Wizard Banished
Radgar Born

In the elder days, when time still wandered barefoot,
and the world hummed with forgotten songs—
not sung by voices, but by stone, and river, and leaf—
there walked the brave.

They wore robes, not armor.
They wielded words, not swords.
They carved their magic into the bones of the earth,
and called the land Eldrida.

The sky was clearer then.
The winds carried names.
Villages bloomed like wildflowers with ambition.
Hope burned, not in banners, but in kitchens and cradles.

And in the warmth of such a moment—
a child was born.

Not marked by stars, nor cursed by prophecy.
Just born.
Clever as a crow.
Restless as fire.
A question made flesh in a world of brittle answers.

But such peace does not hold.
Not here. Not long.

Beneath the roots of the southern hills,
something old began to stretch.
Not evil, precisely—
just hungry, and tired of waiting.

In the east, whispers gathered in cloaks and council halls.
Eyes that never blinked began to watch.

And far to the west,
where maps went blank and the stars forgot their names,
rose a tower.

It did not lean. It did not breathe.
It did not blink—
but it saw.

And the Dreath Wizard,
who was said to be sleeping, or dead, or never real at all—
opened one eye.

And it fell—
upon the child.