The world was young, and the night was ancient.
A storm rolled across the highlands—thunder rumbling like the drums of war, lightning clawing at the sky. In the heart of the tempest, a figure stood atop a jagged outcrop, his silhouette framed by the chaos above. Cloaked in midnight, eyes aglow with an unnatural light, Sagar Jadhav watched as the world below bent and twisted to the will of powers unseen.
He was a legend even then, though legends were not yet called such. To the mortals, he was a shadow in the corner of their vision, a whisper in the wind that chilled the bravest heart. To the supernatural, he was a taboo—a force of nature, neither good nor evil, but unpredictable as the storm itself.
Tonight, the air was thick with magic. Far below, a coven of witches gathered in a stone circle, their chants rising in a crescendo that threatened to tear the veil between worlds. Sagar listened, amused. He could feel the pulse of their power, the desperation in their voices. They feared him, as all wise beings did.
He stepped forward, boots crunching on ancient stone. With a thought, the storm responded—clouds swirling tighter, lightning dancing at his fingertips. The witches' spell faltered, their leader's voice trembling as she caught sight of the figure above.
"Sagar," she whispered, the name barely more than a breath, as if speaking it too loudly might summon something worse than death.
He smiled, a flash of white in the darkness. "You called, and I have come."
The coven recoiled, some dropping to their knees, others clutching talismans. Sagar descended the outcrop with lazy confidence, the storm parting before him. Each step echoed with the weight of centuries yet to come.
"What do you want?" the witch leader demanded, masking fear with bravado.
Sagar tilted his head, considering. "Tonight, I want nothing. But tomorrow… who can say?"
He circled the coven, his presence a chill that seeped into bone and soul. "You seek to bind what you do not understand. To erase what you fear. But remember this—nothing truly powerful is ever forgotten. Not by the world. Not by the blood."
The leader's eyes widened, realization dawning too late. The storm intensified, magic crackling in the air. Sagar's laughter—low, wild, and free—echoed across the highlands, promising chaos, change, and a future written in shadows.
As the first drop of rain fell, the world shuddered. Somewhere, a record was sealed. A name was struck from memory. But in the heart of the storm, Sagar Jadhav remained—unbound, unbroken, and waiting for the day the world would remember him again.