The Sorceress of Cyrenaica

The Orphan of the Oasis

Neithara never knew her parents. No one did.

She was found at the edge of an oasis near Al-Jadida, wrapped in cloth so fine it must have belonged to nobility, yet abandoned as if she were worth nothing. The elders of the village took it as an omen—a child left in the embrace of the desert, a gift or a curse from the gods.

A widow named Yara took her in, raising her as her own. But it became clear early on that Neithara was not like other children.

By the time she was five, she could sense the emotions of those around her as if they were whispered directly into her ear. By ten, she could stir the wind with a mere flick of her fingers. And by twelve, she did something that changed everything—she brought a dying merchant back from the edge of death.

The man had been poisoned. His skin was pale, his breath shallow, and the village had already resigned to losing him. But Neithara knelt beside him, placed her hands over his chest, and muttered words that had never been taught to her. Energy surged from her, flowing into the man’s failing body.

And then, as if time itself had reversed, the merchant gasped and opened his eyes.

The villagers were stunned.

Some praised her as a miracle. Others whispered in fear.

“She stole his sickness,” they murmured in hushed voices. “She takes what she wishes, even life itself.”

That night, Yara came to her with tears in her eyes.

“You must go, child,” she whispered, pressing a bag of food and a small silver pendant into Neithara’s hands. “Go to Cyrene. There is a place for you there, a destiny greater than what this village will allow.”

Neithara didn’t argue. She had felt the unease growing around her for years. With the stars as her only witness, she set off into the desert, leaving behind the only home she had ever known.

A New World in Cyrene

Cyrene was nothing like Al-Jadida.

The city stretched high and wide, its grand marble structures towering over the bustling streets. Merchants called out their wares, priests chanted prayers to the gods, and scholars debated the secrets of the universe in the temple courtyards.

Neithara was overwhelmed.

She had no family, no place to go—until she met Sargon.

Sargon was a man of many faces. To the scholars, he was a learned man, a respected keeper of ancient knowledge. To the merchants, he was a mysterious nobleman, dabbling in rare and powerful artifacts. But to Neithara, he was something else entirely—a man who saw through her disguise.

"You do not belong among the ordinary," he told her one evening, as they stood upon the steps of his grand villa. "I can teach you what you are meant to be."

And so, she became his pupil.

Under Sargon’s guidance, Neithara learned the languages of the old world, the secrets of the stars, and the power hidden in the spaces between words.

But with each lesson, she felt something dark coiling beneath the surface.

One night, curiosity got the better of her. She crept into Sargon’s study while he was away and found a hidden chamber behind a tapestry.

Inside, rows of sealed jars lined the walls, each containing something writhing within. Scrolls lay scattered across the floor, filled with forbidden incantations. And on the central table, a single piece of parchment bore her name.

The spell written on it was not one of teaching. It was one of binding.

Betrayal and Escape

When Sargon returned, he found her waiting for him.

“I am not your tool,” she said.

Sargon only smiled. “You are more than that. You are my greatest creation.”

She didn’t hesitate. The moment he raised his hands to cast his spell, she struck first.

Neithara had never unleashed her full power before. But that night, the walls of Sargon’s villa shook with magic as his own dark spirits turned against him.

The last thing she saw was his expression of pure terror before the spirits consumed him, dragging him into the void.

She ran.

She fled to the mountains, where she encountered Rahil, a warrior who had once fought in the armies of the Pharaohs.

"I know who you are," he said, gripping his spear. "And I know what hunts you."

For months, she trained with him, learning not just magic, but the art of battle.

Because she knew the truth—Sargon had been only the beginning.

The Sorceress Rises

The years passed.

Neithara became more than a mere sorceress. She became a guardian.

She walked among the people of Cyrenaica, healing the sick, defending the weak, and punishing those who sought power through cruelty.

But darkness never sleeps.

A new threat rose in Cyrene—Marcellus, a Roman sorcerer who had uncovered Sargon’s lost tomes.

One evening, a messenger arrived at her mountain refuge. The city was on the brink of destruction.

She stood at the cliffs, watching the sea. The wind carried whispers of fate.

And she knew.

It was time to return.

The Final Battle

Cyrene burned.

Warlocks and mercenaries had overrun the city, and at their head stood Marcellus, wielding a blade etched with runes.

Neithara faced him in the great plaza.

“You cannot defeat me,” he sneered.

She smiled.

“I am not here to defeat you,” she said. “I am here to erase you.”

The battle shook the heavens. Fire and lightning danced across the sky, the ground cracked beneath their feet. But in the end, Neithara stood victorious.

Cyrene was free.

Epilogue: The Legend Lives On

Neithara did not stay in Cyrene.

She disappeared into the desert, her name passing into legend.

Some say she still walks the sands of Cyrenaica, appearing when the land is in peril.

Others claim she was never mortal at all—that she was the desert itself, given form for a time.

But those who know the truth whisper another tale:

That she will return when the world needs her most.