Master's Treasures

Stajan looked at the sea again. It’s smooth, like glass, surface merged at the horizon with a deep blue sky. It was as if a storm had not raged a minute ago. Only algae lying in black heaps on the shore indicated that there was a storm after all. Stajan's hands were now like whips. They hung limply along the body, and the young sorcerer did not even have the strength to put back the inheritance of his distant ancestors in his bag - a small staff with a pommel in the form of a four-faced Svyatovit. The ancient relic remained clenched in a fist.