"Faith without sacrifice is merely a wish," Sebastian declared, his voice cutting through the peasants' shame. "If you truly wish to heal the lungs of the world, you must offer a part of your own life force to mend what you have broken."
Under his direction, the mob—now silent and obedient—traced a massive Ritual Circle into the cracked earth of the square. Ten men and women stepped forward, their faces pale but determined. With a ceremonial knife, each offered a small tithe of blood into the dry soil at the circle's center.
As the iron-scented offering soaked into the dust, Sebastian invoked the sigil. The world blurred again.
The village vanished, replaced by the towering, emerald presence of Vinushka. This time, the God's aura was not a storm, but a cool, rustling breeze. The terrifying roar of his voice had softened into the rhythmic creaking of ancient oaks.
"You have stopped casting stones at shadows and looked into the mirror," the deity spoke, his presence filling their minds. "I do not forbid the axe. The wood is yours to warm your hearths and build your homes—for nature provides for your need. But it will never satisfy your greed. Take only what is required to live, and the earth will never go thirsty again."
With a final, shimmering pulse of green light, the vision dissolved.
The transformation was instantaneous. Roots burst from the dry earth with the sound of snapping bone, weaving through the village and racing toward the barren hills. Desiccated stumps erupted into lush, leaf-heavy canopies. The air, once thick with dust and heat, suddenly became crisp, cool, and laden with the scent of pine and damp earth.
The humans stood in awe, weeping as they felt the first refreshing breeze in months. They turned to Sebastian, bowing low, their hearts filled with a terrifying, newfound respect. "Thank you, Dark Priest," the headman whispered. One by one, they retreated to their homes, moving with a strange, quiet reverence for the wood of their own doorframes.
The elves watched the greenery return with a deep, silent satisfaction. The cleaner air seemed to fill their lungs with a strength they hadn't felt in decades. With a final, respectful nod toward Sebastian—acknowledging a power they finally understood—they vanished back into the vibrant shadows of the restored forest.
Sebastian stood alone in the center of the square, the silence of the village now peaceful rather than tense. The "Right Track" had been laid here. He moved toward a quiet corner of the village inn and drew a Hexen table upon the floorboards using a charred stick.
With the souls he had harvested and the affinity gained from the ritual, he reached into the divine lattice to acquire the power of Replication. He didn't seek gold or weapons; he needed the ability to duplicate the holy scriptures he was beginning to pen—the manual for the Continent's new, harsh, but functional reality.
The first raindrop hit the dust of White Orchard with the force of a gavel. Then came another, and another, until the parched village was swallowed by a rhythmic, cleansing downpour. The peasants stood in the deluge, mouths open to the sky, their faces washed clean of both soot and the lingering stench of the Eternal Fire. Sebastian's words had been validated by the heavens themselves.
While the village celebrated, Sebastian remained in the quiet dimness of the local tavern, his quill scratching rhythmically against parchment. He was deep into the Scripture of Vinushka, codifying the laws of balance and the harsh benevolence of the Green God. The ink seemed to pulse with a faint, verdant light as the power of Replication sat ready in his mind, waiting to turn this single scroll into a thousand seeds of faith.
But across the Ismena river, a different kind of storm was brewing.
In the Nilfgaardian Garrison, Captain Peter Saar Gwynleve stared out his window at the sudden, unnatural rain. His spies had already returned from the village square with reports that defied military logic. They spoke of a boy in dark robes, of rats surviving in sealed jars, and of a terrifying, towering vision that had brought the "Black Ones" and the "Nordlings" to their knees in equal measure.
"A sorcerer?" the Captain's adjutant asked, his voice trembling as he looked at the report. "The Lodge's influence, perhaps?"
"No," Gwynleve replied, his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the village. "Sorcerers bargain with Chaos. They don't make the earth grow ten years of forest in ten minutes, and they certainly don't command the sky without a ritual circle the size of a fort. This... Sebastian... he performed an experiment of logic, and the world obeyed him."
Gwynleve was a man of the Empire—rational, disciplined, and suspicious of any power he couldn't tax or conscript. But the evidence of the glass jars and the rain was undeniable. He didn't see a threat to be executed; he saw a variable that could change the tide of the entire war.
He sat at his desk and pulled a fresh sheet of vellum. He began to write, his hand steady as he addressed the one man who would truly understand the weight of this news: Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, the White Flame himself.
"Your Imperial Majesty," the message began. "A new sun has risen in White Orchard. Not of the Fire, nor of the North. An agent of a God who speaks of 'Need, not Greed.' He calls himself a Dark Priest. He has brought the rain, and I suspect he is bringing a new world with him."