sagar turned away, his mind already spinning with the possibilities of the centuries to come. The world was remembering, and that was exactly as he wished.