The sun crept higher, burning away the mist, but the valley remained subdued, as if the earth itself mourned what had transpired. The witches' camp, once a place of ritual and power, now felt hollow—haunted by the echo of a name they dared not speak aloud.
Isolde gathered the remnants of her coven. They moved quietly, eyes flickering to the blackened sigils and the scorched circle where their magic had failed. No one spoke of the figure on the outcrop, but his presence lingered, heavy as the scent of rain.
A young witch, Maelis, lingered behind. She knelt at the edge of the ruined circle, fingers brushing the cold, damp earth. Her heart pounded with a strange mix of terror and curiosity. In the ashes, she found a single black feather—sleek, unnatural, humming faintly with power.
She looked up as Isolde approached, her voice low. "He left something."
Isolde's eyes widened. She took the feather, feeling its energy pulse through her veins. "A warning. Or a promise." She closed her fist around it, shivering. "We must be careful, Maelis. He is chaos given form. We cannot fight him. We can only hope to survive his passing."
Maelis nodded, but her gaze lingered on the feather. Deep inside, a spark of fascination flickered. What would it be like, she wondered, to wield such power? To walk unafraid in a world that bent and broke for you?
Meanwhile, high above, Sagar wandered the ruins of the ancient tower. He ran his hand along the mossy stones, feeling the memory of old magic beneath his fingertips. He could sense Maelis's curiosity—a note of discord in the symphony of fear below. It amused him.
He conjured a small orb of lightning, rolling it between his fingers. The world was full of would-be heroes and trembling fools, but every so often, someone surprised him. That was what made existence interesting.
A raven landed beside him, cocking its head. Sagar smiled, tossing the orb into the air. The raven snapped it up, feathers crackling with blue fire before it took off, cawing a message only Sagar could understand.
He looked to the horizon, where the world waited—unaware, unready. "Let's see what stories unfold," he murmured, voice lost to the wind.
In the valley, Maelis tucked the feather into her cloak, a secret she would carry for years. Isolde led the coven away, their chants now prayers for protection, their eyes forever wary of shadows and storms.
And above it all, Sagar watched and waited, the architect of chaos, the secret at the heart of every legend yet to come.