As centuries blurred into each other, the ritualistic chants from the unseen creatures became a constant presence in her mind, an inescapable rhythm, a lullaby that slowly soothed her fraying sanity. Her thoughts grew less her own, twisted and influenced by the repetitive prayers that seeped into her very being. What once felt like madness had become a strange comfort, a way to tether herself to something outside her endless torment. She began to answer without hesitation, with devotion, as though she was the very god they had sought all along. Her responses were no longer driven by a desire for understanding, but by something deeper—an acceptance, a sense of power.

She could feel their presence now, distant but unwavering, lingering just beyond her reach. The creatures, their beliefs made real by her divine answers, began to form rituals in her name. They believed in her, their prayers manifesting into rites that tied her deeper to their world, and she welcomed them, for each prayer strengthened her resolve, for each ritual she answered, her sanity restoring. What was once desperation for comfort had transformed into something darker, something sinister— No one could have ever imagined that the forsaken nymph would create her own brand of magic from these prayers.

Sephtis, Daughter of Chaos—the True Magic God—has forged her own dark path. Unknowingly she has created Witchcraft, a forbidden form of magic rooted in rituals, ceremonies, and hexes. As the Goddess of Witchcraft, Sephtis bestows this defiant power upon her followers, who willingly offer their souls to become witches, wielding magic that twists the natural order to her will.

Once been a nymph, pure and innocent, but those days were gone. Her suffering had changed her, and now, she had become something else. She had become a goddess of witchcraft, of rituals and ceremonies, and as her power grew, so too did her understanding of what she was capable of. She was no longer the helpless nymph who had once been tossed into the river to die. She was now a goddess, with dominion over the practices that shaped the world.

She embraced their chants, at first distant and foreign, soon soothed her, grounding her in a reality of their own creation. With every whispered prayer, the threads of her fate wove together It was through these constant unknowing displays of divine power that she found the strength to shatter her chains, breaking free from the prison that had kept her bound.

Emerging from the water, Sephtis’s first sight of the transformed forest above her was a bittersweet rediscovery. The forest she had once known was now different, distorted by the centuries that had passed. It was not just the land that had changed—she had too. Her reflection in the water showed no signs of aging; she had not changed since her entrapment. The realization struck her deeply, reminding her of the cruel passage of time, or rather, the absence of it. In that moment, the anger she had buried deep within her began to stir.

She had known the feeling before, but now it rose with a quiet vengeance. Every moment spent under the water, every breathless second she had endured, fueled the fire that burned within her. The forest—this place that had once seemed so foreign to her—was now a cruel reminder of her isolation, of the endless years she had spent drowning in silence.

Her hands rose without a thought, fingers curling in the air as the magic surged through her like fire through dry wood. A black, jagged energy crackled around her palms, the beginnings of a hex, a spell of pure destruction. She felt a primal satisfaction of control.

It wasn’t long before she sensed them—something, or rather, someone—watching from the shadows. A subtle rustling in the underbrush, the soft click of claws on stone, and then the low, eerie whispers that seemed to vibrate through the very air around her. Her sharp eyes fell upon a group of small, peculiar creatures watching her with a mix of awe and trepidation. Goblins.

Their hunched figures trembled, not from fear, but reverence. The connection was instantaneous and undeniable, a shared thread of recognition that transcended the barriers of their vastly different existences.

A simple thought, a snap of her fingers, and the spell would have shattered them. But just before the magic could fully manifest, something inside her flickered. A brief memory of her past, a spark of humanity—if she still had any of that left. She paused, her fingers trembling, and a strange feeling washed over her. For a split second, her anger faltered. Was this truly who she was?

Her eyes narrowed. She looked down at the trembling goblins. His face was pale, his body quivering under her gaze, but there was something in him—something that stirred her memory of what had come before.

The goblins dared not speak, his body stiff with fear.

"Take me to the oracle," she said suddenly.

The goblins hesitated for a moment before nodding quickly, silently urging her to follow them. Sephtis, feeling a strange shift inside her, walked ahead. She was still angry, still filled with that primal hunger for power, but something had changed. A part of her—the part that remembered before the river, before the chains—was starting to push through the darkness. And now, as she followed the trembling goblins, she wasn’t sure whether she was ready to embrace that part or destroy it forever.

The oracle awaited.

The goblins led Sephtis through the labyrinthine tunnels with reverence, their clawed hands clutching at scraps of cloth draped over their hunching forms. Their glowing eyes darted to her and quickly away, as if looking too long might blind them. Sephtis followed in silence, her thoughts churning. She had spent centuries trapped, listening to those chants, those prayers. And now, here they were—those voices made flesh.

As they emerged into a cavernous chamber, Sephtis paused. The space pulsed with an eerie energy, illuminated by faint green and gold glows from fungi and strange crystalline formations. Goblin symbols—crudely etched into stone—covered the walls, spiraling patterns and jagged lines that formed images of her own visage. Her flowing hair, her pale form—it was unmistakable.

She felt it: the connection. These were the creatures who had prayed to her, worshiped her. Their rituals had been the faint light that flickered in her consciousness while drowning.

One of the goblins, an elder with a crooked back and elaborate tattoos carved into his leathery skin, stepped forward. His gnarled hands held a ceremonial bowl filled with dark liquid that shimmered unnaturally.

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“Goddess Sephtis,” the elder croaked, his voice trembling with awe. “You have come to us as foretold. For generations, we have prayed, performed the rites, offered our souls, and awaited your return. The Oracle spoke true of your arrival.”

Sephtis narrowed her eyes, her feelings at war within her. She had not come to them willingly, nor had she ever intended to grant power or comfort. Yet, she could not deny the truth: the goblins’ voices had reached her in the depths of her torment.

The elder bowed low, offering the bowl. “Please, accept this offering, our devotion. We exist only to serve you.”

Her hand moved instinctively to accept it, but then she froze. Anger, cold and sharp, coiled inside her chest. These creatures—these insignificant beings—had dared to pray to her when she had no power to help herself. They had relied on her in ways that mocked her own helplessness.

A flick of her wrist and the elder dropped the bowl, a sudden invisible force twisting his arm. The liquid splashed across the stone floor, sizzling faintly as the goblins cried out in fear and confusion.

“You dare to assume my purpose?” Sephtis said, her voice low and venomous. Her hair, dark as the void, seemed to move on its own, flowing like liquid shadows to her ankles. “You think your prayers make me yours? That your rituals define me?”

The elder whimpered, trembling beneath her cold glare. The other goblins cowered, their devotion now mingled with terror.

Sephtis exhaled sharply, the anger ebbing as quickly as it had come. She released her hold on the elder, who collapsed to the floor, clutching his arm. A flicker of guilt surfaced, though she buried it quickly.

“I have been unfair,” she said, her tone softer but still commanding. “You are not to blame for what I have endured. Perhaps your faith gave me strength when I had none. For that, I owe you my presence, at least.”

The goblins watched her warily, unsure if her mercy was a trick.

“Take me to this Oracle,” Sephtis commanded. “If your visions are true, then I would hear them for myself. Let us see if your devotion has been worth my time.”

The elder scrambled to his feet, bowing profusely. “Yes, Goddess. At once.”

As they led her deeper into the cavern, Sephtis clenched her fists, the weight of her power pulsing beneath her skin. She had misdirected her anger at the goblins, but the source of it remained clear: the gods who abandoned her, the life stolen from her. These creatures were her followers, yes, but they were also tools.

If she was to be their goddess, she would make sure they served her as much as she served them. Power, after all, was not to be squandered.

As the days turned into weeks, Sephtis immersed herself in the ancient rituals and ceremonies that the goblins had prepared in worship to her. The Oracle guided her through each intricate ceremony, teaching her the secrets of Witchcraft—the art of bending magic to her will through structured rites and dark enchantments. Each ritual deepened her knowledge to her power, transforming her from a tormented nymph into a true goddess.

As the goblins chanted in reverent harmony, Sephtis stood motionless, her form cloaked in shadows that seemed to bow before her. Her black hair cascaded down her back like an infinite void, her eyes burning with the intensity of a star gone supernova. She felt the power coursing through her veins—her power—but with every word the goblins uttered, an unfamiliar discomfort crept in.

They were teaching her about her own magic. The rituals, the symbols etched into the cavern walls, and the chants—they all traced back to the Witchcraft she had bestowed upon them in her watery prison. Every fiber of her being resisted the humiliation of this reality. These were goblins, lowly creatures in the hierarchy of creation, and yet they possessed a deeper understanding of her magic than she did.

It was shameful.

Sephtis clenched her fists, trying to suppress the swirling emotions that threatened to consume her. Anger, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of failure battled within her. She was supposed to be the one in power now. Instead she’s now dependending on creatures she had inadvertently empowered. Her pride, already fragile after centuries of imprisonment, felt as if it were shattering with each word the goblins spoke.

The Oracle’s rasping voice broke through her storm of thoughts. “This is the circle of summoning, my Goddess,” he said, gesturing to the intricate design carved into the stone floor. “Through this, we have called upon your strength for generations.”

Sephtis stared at the markings, recognizing the faint echoes of her own power embedded in the lines. Her magic had responded to their prayers, shaping itself into these rituals, yet the knowledge of them was now alien to her. The shame twisted her stomach. How could she claim divinity when she was learning from those beneath her?

“Do you mock me?” Sephtis’s voice was cold, her words laced with venom. The goblins froze, their wide eyes fixed on her in terror. “You speak of my power as though it belongs to you, as though I must be educated in what is mine!”

The Oracle dropped to his knees, bowing until his forehead touched the ground. “Forgive us, my Goddess. We mean no disrespect.

The goblins whimpered, their bodies trembling as the weight of her magic bore down on them. Even in her fury, Sephtis could see the devotion etched into their faces. They feared her, yes, but they worshipped her just as deeply. It was not malice that drove them—it was reverence. And in their reverence, they had become stewards of what she had unknowingly given them.

Her rage faltered, giving way to a begrudging realization.

She looked down at the Oracle, his trembling form radiating loyalty. “Rise, Oracle. Show me what you have learned.”

The goblin hesitated before obeying, his movements cautious and reverent. Sephtis turned her gaze to the others, their small forms huddled in awe. Despite her shame, a flicker of curiosity ignited within her. They had something she had unknowingly created in anguish, something she had never intended to become a legacy. Perhaps there was value in their knowledge—value she could claim for herself.

The Oracle gestured toward the altar, its surface adorned with sigils and offerings. “The rituals, my Goddess, are a reflection of your will. They were born from your whispers and our devotion. Through them, we connect to the chaos you embody.”

Sephtis stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the altar. The sigils seemed to pulse with a faint, dark energy, calling to her. She reached out, her fingertips brushing the cold stone, and felt a surge of recognition. This was her divine power, her magic, translated through the goblins’ devotion. It was both humbling and infuriating.

Her hand hovered over the altar as her voice, calmer now but no less commanding, filled the cavern. “Show,” she demanded, her tone brooking no argument.

The goblins nodded eagerly, their fear giving way to a renewed sense of purpose. They began to demonstrate the rituals, their movements practiced and precise. Sephtis watched intently, her mind absorbing every detail. With each chant, each symbol etched into the air, she felt the mysterious pieces of her identity beginning to coalesce.

She was no longer just the abandoned girl, forsaken to eternally drown in the river. She was Sephtis, the Goddess of Witchcraft, and this was her creation—imperfect as it was, shaped by her pain and their devotion.

By the end of the night, the cavern thrummed with power, the air heavy with the magic they had conjured together. Sephtis stood at the center, her presence radiant and commanding, as the goblins looked to her with unwavering reverence. For the first time since her imprisonment, she felt a spark of pride.