Centuries passed, but for Sagar, time was a river—sometimes a trickle, sometimes a flood. He watched the world shift and change from the shadows of ruined towers, deep forests, and windswept moors. The legend of the storm and the shadow grew, whispered in secret circles and etched in hidden runes. The witches' warnings became part of the old religion, their rituals shaped by fear and awe of what they could not name.
Sagar felt it all. Every time a coven gathered under a blood moon, every time a child was hushed with a story of the shadow in the storm, he tasted the memory of his own chaos. The feather he'd left with Maelis became a relic, passed down through generations—sometimes revered, sometimes feared, always powerful.
He wandered the world, never staying long. Sometimes he watched from afar as mortals built kingdoms and tore them down. Sometimes he intervened, nudging fate for his own amusement. A plague here, a failed harvest there, a hero's courage twisted into folly. He was never cruel for cruelty's sake, but chaos was his nature, and he never denied it.
In the wild places, witches and wise women still left offerings—bread, salt, a lock of hair—hoping to ward off the storm. Sagar accepted them all, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a shiver of power that left the land changed.
He saw empires rise and fall. He watched as new kinds of magic flickered into being: the first vampires, born of blood and desperation; the first werewolves, cursed by moonlight and rage; the first warlocks, hungry for knowledge and power. Sagar watched, and sometimes, he whispered to those who listened, planting seeds that would one day grow into legends of their own.
As the centuries rolled by, Sagar's legend became harder to trace. The world grew busier, louder, more crowded. His name faded from most memories, but the oldest families—witches, vampires, and hunters—still remembered, if only in fragments. In the oldest libraries, in the deepest ruins, his story waited to be uncovered by the bold or the foolish.
And then, in the forests of the Old World, Sagar felt a new ripple—a convergence of power, a family whose blood would change the world. The Mikaelsons. He watched as they forged their own legend, unaware of the shadow that had walked centuries before them.
Sagar smiled, anticipation crackling in his veins. The world was stirring again, and chaos was always hungry.