The shockwave faded, and the world's supernatural elite did what they did best: they buried their fears, dismissed omens, and tried to return to the old order. But some instincts could not be silenced, and Elijah Mikaelson, ever the vigilant Original, found himself haunted by a sense of unfinished business.
Elijah wandered the moonlit grounds of his estate, the night air crisp, his thoughts troubled. He had sent word to witches, questioned ancient vampires, and even consulted the stars, but no one could name the unease that clung to the world since the storm. It was as if the universe itself was holding its breath.
He paused at the old fountain, its water still as glass. The silence was absolute—until a ripple disturbed the surface, and a figure appeared, seated on the edge as if he'd always been there.
The stranger was dressed in clothes that defied era or place—tailored, elegant, yet somehow out of step with the world. His eyes glittered with mischief and something older, wilder. He smiled at Elijah, as if greeting an old friend at a masquerade.
"You seem troubled, Elijah," the man said, his tone light and unhurried.
Elijah's instincts screamed caution. "I don't believe we've met," he replied, masking his tension with the politeness that was his armor.
The stranger tilted his head, considering. "No, I suppose we haven't. But I know you. You're the one who always tries to keep order, even when the world insists on chaos."
Elijah narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
"A traveler. A fan of storms and crossroads. Some call me Sagar." He let the name hang in the air, though it meant nothing to Elijah—yet it felt heavy, like thunder before rain.
Elijah's composure never wavered, but his mind raced. "What brings you to my home?"
Sagar smiled wider, the kind of smile that promised trouble. "Curiosity. I like to see how legends behave when no one's watching. And you, Elijah Mikaelson, are a legend in your own right."
Elijah studied him, searching for weakness, for motive. "If you're looking for trouble, you'll find this family is well acquainted with it."
Sagar laughed, the sound bright and wild. "Oh, I'm not here for trouble. Not tonight. I'm here to remind you that the world is bigger and stranger than you remember. That sometimes, things slip through the cracks. Things that don't fit in your histories or your prophecies."
Elijah felt a chill—not of fear, but of recognition. This man radiated power, but not the kind he'd ever known. "If you are a threat to my family—"
Sagar waved a hand, dismissing the notion. "Threat? Ally? Bystander? It depends on the day. I'm just here to watch the story unfold. To see what you do when the rules no longer apply."
The wind picked up, swirling leaves around them. Sagar stood, his presence suddenly vast and untamable. "Enjoy your peace, Elijah. Storms always return, and some are older than memory."
He vanished, leaving only the echo of laughter and the faint scent of ozone in the air.
Elijah stood alone by the fountain, unsettled for the first time in centuries. He could not remember the man's face, nor recall his name, but the feeling lingered—a sense that the world had shifted, and that the next move belonged to someone who played by no one's rules.