The witches traveled in silence, cloaks drawn tight against the chill that lingered long after the storm. Each step away from the ruined circle felt heavier, as if the land itself pressed down, urging them to forget what had transpired. But Isolde would not let them.
They reached a neighboring village by dusk. The coven gathered in the back room of a sympathetic herbalist's cottage, the air thick with the scent of dried sage and rosehips. Isolde, still clutching the black feather, addressed the group in hushed tones.
"We have seen something the world must not forget," she began, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "There is a power loose—a force that cannot be bound by spell or circle. We must warn others, even if they call us mad."
Maelis, the youngest, watched the flicker of candlelight dance over the feather. She could feel its energy, a silent promise of chaos and possibility. "Who will believe us?" she whispered. "Who would dare speak his name?"
Isolde's jaw tightened. "We will not speak his name. Not openly. But we will leave signs—runes carved in hidden places, warnings written in the old tongue. We will teach our children to fear the storm and the shadow that walks within it."
The coven set to work, each witch taking on a role as tradition dictated: the Fetch would summon others to secret meetings, the Maiden would prepare the ritual spaces, and the Guardian would watch the thresholds for spies or traitors24. Their warnings were woven into stories told around hearthfires, slipped into the margins of herbals and prayer books, and carved into the beams of barns and the stones of crossroads.
But fear of witches ran deep in these lands58. When a local farmer's child fell ill, suspicion turned quickly to the newcomers. The villagers gathered, voices rising in anger and fear, demanding answers.
Isolde stood firm. "We are not your enemy. There is a greater danger—one that threatens us all."
But the villagers, steeped in old superstitions and tales of maleficium, would not listen58. They drove the coven from the village, forcing them to seek refuge deeper in the wilds, their warnings dismissed as the ravings of the damned.
Still, the witches persisted. They formed new circles in secret, meeting under the cover of night to share what they knew. They called upon spirit guides and familiars for protection, using every scrap of magic and cunning to keep their knowledge alive37.
And so, the legend of the storm and the shadow began to spread—not as a name, but as a chill in the air before thunder, a whisper in the wind, a rune carved where only the brave would look. It was not enough to stop what was coming, but it was enough to plant a seed of fear and wonder in the hearts of those who would one day face Sagar Jadhav.
Far away, in the ruins of his tower, Sagar smiled. The world was beginning to remember, even if it did not yet know what it remembered.