Elijah was not a man easily shaken, but the encounter by the fountain lingered in his mind like a half-remembered melody. He could not recall the stranger's features, nor even his name, yet the sense of ancient power and playful danger haunted him.
He began his investigation at dawn, poring over the oldest tomes in the Mikaelson library. He summoned trusted witches, compelled local seers, even questioned passing travelers for rumors of enigmatic strangers or storms with no source. All his inquiries led to dead ends or vague warnings: "The world is restless," an old witch muttered, "and some things are best left unnamed."
Frustrated, Elijah pressed on, determined to protect his family from any threat—named or nameless. He wrote letters to distant allies, requesting information on omens, disturbances, or figures who seemed to slip through memory itself. But every account was the same: a shadow, a feeling, a presence that vanished before it could be grasped.
Meanwhile, Sagar wandered the Mikaelson estate, invisible to all but the most sensitive. He found the world's new order amusing—vampires clinging to power, witches weaving their secrets, wolves lurking at the edges. He moved like a rumor, leaving subtle chaos in his wake: a mirror fogged in a sunlit room, a clock that ran backward for a minute, a raven perched on a windowsill, watching with eyes that glowed faintly blue.
It was Rebekah who first sensed him—not with fear, but with curiosity. She was wandering the gardens, lost in thought, when she felt the air shift. A man stood by the old rose arbor, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that seemed both ancient and new.
Rebekah's instincts flared, but she was never one to run from the unknown. "You're not one of my brothers' friends," she said, arching an eyebrow.
Sagar grinned, bowing with theatrical flair. "Not unless your brothers have become much more interesting since last night."
She laughed despite herself, drawn to his easy confidence. "You're trespassing, you know. My family doesn't take kindly to strangers."
"Neither do I," Sagar replied, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But I find it's often worth the risk."
Rebekah studied him, intrigued. "You're not afraid of us?"
"Should I be?" he countered, stepping closer. "I've always preferred to see legends up close."
She tilted her head, a smile playing at her lips. "You speak in riddles."
"Only when the truth would be too much fun to spoil," Sagar said. He offered her a rose, plucked from the arbor without breaking a single thorn. "Tell me, Rebekah Mikaelson, do you ever tire of being a legend?"
She took the rose, surprised by how real it felt in her hand. "Sometimes. But legends don't get to choose their stories."
Sagar's gaze softened, just for a moment. "Maybe it's time someone did."
Before she could respond, he was gone—a gust of wind, a flicker in the sunlight, a shadow at the edge of her memory. Rebekah stared at the rose, its petals impossibly vivid, and wondered if she had dreamed the entire encounter.
Inside, Elijah watched from an upstairs window, his suspicion deepening. The stranger was not just a threat—he was a mystery, one that refused to be solved. And Elijah, for all his wisdom, had never hated a puzzle so much.