Once upon a time there was magic in this world. A little bit resided in each and everyone of us. Powerful mages taught those who were willing. People lived in harmony with the elements of nature, paid tribute to the gods.
My father told me that even a commoner could talk to the statues in the temples.
But a few hundred years ago one of the mages decided to conquer the world. And he did. He spent his years waging one war after another, until there were no more wars to fight. No enemies left.
He was old and sick and knew time was working against him. But his wife had been incapable of offering him an heir. His advisers urged him to find another woman, yet he did not take kindly to breaking his sacred vows.
Instead, he prayed. He prayed to all the gods, but none would listen. He called all the mages in the land, but no one could help him.
He needed an heir.
He had no more time.
He used what was left of his magic, built a child out of clay, breathed fire into him to give him life. But it wasn’t enough.
What if the child got sick and perished at a young age? What if someone decided to put poison in his food? He had plenty of enemies, his son would also. So he took it upon himself to make a deal with Death itself. He took it upon himself to cast spells against disease, against pain, against wounds.
What if this child of his would have his heart broken? What if they hurt him with spiteful words? What if all that was dark and gloom in this world would break him beyond repair?
So he cast spells against suffering, against anguish, despair. He used magic to cast out anger and hatred.
He did all he could.
He did all this because he needed an heir.
He did all these things, and then there was no more magic left in the world.