The world had changed, though most would not know it for centuries. The Mikaelsons—first of their kind—had become immortal, their existence a violation of nature's oldest laws. The spell that made them vampires was not a simple act of magic, but a wound torn through the fabric of the world.
In the deep places, where roots tangled with stone and the bones of the earth remembered every secret, something began to stir.
It started as a tremor—subtle, almost gentle. In the heart of a forgotten forest, ancient runes etched in stone flickered with blue fire. In distant mountains, the air grew heavy, the wind carrying a low, mournful hum. Across the world, witches woke from troubled dreams, clutching at their chests as if to hold their souls in place.
Ley lines—the invisible rivers of power that crisscrossed the land—shivered. Where they met, the ground pulsed with unnatural energy, and animals fled from places that had always been safe. In the oldest covens, elders gathered in haste, sensing a disturbance that could not be explained by any spell or omen.
In a crypt sealed by the sacrifice of a hundred witches, the darkness shifted. The magic that had bound it for centuries began to unravel, thread by thread, as if some great lock was being picked by unseen hands. The air inside grew colder, denser, alive with the taste of old power.
A single crack appeared in the stone—hairline, but spreading. With it came a whisper, so faint that only the most sensitive could hear: the sound of a name almost remembered, a legend nearly awakened.
The shockwave rolled outward, silent and invisible, but its effects were immediate. Witches across continents felt their spells falter. Vampires paused, a chill running through their immortal veins. Werewolves lifted their heads, howling at a moon that suddenly seemed too bright, too close.
In the ruins of a forgotten tower, a raven startled awake, its eyes burning with blue fire. It cawed once, the sound echoing through the night, and took flight toward the place where the seal was breaking.
And deep beneath the earth, Sagar Jadhav opened his eyes.
For the first time in centuries, he drew breath. Power flooded back into his limbs, ancient and wild. He smiled in the darkness, feeling the world tremble at the edge of chaos.
The age of legends had returned, and with it, the storm.